Hello out there, and happy May! I hope wherever you are, the weather is sunny and warm. It’s been a rather chilly spring thus far here in Southern California. We did have a few very warm days about a month ago, but since then it’s cooled off. I’m completely enjoying it.

I’m in the process of winding things down at the university — holding final sessions with clients and preparing for my departure. I underestimated how difficult it would be to say good-bye. When I was considering resigning last year, all I could feel was the fatigue, day after day, the burnout.

It’s funny — once you decide to leave, people begin to share how much they appreciate you and your work. I didn’t fully recognize the impact I’ve had, not only as a therapist but also in my role as the Asian & Pacific Islander (API) Liaison at one of our six affinity centers on campus. I loved this work deeply, and I will miss the students and the director of APPCC, an outstanding leader, who has become a good friend.

We recently held a cultural graduation celebration for our Asian & Pacific Islander/Southwest Asian & North African students. It was a more intimate gathering, a space to truly honor the graduates in a way the larger ceremonies simply can’t. I’m sure the students felt that. One of them, a dear student I’ve gotten to know pretty well over the past year, asked me to attend their graduation, and I was so touched. So yes, my heart is breaking a little — maybe a lot. I think I’m writing this simply to give the grief somewhere to go.

Goodbyes have always been difficult, even as a young child. Adoption trauma at its finest. I remember the intense anxiety I felt when my adoptive dad went away on business trips. It was like a panic attack laced with grief, a kind of separation anxiety that sat so heavy in my chest. I hated being left at the nursery when my adoptive mom dropped me off, the screaming kid who couldn’t be consoled. In grade school, it was stomachaches.

My godmother, Janie, visited our family when I was in elementary school. When it was time for her to return home, I felt that same profound sadness and panic. I sobbed in the car as my mom and I took her to the airport. I stayed there, too embarrassed to step out because I couldn’t stop crying. For days afterward, I mourned her departure. I couldn’t find the words to explain the depth of it, even when my mom asked. It just felt like torture. I recognize it now as attachment wounding, shame, anxiety.

As an adult, moments of separation can still feel like a small death, not to be morbid, just honest. The intensity has softened, but the grief remains. Some trauma wounds don’t fully close, I’m convinced. It’s part of being human, and perhaps what has shaped me into the trauma therapist I’ve become.

I’ve facilitated a biweekly group for the past three years at the Asian & Pacific Cultural Center (APCC), a vibrant hub where API students gather to study, hang out, play games, and student workers/leaders host support groups. The group is called HAPI Hour (get it?), and we explore different topics related to API student mental health. This Wednesday is our last one… and it will be a celebration of all the fun we’ve shared. I hope I’m able to keep it together. My work at APCC has truly been the highlight of my time at the university.

With my resignation, I’ll have more time to devote to sound therapy — growing my practice and following what calls to me. Still, I’ll miss the university, my colleagues, and the students, despite the burnout and those moments I wasn’t sure I could make it through another workday. Goodbyes are damn hard.

May the coming months open into a simpler, more inspired life — one filled with creativity, and of course, magick.

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Photo by Alexander Popovkin on Unsplash