Category Archives: love

companionship, love, Relationship

In Your Presence

A few days ago, I was asked to share and bear my testimony with my brother and sister-in-law while teaching a lesson with the missionaries on the Restoration of the Gospel. While this is deeply personal, I want to share my most recent testimony of how our Heavenly Father truly works in mysterious ways.

I was in a decade-long relationship with someone I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Whenever something went wrong, I prayed for the strength to forgive, hoping to keep our flame alive. But over time, my prayers began to change.

In the last two years before I stepped away, I started praying that the strength I was asking for would no longer be to fix us, but to fix me — and to open doors where I could grow, because I had been standing on the same plateau for so long.

On my 30th birthday, things began to unfold. I was experiencing contention with my partner, and I prayed that if things were meant to remain the same, please don’t let me keep forgiving just to survive — help me move forward instead. Just when I was starting to forgive again, another whirlwind came through and became the final straw that gently pushed my heart away. The love I thought I could renew vanished that day. I tried, but the resentment was too heavy to carry.

When I realized I was no longer a priority, I understood that I no longer had a purpose to serve in that relationship. So I slowly eased my way out. I prayed, knowing I would miss the memories, and I asked Heavenly Father to replace them with something new.

Unexpectedly, I was set up to meet someone I had seen a few times before, but never officially until that day. At first, I didn’t want to meet him because I was still sorting through my feelings, but I felt it wouldn’t hurt to simply be friends. After that, we didn’t talk much, and he rarely crossed my mind. I didn’t see him as a rebound — I kept everything loose, pure, and simple.

When I was slowly getting over my past relationship, I still wasn’t seeking anything new. But as if we needed a gentle push together, a friend reconnected with me and began planning small hangouts for us. We were supposed to have dinner, but time kept slipping away. Later, he approached me at a baptism and kindly said that if I didn’t feel comfortable with dinner, I could tell him and he would let my friend know. Of course, I wasn’t uncomfortable at all — our schedules just never aligned.

So I made the move to ask for his number and planned something myself. I wanted to be respectful of his time, knowing how hard he works.

I only get to see him on Sundays, and it didn’t dawn on me that he would become someone I came to cherish. We visited the Asia Mall, talked about his time in the National Guard, his love for Japan and anime, and then came a turning point — me giving him a tour of the Mall of America because he had never been there in the four years he had lived in the state.

We walked for hours, laughing, getting a little lost, and taking everything in like kids in a new place. When it was time to eat, I instinctively reached for my wallet, but he gently stopped me and insisted on paying for dinner. It wasn’t the money that stayed with me — it was the intention. The quiet way he cared without making a scene, simply wanting to take care of the moment. I felt my heart soften in ways I hadn’t expected.

He is sweet — a true gentleman, opening and closing my car door even when I tell him I don’t need him to. I have been independent for so long that it feels strange to experience kindness from a man, even when he is simply being polite.

It didn’t start there, though, where he began to quietly intrude into my thoughts. He donated generously to our youth fundraiser and was always sincere and genuine in the things he said and did. He truly began to catch my attention when I took him out to dinner for his birthday. We went for sushi — which surprised me, since I’m not even a fan — and for once he confidently chose a place instead of saying, “It doesn’t matter.” That night, I started paying attention: his body language, the little details, the things I might come to like about him.

Then came a quiet moment — a minute of eye contact that felt suspended in time. I tried to break the gaze, but I was speechless, and it seemed like he wanted to say something too. We just sat there, awkward and silent, and somehow that moment changed everything.

While we don’t talk every day, we share small conversations as we pass each other at events. He notices the little things — why I separate my food and dessert a certain way, why I like things arranged just so. We steal glances across the room. He gives a small salute every time he greets me. I came to find him adorable: how he questions ingredients when all I want to do is eat, how he talks about investments and being wise with finances, and even his nervous laugh that becomes contagious.

Before I knew it, he was quietly present in my thoughts throughout the day. And I had to remind myself to be careful — that maybe he was too good, and that I should leave space so neither of us would get hurt.

Coming to know him has brightened my days, even when the skies are gray. When I prayed for joy to overcome sorrow, he became part of that answer. I forgot how to cry, how to feel overwhelmed, even when life felt unsettled. He felt like a quiet companion the Spirit placed beside me — healing I didn’t know was waiting until I was ready to receive it.

