This was written a while back in my personal memoirs, but I never got around to posting it. Given everything that's happened recently, and the emotional toll of the past few years, I felt I owed it to myself to try psilocybin as a way to work through it.

**********

February 11, 2026. Today was my first time microdosing psilocybin mushrooms, a dosage of 125mg of generic mushroom (it doesn’t say what the exact variety is on the bottle) -- all in hopes of helping me reset my mind from the feeling of the winter blues and the seemingly loop of despair. I didn’t want to see a therapist and I had exhausted myself from watching YouTube self-help videos. There was one video however that intrigued me when the author mentioned that part of their recovery from self-annihilation was from exploring psilocybin mushrooms. Although I had known about magic mushrooms from my years growing up in Saskatchewan, I never sought it out, not in Hong Kong, not here and not while I was living in Toronto.

The idea intrigued me and I set out to find how I could get a small supply to see it might help my psychologically looping mindset of the blues.

I decided to take a microdose in the evening at around 6pm on a light meal of wonton with noodles. I read somewhere that a lemon drink, or something acidic might help activate the chemicals in the mushrooms. I didn’t feel anything strange going on in my head, as I was reassured that the dosage wasn’t enough to cause anything remotely hallucinogenic. I went on about my evening, packaged some books that were going to Amazon and began clearing out some space in the basement to make room for stretching out a new canvas onto a wooden frame.

By around 10:30pm, I began to feel something different in my body, and that was the reduction of pain, especially around the lower back and sides of my waist. I lifted my arms up and stretched overhead. Yes, it felt better. Definitely less feeling of stiffness. The achiness I had grown accustomed to was reduced by around 80%, something I was not expecting from the ingestion of such a small dose of psilocybin.

I went and did a search on Google to see if there was any documentation on whether there were any studies regarding psilocybin reducing chronic pain in individuals, and certainly enough there were. The reasoning being that psilocybin re-organized neuro pathways in the brain. I think my body had witnessed too much physical and mental stress while living in Hong Kong, and perhaps, never fully recovered. I believe my body was constantly inflamed. I had taken the usual pain medications including acetaminophen and ibuprofen, but the pain never really went away. I just lived with it and rarely spoke about it with anyone except a few.

It is now past midnight and I think I will end this part of my journaling here. I will skip microdosing tomorrow and see how I feel.

Several days ago, a clip appeared on my Instagram feed — Tracey Emin, the renowned British artist, describing how art, for her, is a vocation, not a job nor a career. It is something you don't simply choose to do, but are drawn towards, and it has little to do with money. Shortly after, I stumbled upon a wonderful video by Elizabeth Gilbert unpacking the distinction between a hobby, a job, a career, and a vocation. A hobby was something one did that offered relaxation and joy. A job provides the necessary income or revenue to survive in the world we live in. A career is something that you have a deep interest and passion for that serves you a lifetime with money to survive, and hopefully fruitfully. And finally, a vocation is a calling, a feeling that runs deep into your being for what one must do that is inside of you.

For most of my life, I had never given the word “vocation” much thought. I equated it with employment, with occupation. When I left architecture behind in 1999, my first thought was to do something that brought me joy as a child, and that was drawing. I visualised what I was going to do. I remember sitting in my flat on Caine Road, then going out to buy paper and pencils. Those drawings became my first exhibition, First Level, and I remember the ecstasy of the turnout, the disbelief of actually selling pieces.

I have felt detached from myself since moving to Canada and becoming a caregiver. Looking back, I see that my recent hobbies—baking, cooking, restoring furniture, and brief forays into audiophilia, photography, and computers—were ways to relax. Painting and drawing, however, belonged to a different category. They required energy from another source. They demanded rigor and focus and were rarely pleasurable in the ordinary sense. Yet I felt compelled toward them, as if drawn by something beyond myself. Does that make sense? To a layperson, it might sound like nonsense.

After leaving the architectural career path, I took on many jobs in Hong Kong to support myself: commercial and wedding photographer, bartender, tarot card reader, university professor, website and graphic designer, book publisher, organizer of nude drawing sessions, and photography workshop instructor. Over more than twenty years, I balanced this patchwork of work with painting and drawing, mounting both solo and group exhibitions across Hong Kong and Asia.

