"We are made from the strength of every ancestor who survived.
And thrived." ~ Loung Ung
Before Everything Changed
Phnom Penh.
A Big DinnerTable. Nine of Us.
The nine of us — Pa, Ma, my three brothers, my three sisters, and me — crowded around a big table, all of us reaching at once, knocking things over, scooping food onto each other's plates without asking. Everyone talking. No one listening. My feet kicking under the table until Ma told me to sit still. Pa catching my eye and winking.
On April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge entered the city and that table ceased to exist. We were driven from our home, torn from one another.
Fifty years on, I still hold that dinner close. It is the truest thing I know about who I am and where I come from. BIOGRAPHY
April 17, 1975
PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
Until that day, I had never truly known fear. I was five years old. I had been afraid of the dark, of ghosts, of my mother's scolding. Small fears. Children's fears. What entered me on April 17, 1975 was something else entirely.
My legs shook. My breath came too fast. My head spun in a way that made me certain my soul was trying to leave my body. A soldier — face red, voice reasping — fired his rifle into the sky. Around me, the crowd of evacuees cowered, wept, screamed.
The only thing that held me to the earth was the weight of my sister Keav's arms. She pulled me into her, tugged the krama down over my eyes, and shielded me from what she could not shield herself from.
That was the last day of everything I had known. My parents would be killed. My siblings scattered across labor camps and work camps and separate, desperate survivals. The city emptied. The table gone.
And yet — I am here. Four of my siblings are here. And I have spent every year since asking what that means, and what it requires of me. Thoughtfully crafted to elevate what matters most.
Even as Vermont became home, I carried another home inside me. Cambodia. Where much of my family still lives. Where the temples rise from the mist at dawn. Where the food tastes like memory, and the air holds everything I lost and everything I came from.
It took me years to understand that the human heart can hold many places at once — and love them all, and call them all home. And to Discover the Joy of doing so.
Two Homes. One Heart.
Vermont.
And Always, Cambodia.
My brother Meng, his wife Eang, and I were sponsored to Vermont by the parishioners of Holy Family Church. Many of them came to the airport to greet us. Their faces were the first American faces I ever saw — and I was afraid of them. I didn't know their language, their expressions, what their smiles meant.
But their smiles were wide and genuine, and slowly, Vermont became home.
What Joy Looks Like.
People sometimes expect a certain kind of answer from someone who has lived a certain kind of life. The answer about purpose, mission, legacy. And yes — those things matter deeply to me.
But joy, for me, is simpler than that. More ordinary. And I think that's the whole point. Joy is not a destination. It is what happens when you pay attention to what is right in front of you.