All of this was what I had asked the Lord for when I finally chose to walk away without looking back, trusting that I would be blessed with greater things. And I have been. Still, I don’t know how long this season will last, so I keep my heart gentle and my distance kind. I enjoy his presence, but I also want to keep us safe.

There’s a saying that if you love a flower, you do not pick it — you let it continue to bloom in beauty so you may admire it from afar. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I did pick that flower. But for now, I am learning to watch, to trust, and to let Heavenly Father guide whatever is meant to grow.

With him, I am learning why the Bible says love is patient and love is kind. Our progression may seem slow to others, but it feels perfect for our timing. I allow him his space and he allows me mine. Though we have yet to have our next outing, I want him to know how much I’ve enjoyed getting to know him — so much that I want to reintroduce myself without fear or guarded walls.

I quietly count the days until he returns from his travels so that we may connect again. I miss his presence, especially since it’s only at the end of the week that I get to see him — so close, yet so far away.

I will be waiting for your return.

With much love,

Ang🌸

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letter, love, Relationship

Through The Closure

I remember the morning I finally gathered the courage to leave. It wasn’t a sudden storm, just the slow folding of a truth I had carried too long.

For years, I lived with the ache of feeling like something easily set aside—present, but never fully chosen. Every memory felt sharp, a weight I didn’t know where to set down. I spent so much time trying to be “enough” that I forgot I was already whole. But distance has a way of softening edges. I see now that our time was never meant to be permanent. Some connections exist as crossings, not homes—places we pass through to learn what we need before moving on. We were mirrors for one another, reflecting the pieces of ourselves we weren’t yet ready to embrace.

I want to untangle any lingering sense of obligation or debt. Holding on sometimes hurts more than letting go, and staying would have been a subtle betrayal of who we were becoming. Space became necessary for both of us to grow in ways we couldn’t while standing side by side. When the ending couldn’t be named, I named it. And if that makes me the “villain” who broke the silence, I carry it lightly, knowing I stayed as long as I could with an honest heart, loving you until the moment I had to start loving myself more.

I am grateful for what we shared. Those years were not wasted—they were lessons, tender and sometimes sharp. Loving you showed me the breadth of my own capacity, a gift I carry with me. I hope that, in time, we each find steadier ground—people who meet us as we are now, in all our unpolished, messy truths, not as the versions of ourselves we once tried so hard to become.

I thought this ending would undo me. I imagined solitude as a cavern I could not escape. But instead, it opened something delicate and bright. There is a steady, gentle joy in finally choosing myself, in learning that the only person I need to make peace with is the one in the mirror. I am discovering how to step forward without apology or the shadow of guilt trailing behind.

I wish you well, sincerely. You are more fragile than you allow yourself to see, and I hope you learn to be tender with your own heart. I hope you stop bending into spaces that ask too much and stop shrinking to fit lives that do not honor your spirit. You are worthy of a love that is steady, and a heart that does not make you feel like an option.

I loved you, truly. And I also recognize when something has reached its natural conclusion.

If I could return to the beginning, to that very first day, I would linger there for a moment—when the air between us was light, when everything felt simple, and love had not yet learned its weight. I cherish that version of us. But time moves forward, and so must we. I hope we each step into our next paths with steady hearts, carrying what we’ve learned, and finding our own gentle horizons.

This is my goodbye.
And this is a new beginning—for both of us.

With love,

Ang 🌸

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love, Spiritual

The Shape Of Love

I decided to take Gary Chapman’s 5 Love Languages quiz the other day to see where mine would fall. While the result wasn’t much of a surprise, I learned that my primary love language is Acts of Service.

The description reads: Acts of service means doing things for your partner. Someone with this love language feels loved and appreciated when others help them—whether that’s running an errand, cleaning, cooking, or lending a hand with a project. Those who receive love this way tend to notice the things people do for them and often express love by serving others in return.

I’ve realized this is something I’ve always been drawn to—serving others. Perhaps it’s a natural instinct shaped by being the oldest child, carrying a quiet, motherly desire to step in and help when someone is in need. More than anything, it brings me genuine joy to know that even the smallest act of service can make a difference in someone’s ordinary day.

During the week of Christmas, I had the opportunity to go caroling with the missionaries. Though the nights were cold, I was grateful we went out to visit some members we hadn’t seen in a while—especially those who didn’t have family nearby to spend the holidays with. The night before, I stayed up until 4 a.m. baking an assortment of cookies to bring along. Everyone deserves a treat during the holidays, but more than that, a reminder that they are loved and remembered.