In hindsight, those jobs sustained my vocation as a visual artist. I never believed my art alone could support a life in Hong Kong. Ironically, I earned a good living as a wedding photographer and was sought after by many couples. I owe that success to my eye and to an approach that differed from most photographers on the market. I entered the field at the right moment. Without wedding photography, I doubt I would have survived those early years as an independent artist.

So now I face a small, yet important conundrum. How do I approach my new life here in Canada? Do I pursue deeper calling of being the fine art artist I truly desire to be or do I find another job that will sustain the living expenses of daily life and more? And if I choose the former, can it provide me with enough income for me to be financially secure? Circumstances and environment have changed considerably. Saskatoon is not Hong Kong.

Since my return to Canada and the drastic change in my life, I have noticed a dramatic shift in both my priorities and the pace at which I am approaching life. I have gravitated toward YouTube channels such as Reflections in Life, Academy of Ideas, and Einzelgänger. They are slower, thoughtful, and philosophical in nature, exploring how to live one’s life. I believe my caregiving over the past few years woke me up to the reality of my own mortality and how I want to live my remaining years.

I am particularly fond of Reflections in Life. Although I have yet to see an interview with someone who has experienced the role of caregiver, I found a truthful honesty and authenticity in the people they interviewed—many of them much older and having experienced hardships along life’s journey. I also noted that many, if not all, are living in their own homes surrounded by nature, where forests or gardens envelop them. The wisdom and knowledge gleaned from walking through the suffering of living is beautiful. The episodes are filmed beautifully, with thoughtful cinematic clips from nature that demand the viewer slow down. The music plays an important part in setting the atmosphere.

But I digress. I didn’t want this post to be about what YouTube channels I am watching, but about my recent feelings of listlessness over the past few months. It started shortly after the family moved my mother into the care facility, where she is well cared for. I began to direct energy and thought toward my motivations and aspirations, and I started to fall into the trap of comparison, the feeling of lacking. So many of the people I knew had progressed in their careers, and I subconsciously began to resent them.

I noticed my jealousy seeping through, and it felt so ugly that I would ever feel that way toward them. I then started to have this thought that what they were doing was nothing compared to what I was going through, as though my work was superior to theirs and what I was doing held more importance and meaning. Then I remembered a phrase: “Don’t believe everything you think.” I knew better than to delve into jealousy and resentment, and so I had to consciously ignore the immaturity of such negative thoughts.

The Wall

I am not exactly sure when this feeling started to surface, but I began to lose my sense of identity. My purpose was set: I am a caregiver to my mom. That was it. Everything I did revolved around the care of my mother and her well-being. Even my reason for keeping healthy was for her sake, because if I wasn’t taking care of myself, how would I then take care of mom? My sense of purpose and being was for her sake. I was like a servant to her. It didn’t seem to matter; Norm Yip’s existence was for her care.

As noble as it sounds, it came with a drastic detriment to my own sense of identity. Sure, I was physically able and my mind was relatively sound, but I began to lose sense of who I was and felt my past identity as an artist and photographer was not me. It was someone else. Several times, I Googled the name Norm Yip to remind myself of who I was before all of this happened. However, the most alarming thing was that my previous interest and desire to paint and create began to fade. I started to question the value and meaning of painting, and it frightened me. I had taken on several other interests including cooking and baking, furniture refinishing, and gardening—all domestic activities that occupied my time. These activities were far more grounded and offered a sense of satisfaction to my psyche. Painting and creating art was much harder, as it required mental imagination from both my intuitive and intellectual sides.

Mind you, I have not given up painting, but it comes at a far slower pace than before. And whenever I head into the basement to add another layer, it comes with more intention.

Midway through January, my body has been reminding me of its limitations—the familiar aches and pains of chronic back soreness that have been my companion since my early forties, along with persistent sciatica. Despite consulting numerous physiotherapists, several acupuncturists, and being examined by both Western and Chinese medicine practitioners, I’ve never identified a definitive cause. X-rays revealed nothing abnormal. Eventually, I concluded that self-healing was my most effective path forward.

