I am alone in the airport lounge, crying, and I don’t know why.
When I sat down to write this newsletter, I was happy and inspired. But the moment I started typing, the tears came. First a trickle, then a stream.
The more I wrote, the worse I felt. It was as if each blurry word on the screen was cutting open a hole in my heart from which my happiness was seeping.
By the end, I’m thoroughly depressed and confused. I meant for this newsletter to warm hearts, put a smile on readers' faces.
So why do I feel like shit?
An hour earlier
I look at my watch. 10:45am. I’d expected my trip to Bangkok’s international airport to take an hour and a half, but forty minutes after leaving my hotel, I’m already stepping off the airport train alongside other savvy passengers who’d killed two birds—a fraction of the cost of a cab, no danger of notorious Bangkok traffic—with one blue plastic token.
I could have lingered at the café. My favourite place in the whole world, a small specialty coffee shop by the name of Pobnar (Thai for “meeting”), happens to be a pebble’s throw away from my second-favourite place, a long-standing, surprisingly affordable hotel I always stay at when visiting Bangkok.
Never mind, I’m here now. I settle my heavy handbag on my carry-on and join the throng of passengers stepping onto the ageing escalator. As I laboriously rise, floor by floor, familiar sights jog bittersweet memories of my parents seeing me off at this airport. The restaurant where we’d have our farewell lunch. The seating area where they’d patiently wait while I inched my way to the front of the check-in queue.
Finally, the foot of the escalator that carries you up to security, where I’d hug my parents goodbye and try not to cry as I take the first steps back towards my life in HCMC.
Writing from the wound
Not long ago, a writer friend whose newsletter I adore wrote:
A common piece of wisdom is to “write from the scar, not from the wound.” Whenever I’d write about losing my husband, Jamie—something that happened seven years ago—I’d be mostly sharing from my scars. Writing about my current experience has been much trickier.
Full disclosure: I write from my wounds. They are my greatest source of inspiration. Writing from them is when I feel most alive.
Be it stress, guilt, or grief that wields the knife—whenever I’m hurting, I turn to this newsletter. I write to process the jumble that is my thoughts and feelings. Clarity rarely ensues, but the act itself is incredibly cathartic.
Not that the release—though it feels good—ever makes me whole. Writing from my wounds does not heal them. But I always return for more, as if enslaved to the twisted pleasure of discovering just how messed up I am.
Today, though, I didn’t think I was writing from a wound. Walking through the airport, remembering all those scenes with my parents and realising they were the last time, what I felt wasn’t sadness, not even nostalgia.
We’ll never again have our farewell lunch at the same restaurant. They’ll never again get up to greet me after my hour-long check-in ordeal. I’ll never again hug them goodbye at the foot of the escalator.
These thoughts should have left me depressed, yet they didn’t bother me. I’d never again make new memories with my parents here, but knowing this didn’t make me sad.
On the contrary, I felt happy. Because in that moment I had a profound realisation:
I realised that my parents would never leave me. That as long as I remembered, I would be able to recall and relive any memory I had of them. The meals, the conversations, the hugs. Whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted.
Not even death could part us, because I remembered. Because I’ll always remember.
I was so inspired by this that I beelined to the airport lounge so I could write a heartwarming newsletter about how memories live on. But then the floodgates opened and all my words drowned in my tears.
I thought I was writing this newsletter from a place of strength, but maybe this imagined strength hides a gaping wound, and each word I type is driving the dagger deeper.
Whether this will ultimately hurt or heal is too soon to say.
What do you think?
Before you ask, my parents are alive and as well as can be. It’s just extremely unlikely, with my dad’s illness, that they’ll be coming to see me off at the airport ever again.
Now for this week’s question:
Do you write from your wound?
What do you do when you’re in pain? Do you meditate, journal, walk, burger? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who never gives you grief.
Before I leave you to go wipe my face, an important announcement: Val Thinks is going on a summer break. I’ll see you back in your inbox on Friday 19th July.
Until then… Stay thoughtful, keep cool, and cherish every last moment,
Val
p.s. If you’d like to stay in touch during my newsletter break, I’d love for you to join me on Substack Chat 👇. I’ll be sharing thoughts from my summer trip to the UK (plus the concert). I’ll also be posting stories to Instagram if that’s your poison of choice. See you there.
Photo by Artur Tumasjan on Unsplash
Bonjour Val,
Sending you from the bottom of my heart the best vibes as possible, whish your summer break ahead will be beneficial!
As i have now physical wounds after my surgery and scars as well. I was related that to your newsletter. For sure when the scars are healed the physical pain is gone as the emotional pain is cicatrised the suffering is gone but the spleen and memories will be always alive. As a reminder of the experience that continues live within you.
For my perspective a writer is a very sensitive person sometimes alone to face the stuffs you talk about.
Sending you so much love, Val! I hope you have a well-deserved break and lots of time to process all the big moments you’re experiencing ❤️