That evening, we visited a grandmother named Pa Vang, whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time. She was very ill and could barely walk, so we sang hymns and offered a prayer for her. I later learned that she has kidney disease and has chosen not to go through dialysis, knowing her time is limited. My heart broke. I remembered her from my early years in the church back in 2013—so lively, full of humor, always joking and playfully roasting her daughters. I cherished her presence and the conversations we once shared.

It felt as though we were meant to visit her that day—to offer comfort and to remind her that the Lord sees her and loves her. Hymns are often described as another form of God’s word, and that night we sang Silent Night to her in Hmong. Choosing that song felt especially meaningful, like a gentle reminder that Christ was born for her—that His love reaches her, even now. I am deeply grateful that I was able to see her once more. Afterward, I added her name to the temple prayer roll.

One quiet act of service I often do is submitting the names of my Heavenly brothers and sisters, as well as my loved ones, to the temple for prayers when they are sick or unwell—an offering of extra love, given without attention or recognition. Loving and caring for someone doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes, it’s simply giving because you genuinely care.

Another brother from church later shared how much he appreciated the caroling visit and the cookies. He had been feeling especially lonely during the holidays, missing his partner who is still in Thailand and awaiting her arrival in late March or April. With no family nearby, he wondered who he would spend the holidays with—until we showed up. Even if it was only for a brief moment, it was enough to bring him joy and a few smiles. It reminded me how often the smallest things matter most.

That night, we visited eight members in total. Each home was filled with warmth and surprise that we would show up just to sing for them during the holidays. I have to admit, though—the first person I affectionately refer to as my “zodiac soulmate” had an expression that made me laugh. We couldn’t quite tell if he was enjoying it or simply confused as we stood there singing Angels We Have Heard on High. His expressions always intrigue me. Maybe that’s why I get nervous speaking to him—I can never quite read what he’s thinking. So mysterious but I sure do love cracking down a mystery.

While I find joy in bringing light to others, I later found myself reflecting on what I could do for my own family—especially in ways that don’t involve monetary gifts, since that’s often how they feel most loved. I asked myself why it feels easier to be a light for others than for my immediate family, even when I try. Somehow, it never seems to be enough, or I find myself shut down.

That reflection brought me back to the parable of the ten virgins. If they did not prepare enough oil for their lamps, they could not meet the bridegroom. In the same way, I cannot light someone else’s lamp if they are unwilling to prepare their own oil. Is that truly how it is? I am ready to love and serve, yet some hearts may not yet be prepared to receive it.

Perhaps this is one of the quiet truths of family life—that there will always be imperfections we cannot change. All we can do is accept them with grace and continue to serve in the best way we know how. It is still an early journey of faith for my family, and in time I hope they will come to know how deeply our Heavenly Father loves them, just as I have come to know for myself.

I have lived a life both with Christ and without Him, and I know now that the latter brought nothing but emptiness. It wasn’t until I found the courage to return, to face Him again, that I discovered what true love feels like. Not a day goes by that I regret choosing Him. If I have any regret at all, it is not loving people sooner—and not always knowing how to stay in their lives as a constant light.

Still, I will continue to pray for them. The Lord has faith in me despite my imperfections. He chose me, and I choose to love each of His sheep in whatever way I can. I will keep serving. I will keep fighting—with love.

With even more love,

Ang 🌸

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love, Relationship

I Kind Of Liked It Your Way

Whenever I sang my songs
On the stage, on my own
Whenever I said my words
Wishing they would be heard
I saw you smiling at me
Was it real or just my fantasy
You’d always be there in the corner
Of this tiny little bar

My last night here for you
Same old songs, just once more
My last night here with you?
Maybe yes, maybe no
I kind of liked it your way
How you shyly placed your eyes on me

Oh, did you ever know?
That I had mine on you

Darling, so there you are
With that look on your face
As if you’re never hurt
As if you’re never down
Shall I be the one for you
Who pinches you softly but sure
If frown is shown then
I will know that you are no dreamer

So let me come to you
Close as I wanted to be
Close enough for me
To feel your heart beating fast
And stay there as I whisper

How I loved your peaceful eyes on me
did you ever know
That I had mine on you

Darling, so share with me
Your love if you have enough
Your tears if you’re holding back
Or pain if that’s what it is
How can I let you know
I’m more than the dress and the voice
Just reach me out then
You will know that you’re not dreaming

Darling, so there you are
With that look on your face
As if you’re never hurt
As if you’re never down
Shall I be the one for you
Who pinches you softly but sure
If frown is shown then
I will know that you are no dreamer

— 🌸 —

If I could dedicate a song to you, I want you to know this: sometimes, you linger in the corners of my mind, even when you don’t realize it. I catch myself noticing the smallest things about you—the way you tilt your head, the quiet way a smile appears, the subtle ways moments feel brighter simply because you exist.