To manage my discomfort, I’ve committed to staying physically active: yoga three to four times per week, and when possible, twice-weekly gym sessions focused on moderate resistance training. Nothing too strenuous, but enough to feel that familiar lactic acid burn in the days that follow.

The reality, though, is that my body has been changing. Entering my sixties while caring for my mother, I’ve noticed the inevitable shifts—my upper body losing its former tone, my energy declining. I wonder if my testosterone levels are dropping. The signs suggest as much: diminished motivation for activities I once enjoyed, an almost complete absence of sexual desire, shorter gym sessions with less capacity to lift what I managed back in Hong Kong. Then again, my life has undergone dramatic shifts—relocating from Hong Kong, becoming a full-time caregiver. Such changes inevitably exact their toll.

I recognize this paints a somewhat bleak picture. It feels dismal, even depressing at times. Since moving to Canada, I’ve noticed my body’s adverse reaction to winter—by the time December arrives and snow blankets the ground, a quiet listlessness settles over me. I’ve read about the psychological effects of reduced sunlight and seasonal depression. Perhaps the winter weather affects my body physically as well, intensifying the usual aches and pains.

Regardless of the underlying causes, I’ve learned to manage by embracing slower mornings. I sleep as much as I need (which I absolutely love), then make my coffee and sip it slowly. This is followed by my sciatica prevention exercises—simple movements that seem unassuming but provide considerable relief. I then do my yoga routine guided by an instructor whom I’ve followed for years (Yoga with Tim). Following yoga, I dedicate fifteen to twenty minutes to a guided meditation, also through a Youtube channel. I maintain the above as consistently as possible. Some days I miss sessions or skip them entirely; other times I opt for gentler, restorative practices when a full routine feels too much. I’ve learned to be kinder to myself.

Without yoga and meditation, I doubt I would have survived these caregiving years. They’ve been essential in managing both the psychological and physical demands of caring for my mother.

It was my first spring in Canada in 2022. While working as a caregiver, I felt a strong urge to grow something in the backyard garden, where a small patch of space had been overtaken by weeds. I’m not sure what drew me to this—perhaps it started with wanting fresh snow peas for the upcoming fall. I knew Mom would enjoy them if I prepared them well. But growing anything from seed, let alone a vegetable, was entirely foreign to me. I knew absolutely nothing about gardening or the science behind how plants grew. During all my years in Hong Kong, my houseplants had regularly perished under my care.

Yet there was a childhood memory that stayed with me: my grandmother’s magnificent backyard garden in Nipawin, where I was born and raised. She planted many Asian vegetables—bok choy and gai lan—alongside staples like carrots, snow peas, cilantro, and strawberries. There were more varieties I can’t recall now. I used to help her water the vegetables, which I enjoyed immensely, watching the stream of water descend onto the plants. I also remember helping Grandma hoe the garden beds in preparation for planting, noting how the beds were raised about four to six inches, creating lower walking paths between them.

There’s another memory I’d almost forgotten: asking my grandmother for some of her seeds when I left for Hong Kong after saying goodbye to Toronto in 1994. I thought I’d brought them with me, but I searched for them without success. I must have discarded them during my numerous moves between Toronto and Hong Kong. Perhaps these memories were what I was trying to rekindle by growing vegetables from seed.

After substantial research, I decided to test the idea of growing tomatoes, starting them indoors several months before spring. Eager to see if anything would grow, I bought several cheap cardboard starter trays from Dollarama. It was all very rudimentary. To my surprise, the seeds grew! I honestly hadn’t expected anything to happen. When I relayed my happiness to Mom, she exclaimed, “Why wouldn’t they grow?” It struck me as peculiar, but there was wisdom in what she said. I think I’d become desensitized to nature, detached from it for far too long. Maybe I’d taken the elements of the living universe for granted. The physical act of planting seeds into soil felt almost too real, too tangible to actually give rise to life itself. Yet planting a seed was an active part of creation—shifting thought into action was a necessary and integral part of the physical universe.

I looked at the fragile cotyledons in awe. They were precious and beautiful. Soon the second set of leaves took shape. Then, unbeknownst to me, the stems shot up and I thought something was wrong—they’d become leggy! Google and YouTube came to the rescue, and with trepidation, I managed to rectify the situation. All the plants survived—all twelve of them! My sister laughed in disbelief that I’d planted so many. I thought it was normal. Like I said, I knew nothing about gardens and plants.

