My dad loved Disneyland. He loved the corny rides, the overpriced churros, the fireworks that painted the sky in ways I think he wished his life had been. The first—and only—time I went with him, he was adamant that every day started with the Peter Pan ride. It wasn’t a suggestion or a casual preference. Surely not! It was a hill he was prepared to die on. At first, I thought it was just one of those quirks people have—the kind that makes you roll your eyes but secretly find endearing. But as the days wore on, I realized it was something more than that. This wasn’t about a ride or even about Disneyland. It was about him holding on to a piece of himself that he couldn’t let go of.

 

Today marks a week since I got back to New York. Monday marks a month since he died. Both feel like no time at all and enough time for me to start figuring out how to move through the world with this big, invisible thing I’m carrying. In that time, I managed to revisit chapters I never thought I’d re-read. Ones that feel like they belong to a different person, and maybe they do. In that time, I’ve been so present that, for a moment, I forget it happened—until something random, like a song by John Mayer, RKO’s me with grief like it’s auditioning for the WWE. In that time, I realized how strange it is to admit that I feel more whole and complete than I ever have—like losing him somehow made more space for me, even if I’m still figuring out what to do with it. In that time, I’ve evaded the question “How are you?” because it feels like a trap. Like no matter how I answer, it’ll be wrong. If I say I’m fine, it feels like a betrayal of my grief, like I’m brushing it under the rug and pretending the rug isn’t lumpy with unresolved feelings. But if I say I’m not fine, the other person looks at me like I just handed them a ticking time bomb and walked away. So instead, I’ve become a master of deflection: “Oh, you know! Busy!” or “I’m hanging in there!”—which, let’s BFFR, is just a polite way of saying, “Don’t ask me that again.” Because how do you explain that you’re somewhere between fine and not fine, between heartbreak and healing, between wanting to cry on the subway and dance in your shoebox apartment? That you’re somehow all of it at once?

 

In that time, I’ve learned that grief itself is its own kind of habit. It wants to sit in the driver's seat, press repeat on the same aching memories, and keep you frozen in one place. It begs to sit comfortably between the would’ves, could’ves, and should’ves, like it’s curling up with a blanket on the couch—or maybe it’s barging into that frat boy’s house unannounced to yell at him for being mean to you. Not that I’ve ever done that or anything. Anyway, it doesn’t care about timing or subtlety; it just shows up, loud and entitled, taking up space it didn’t ask permission for. Much like my anxiety, it’s trying to latch on to something.

 

Meanwhile, my SSRIs are working overtime with no compensation, no benefits, and definitely no union to advocate for them. Indeed, they’re the unsung heroes of this operation. A previous version of me would’ve let this consume her—would’ve invited grief and anxiety in, handed them the remote, and let them narrate her like Iain Sterling: “A hot new bombshell enters the villa... it’s crippling depression!” Yet, and I am thrilled to report, old habits don’t just die hard, people! I find, in true Lau fashion, they die dancing. Specifically, shaking fucking a$$ to I Always Wanted A Brother from the new Mufasa movie. 

 

I think my dad loved Disneyland so much because it gave him permission to be the version of himself that life didn’t always make room for. The one who laughed too loud on rides, who let his eyes sparkle at fireworks, and who believed, for a fleeting moment, that the world really could be as magical as it seemed. Maybe that’s why, in this strange, grief-soaked time, my inner child keeps tugging at my hand, whispering, “Twirl me around, bitch! Like our favorite version of him used to.” She doesn’t want the fireworks or the Mickey ears; she just wants the feeling—arms outstretched, spinning until the world blurs, until joy bubbles up in my chest and spills out in laughter. She doesn’t care if it’s messy or if I feel silly doing it. She just wants me to remember what it feels like to let go, if only for a moment. 

 

And maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Maybe the best way to honor him isn’t in the grief, but in the moments where I let joy crack me open again. Where I let myself twirl until I’m dizzy and stupidly happy, just like I used to be when he’d spin me around and make me believe, for those few seconds, that nothing bad could ever happen. I know better now, of course—bad things happen all the time, and the world doesn’t stop for anyone. But even so, I think there’s something defiant about reaching for joy in the middle of the mess, as if bring present and existing alongside grief are part and parcel of the same story. Something necessary about dancing through the weight of it all.

 

So, If you’ll let me, I’d like to tell you how I’m doing—a week since I’ve been back, almost a month since he passed, and five days before his birthday, even if I’ve spent the last few weeks evading the question. I’m doing okay. Not fantastic, not terrible—just okay, trying my best to dance through it. I appreciate all the ways you’ve held my hand, even when I didn’t know I needed it. I’m processing all the ways I’ve been uplifted and, yes, let down, by the people I love. Even if I’m working through my anxious attachment, which has been flaring up more than usual, I refuse to triple-text in Trump’s America—boundaries, babes—but I will absolutely blast his favorite Disney music at an unreasonable volume to self-soothe. I’ve maintained a healthy eating schedule (who is she?) and can’t hear you over my massive tits, which, as it turns out, double as grief support and a new, insufferable personality trait. I’ve been writing my novel (ew, it feels so weird to call it that! And admit I’m writing one in the first place!), which has been both thrilling and horrifying in equal measure. Time will tell with that one. I had my first classroom visit and earned major brownie points by likening The Outsiders to the Knicks vs. Celtics for a group of 6th-grade boys who suddenly decided I was cool. I watched a drag queen absolutely slay “Defying Gravity,” started my first week of classes, and even managed to love this path more than I thought I could. Somewhere in all of this, I think I’ve been reminding myself how to keep moving forward—not perfectly, not gracefully, but forward all the same. And for now, I think that’s enough.

 

My dad always insisted on starting the day with the Peter Pan ride, as if soaring over Neverland might help him escape everything weighing him down. Maybe that’s what he loved most about it—the illusion of weightlessness, of freedom, of being unburdened by the things he never knew how to carry. Up there, suspended above a glowing map of stars and dreams, he could pretend, if only for a few minutes, that life was simple again. That joy didn’t have to be chased, that magic could be something you found instead of something you faked. I think he wanted to live in that feeling forever, and maybe now he is. It’s strange to think about now, but that ride—the one he swore had to start every day—feels less like a quirk and more like a map of him: someone searching for a place where he could finally let go and just be. I think that’s what I’m trying to do, too.

 

And maybe that’s the difference—he was searching for a place to stop, to rest, to feel unburdened. But me? I want to be able to carry it all and still keep moving. There’s so much ahead of me—so much I don’t know yet, so many days waiting to be filled with all the messy, beautiful, unexpected things that make life feel magical. To actively chase joy, even when it feels hard to find, To keep twirling, even when the weight feels heavy. To keep believing blindly, not in Neverland exactly, but in the possibility of a world where joy and grief, lightness and weight, can exist together. Because as much as I miss him, I know he’d want me to look forward—not up at the stars he’s become, but out, toward everything still waiting for me.

 

Did you miss me, baddies and blowhards? This bitch has always got something to say! In case I haven’t said it, humor me as I tell you again: Thank you so. For being here, even when I didn’t know how to say I needed you. For making me laugh, giving me a brief intermission from being absolutely hysterical. For holding my sweaty hands and validating all of the feelings, of which you know, I have plenty. I love you, I love you. 

 

Big hug, 

Lau(ra)