I’ve realized that some connections don’t need to be rushed. There’s a tenderness in watching you from a little distance, in hoping without pressing, in appreciating you for exactly who you are. I find myself imagining small, careful ways to be near you without overwhelming—ways to let you know you’re seen, even if I haven’t yet found the courage to speak the words aloud.

It’s a quiet attention that asks nothing in return, yet holds everything in its own subtle hope. There’s something comforting in letting these feelings exist softly—like a light in the corner, waiting to be noticed, waiting for the right moment.

And so I keep these thoughts close, tucked gently into my heart. I watch, I hope, I imagine. I carry the quiet warmth of your presence with me, even in moments you might not realize. Perhaps it’s best this way, to let these feelings remain soft, keeping us safe from the ones that might hurt.

With love,

Ang 🌸

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Faith, family, love, Spirituality

The Sound of Home

Endowment. A word that once felt foreign—yet as I prepared to receive it, I realized it was exactly what I had been missing to finally feel at home. Over time, I have come to understand that the growth I seek cannot be found by observing the paths of others, but by turning inward—by choosing what I am willing to pursue and obtain for myself.

I see the endowment now not as a single moment, but as a quiet unfolding: an invitation to anchor my identity in the eternal. It teaches me that worth is not assigned by the world nor earned through perfection, but revealed through covenant and commitment. In a world that constantly demands proof, there is something profoundly healing about sacred things that simply ask for presence, humility, and willingness. What is holy does not shout; it whispers. And in those whispers, I have begun to recognize the sound of home.

I have learned that growth is not meant to be rushed or compared. Healing is rarely loud, and becoming is rarely linear. Some days, growth looks like courage. Other days, it looks like rest. And sometimes, it looks like trusting that God is still working in the unseen spaces of my life. When I stop measuring myself against others and begin measuring myself by the tenderness of my heart, I find a deeper kind of peace.

This peace has changed how I view the life I hope to build. Once, I believed love would arrive as a rescue—something that would complete what I felt was unfinished in me. Now I understand that love is not meant to fix me; it is meant to meet me. I refuse to wait to become the best version of myself when I can begin that work now. I am preparing the way, trusting that when the time is right, he will meet me where I stand. We will walk forward together—not because we need one another to be whole, but because we choose to walk side by side. Preparation is not passive waiting; it is faithful movement.

This same light guides how I navigate my most cherished relationships. Loving my family is one of my most sacred roles, yet I am learning that love does not require me to absorb every storm. I have realized that no matter how large an umbrella I bring, I cannot always keep others dry—and that is okay. I can offer shelter, patience, and a steady presence, but true healing is a journey each soul must walk for themselves. Learning to let them carry their own umbrella is not a withdrawal of love; it is an act of trust. It allows me to stand beside them with a full heart rather than a weary one, loving them more purely without losing myself in a weight that was never mine to bear.

This lesson is both humbling and freeing. Boundaries are not a lack of love—they are an act of wisdom. They allow me to serve without self-erasure. Even when I feel weary, I remind myself that God sees the quiet endurance and the effort it takes to remain soft in a world that often rewards hardness. I was never invisible; I was only measuring my value by the wrong standards. Confidence is not arrogance; it is agreement with truth. And truth tells me that I am enough, even as I continue becoming.

So I vow—gently and imperfectly—to love myself more. To honor my gifts without diminishing them. To speak kindly to myself when doubt creeps in. I no longer see service as something I do to be noticed, but as a quiet consecration of my heart. To love my heavenly brothers and sisters is to recognize divinity in ordinary moments—a listening ear, a steady presence, a simple act of kindness.

I do not want to exist merely to survive. I want to be ready. I want to be worthy. I want to leave an impression through consistency and sincerity. I want to protect the colors of who I am and never allow sorrow to dull them.

I am still learning. Still trusting. Some days, faith feels like certainty; other days, it feels like choosing to keep walking without answers. But I no longer fear the road ahead. I know who walks with me. I know where my heart is anchored. And I know that becoming is not something I must rush—it is something I am invited to live into, one sacred step at a time.

With Love,

Ang 🌸

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