***

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When I committed to becoming a full-time caregiver for my mom with dementia, one of my first priorities was improving her nutrition. I believe she had grown accustomed to processed foods—prepackaged meals, cookies, and biscuits.

My mom was always a particular eater with an appetite for both savory and sweet foods, developed from years of eating my dad’s cooking at the cafe. He spoiled my taste buds too, preparing delicious meals at home throughout my childhood. As I took over cooking for mom, I scoured YouTube for recipes, mostly Chinese cuisine, to satisfy her palate. Eventually, I built up enough variety to provide different flavors over several weeks.

Through cooking for mom and myself, I rediscovered my appreciation for good food—this time with the knowledge that I could create it myself. Mom would often tell me my meals were ho-may, or tasted good, making me smile inside. Getting mom to agree on food wasn’t easy, but I could tell when she clearly didn’t like what I’d prepared. She would simply say she wasn’t hungry. She was being kind.

Around the second year of caregiving, mom had to have her teeth removed for dentures. This proved less successful than anticipated. The temporary dentures disappeared one evening after her oral surgery. I searched everywhere but never found them. I knew she found them uncomfortable, so I didn’t force her to get a new set. This began my search for soft foods suitable for someone with no teeth.

Some recipes didn’t need to change—many items on her menu were already soft. Breakfast included oatmeal, almond pancakes, and eggs. Dinner or supper featured congee and fish. Best of all was nearly anything cooked in the Instant Pot, like stews and ribs. I made sure the meat cooked long enough to become fall-off-the-bone tender.

I may one day compile a list of foods that worked well for her. It can be daunting to create healthy dishes that also cater to a mother who strongly prefers Asian and Chinese cuisine over Western food.

***

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To the best of my memory—though much of it remains a blur—I blocked out my own identity for more than a year to cope with my new reality. I wasn’t myself. Operating on autopilot, I pushed aside my own aspirations and desires. My sole focus became providing the best possible care for Mom and learning to navigate the psychological mood swings we both faced.

I came to recognize two levels of what some might call sundowning:

Dark mode: Something would trigger her into a state of high agitation, anger, and paranoia. She’d accuse me of stealing from her or trying to poison her. No amount of reasoning or explanation could reach her—she met every attempt with defiance. There was simply no convincing her otherwise.

Deep dark mode: When dark mode persisted, tears would come, along with overwhelming helplessness. She believed no one loved her except her husband, Kenny, who had passed away more than twenty years earlier. Seeing her like this was exceptionally hard.

During both states, I developed a kind of ritual: I’d sit on the floor across the room and listen to whatever was on her mind. She’d repeat the same stories over and over. I simply agreed with what she said, never questioning, always reinforcing whatever she said and never disagreeing or arguing with her, regardless if they were untrue or caustic. I learned there was no possible way of reasoning and I would never win an argument no matter how much I tried.

Through these so-called conversations, I learned that she believed her late husband Kenny was always with her, protecting her from any harm, keeping her safe. He was always around. The other spirit was my cat, BB, whom Mom had fallen in love with during a visit to Hong Kong. She’d asked for BB’s photo and posted it on the cabinet where she could see it clearly from the sofa. BB became her protector too. I brought up both Dad and BB often, and it would soothe her, dissolving her fears.

Other times, when she seemed unaffected by our conversation, I’d pull away and let her process things on her own, allowing her energy to subside naturally. I’d retreat downstairs and wait for silence, checking on her periodically. Sometimes I’d leave a pill on the table—quetiapine, an antipsychotic that helped her rest. This medication has been a savior.

Mom had been on some form of medication for as long as I could remember. I used to joke that she had a subscription to meds rather than a prescription. Taking pills was part of her normal routine—except during deep dark mode, when I had to wait until she calmed down on her own terms.

***

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I remember lying on the twin-sized bed in the basement, weighing the predicament I had put myself in. What was I doing to myself? Was this pride—a self-proclaimed act of filial duty to elevate myself in the eyes of others? Or was it stupidity—a self-imposed prison sentence with no release date?

Many nights I wanted to escape from everything I had walked into willingly. But there was nowhere to go. No way back to Hong Kong. My mom needed me, even as she wore her motherly arrogance like armor. To this day, she reminds me how I didn’t buy a house in Hong Kong, how I could have made a mint. “你好蠢,” she says. “You are so stupid.” This persisted for years. It used to hurt. Now it just stings a little.

Stepping into the unknown isn’t new to me. I’ve walked into the void several times, and almost always, those leaps have turned out rewarding. Perhaps the unknown is in the DNA of artists, of creators. My abstract expressionist paintings are proof: I never know what will happen, how they’ll turn out. Will it be good or bad? Is it worth the risk?

But this move was a larger gamble than any painting. This was radical—10,853 km away—a shift that would upend every aspect of my life. Career, friendships, place, future hopes and dreams. Everything.

All those potentialities I felt I had yet to accomplish seemed suddenly out of reach, torn from my inner vision board. I lay awake while Mom’s TV blared upstairs. There was nothing to do but deal with what was at hand. So I focused my energy there and pushed aside my own desires. I was no longer the center of my own life. Mom and her wellbeing were.

First, I needed to get her health back. One of the main reasons for the move was a video call with Mom and my siblings. She looked aghast—eyes sunken and sullen. Her words made no sense. She repeated phrases, circled back to things we’d already discussed and cleared. To me, she looked desperately sick. It frightened me. At the time, no one knew she had Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia.

So I started with what I could control: getting her health back to par. I learned to cook meals that satisfied her taste buds while being as nutritious as possible. I scoured YouTube for Chinese dishes that mimicked my dad’s cooking (more on him later). I already had a foundation—years of watching Dad prepare meals in the cafe. My intuition was spot on. Several times, Mom complimented my cooking and said I should become a chef.

“No,” I told her. “I cook for you.”

***

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When I stepped into the role of caregiver for my aging mother, I had no idea what I would be facing. After dodging the move several times, it wasn’t until 2021 that I realized I could no longer postpone the inevitable—I had to return to Canada. It was one of the most difficult decisions I had ever faced, but deep within, I knew it was the right thing to do.

I moved to Hong Kong in late 1994. I started working as an architect shortly after arrival and eventually ventured into my own business as a photographer, painter, and publisher. Along the way, I took on odd jobs—topless bartender, tarot card reader, and continuing education professor at Open University.

Twenty-seven years later, in 2021, I was selling all my studio and office furniture, packing files and paintings, boxing up my entire life to make the journey to the other side of the world. I was leaving Hong Kong, a city of 7 million that had defined my most productive years, for the small city of Saskatoon, Canada. Everything I had worked for and built came tumbling down in a matter of months. Nothing would ever be the same.

All my dreams of making a name for myself had happened in Hong Kong. So many good memories and experiences were made there—too many stories to share all at once, though I’ll divulge some in future writings. But it wasn’t just the place itself; it was the diverse people I connected with. They had an energy, a vibration I had never felt in Canada—an entrepreneurial spirit infused with genuine friendship. It drew countless people from all over the world. The city was a magnet for high-energy gatherings of the most creative and intellectual kind.

I built my life there with all my energy and heart, and the city and its people filled both my soul and my ego. I had never felt more alive or more certain that I was in the right place at the right time. Things fell into place miraculously.

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Mom made her way down to the basement, into my makeshift bedroom. She held out her hand and demanded, “Give it back.” I asked, “Give what back?” She replied sternly, “You know what you stole! Now give it back!” She accused me of stealing from her, claiming I had come back only to rob her of all her belongings. Apparently, she had misplaced her bank card, and since I was the only one living in her home, there was no other person who could have taken it.

She sat on the bed, and strangely, her behavior shifted from anger to helplessness. She began to cry, tears welling up as she sobbed, “No one loves me, except your father.” I told her, “Mom, there are a lot of people who love you. We all love you—the whole family.” She wouldn’t accept my words; it was futile trying to convince her otherwise. All I could do was sit and talk with her. It was as if I wasn’t there. She didn’t look up at me when she spoke. Her gaze was turned inward, eyes glazed and unseeing, as though she were speaking into an emptiness only she inhabited.

These erratic, strange, and disturbing episodes went on for months. I thought maybe she was just opposed to me moving in with her. I didn’t want to feel so unwelcome, even though I knew something was wrong with her. One afternoon, I suggested that I move out and find a place of my own. I thought at least I could stay close by, come to help cook, then leave. She would have her space and still have decent meals. She said resolutely that it would be okay for me to remain in the house; however, she made it clear that I was only to stay in the basement—the main floor was her domain. I kept to those conditions.

It wasn’t long after that my research on the internet suggested she might have dementia. I dove deep into trying to understand what it was and how to deal with someone displaying this kind of behaviour. I watched countless videos on YouTube and read posts on Reddit’s dementia subreddit. The stories from other caregivers were achingly familiar, their frustrations mirroring my own. Many situations were worse than my mother’s, and many caregivers were young—some in their early twenties. I felt so badly for them, having to face this at such an early age.

***

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I’ve been struggling to reintegrate into society and rebuild my career. When I compare my life now to what it was in Hong Kong, the contrast exhausts me. Hong Kong had an infectious entrepreneurial spirit that I embraced with tremendous enthusiasm—so much so that holiday breaks every few months became essential to avoid burnout. Networking was second nature there, and people were genuinely eager to help you succeed. It was exactly what I needed when I left Canada searching for my next chapter.

I never imagined I’d spend 27 years in Hong Kong. When I arrived in 1999, I planned to stay two years. That stretched to five, then longer as my love for the city and its people deepened. Those early years weren’t the pinnacle, though. It was only when I launched my own photography business that I truly came alive. That sense of independence reminded me of the brief taste I’d had as an architectural tour guide in Toronto—but this was different, fuller.

As a self-taught photographer, my first assignments were with HK Magazine. Serendipitously, my debut job was photographing bodybuilders, thanks to writer Reggie Ho’s recommendation to editor Stephen Freeman. To my surprise, my shot of a buffed bodybuilder landed on the cover the following week.

This opened doors to more cover stories and eventually to Sony Music, where I photographed Ricky Martin in concert. Press shoots for JLo, Rain, and Jamiroquai followed. This recognition was instrumental to my career—and fed my ego in ways I needed then. Looking back, I’m deeply grateful. I’d found my path, something that aligned with both my skills and passion.

Now I’m at another pivotal moment, one more challenging than before because my return to Canada felt imposed rather than chosen. These past few years of caregiving and adapting to a new environment have been long and stressful. My connections to Hong Kong feel distant and fragile. Psychologically, I feel hollowed out—like skin without muscle, without soul. I need a vision for this next stage and a way to get there.

Wouldn’t life be easier with a spelled-out plan and map? I know the answer is no—there’d be nothing to aim for, nothing to evolve into. But why does it have to hurt this much?

***

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Have you ever wanted to be completely silent? To not utter a word to anyone, to witness the world around you without the noise of conversation? I have.

I learned about Vipassana—a practice where small groups gather to intentionally maintain in silence for ten days. According to accounts I’ve found on YouTube, it’s both liberating and exceedingly difficult, requiring enormous mental willpower. I never tried it myself, though there were retreats in Hong Kong when I lived there. Work always kept me away, but friends who’d experienced it firsthand encouraged me to go.

Now that I’m back in Canada, going through a period of contemplation and physical discomfort (which I’ll explore in another post), I often feel no desire to speak at all—to simply carry on my day in silence. I wonder if this is a form of shutting myself off from the world. Perhaps this is how I’m processing the overwhelm of the past few years.

To combat the stress of being a full-time caregiver, I practised yoga consistently—sessions from YouTube, usually 30 to 40 minutes, followed by 10 to 20 minutes of guided meditation. I did this in a small basement room at my mom’s home, my own little sanctuary. The videos played quietly. I kept the door open to listen for any bumps or mishaps upstairs.

My mother had very poor hearing and kept the TV volume cranked up. She refused hearing aids, and I struggled to sleep. She also kept erratic hours—sometimes going to bed at 5 a.m. and waking in the early afternoon.

When Mom moved into the care home, I was suddenly surrounded by silence. After years of loud constant noise from the TV, the quiet became painful. I fell into a state of loss and mild depression, recognizing that her move signaled the next stage of deterioration—physical, especially.

Months have passed. I’ve finally adopted the silence this home offers. I converted Mom’s bedroom into an office—I couldn’t imagine using it as my own bedroom. The room has slowly morphed into something else with bookshelves, my computer and several printers, and this is where I’m typing from now. I hear only the central heating and the whir of the air filter.

It is good.

***

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In my previous post, I mentioned David Whyte’s poem “Lost,” where he emphasizes the wisdom of standing still when you’re lost in the forest. The trees are never lost—you are in their domain, their territory, their ground. This resonates deeply with my understanding of Taoist philosophy. The Tao Te Ching opens with a profound line: “The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” It suggests that silence is woven into the very essence of who we are, and that perhaps there is wisdom in the silence itself.

But putting this into practice? That’s never easy.

In real life, silence is rare. Our days are filled with constant movement and noise. When was the last time you came to the end of your workday and simply sat in peace—with literally nothing to do, nothing to prepare, nothing to organize, and no urge to reach for your phone or turn on the TV? I’m the first to admit how easy it is to automatically pick up my phone and scroll through social media. Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Reddit—they all draw our attention outward. We think we’re gaining something, but mostly we’re just giving away our time to screens, adding little true value to our well-being. It all ends up as noise, cluttering the mind.

So I’ve decided to test the waters for myself.

You see, I’m confronted with my second great unknown. The first was moving to Canada from Hong Kong to care for my mom. Now it’s this: reintegrating myself back into society and commerce, establishing my sense of place within those parameters. This displacement only made itself fully known this year, even though I moved back in 2021. Strange, isn’t it? When I made the move, I entered an alternate dimension—so alienated from my previous life in Hong Kong that only now has it hit me, face on. Bruised and blurred.

This documentation, this journal, is my attempt to sort through my mind. To put into words what I’m facing in my own rehabilitation of the psyche. Because somewhere along the way, I lost touch with who I was and couldn’t find meaning in what I was doing. This realization frightened me—because since 1999, my life’s pursuit had been rooted in art and beauty. As a photographer and painter, I pursued my career actively, with passion and purpose. It all seemed to fit together. And Hong Kong was the ideal place to make it happen.

But this sudden move back to Canada to care for my mom took something from me. The redirection, the shift in mindset, the reconditioning of my priorities—what I once felt was important—has left me both bitter and disillusioned. I hope this journaling will help me find my way back to a path of creativity, while honoring all that I’ve learned and discovered along the way.

I’m still finding my way as I type this.

***

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Last night, I woke unexpectedly at 6 a.m., without any clear reason. Half-asleep yet restless, I got up and wandered into the living room and picked up my phone, a habit routine I still haven’t broken. Without thinking much of it, I tapped open Instagram. Almost immediately, a video appeared: a well-dressed Caucasian man, someone unfamiliar to me, speaking with a measured cadence that was both peculiar and captivating. His words flowed with calm authority as he announced that the poem he was about to recite had been inspired by an elder—an Indigenous person. My curiosity sharpened, and I kept watching.

Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside you 
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows 
Where you are. You must let it find you.

The speaker was David Whyte, a poet and philosopher known for exploring the inner landscapes of emotion, relationship, and the human spirit. In the clip, he remarked that you know you are on the right path when the path disappears. It’s a haunting idea—one that seems to challenge the pragmatic, efficiency-driven mindset of modern life. Society prizes what can be measured, predicted, and optimized. Yet Whyte reminds us that some of life’s most meaningful journeys resist definition.

Lately, I’ve found myself living in that very uncertain space. Moving back to Canada and becoming a full-time caregiver for my mother was never going to be easy. It meant leaving behind the familiar pace of Hong Kong and stepping into something undefined. For three and a half years, I cooked meals, drove her to appointments, and learned with great difficulty—how to communicate with someone living with mixed dementia.

Now, with my mom in a care home, I’ve been confronting a new uncertainty, one that required the practicality of dealing with clearing and sorting out my mother’s home and belongings, and the other of trying to find my way back into my own needs and desires in a new environment.

***

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