The Quietest Answer to the Loudest Question of My Life — And, Most Likely, Yours, Too

7 min readMay 12, 2025

I’m now 41, and recently, attending a funeral reminded me of how I would measure my life and how I want to live the rest of it.

This past Wednesday, I went to a funeral mass for the previous owner of my home, who had passed away at the age of 95. I had never met her, but I had walked through the rooms she once called her own. Her name was Rosie (name changed). It was the first Catholic mass I had ever attended since coming to America. Back in Asia, funerals are held differently.

The moment I stepped inside the church, I was struck by its grandeur — the silence, the wooden ceiling, the light filtering through high stained-glass windows. We were handed a small program booklet and a little card with a photo of a beach sunset on one side and a quote on the other. The moment I saw the image, I knew who had chosen it: Rosie’s beloved daughter, Laura. When visiting our home a few years ago, Laura said, “My mom loves the sunset, and I always take photos of the sunset and send them to her.”

As the ceremony unfolded, I quietly followed the pastor’s guidance and the gentle cues of the two neighbors seated beside me. Then Laura stepped forward to speak. She stood next to the altar, surrounded by potted spring flowers, and began sharing memories of her mother.

“My mom traveled. At 20, she had already visited several countries in Europe. She played tennis. She sang — she was very musical. She cooked. She made friends easily. She studied education and later got a job that allowed her to travel. That’s how I remember my mom.”

Laura’s voice softened as she told the story of her mother’s last moments. She had flown in from overseas to visit Rosie at her nursing home. That day, she sat beside her, recounting silly stories from her childhood.

“As I talked,” Laura said, “my mom smiled.”

She paused and used her fingers to trace the shape of that smile. Even at 95, as memories faded, Rosie still remembered her daughter’s childhood.

“Then I stepped out to get the nurse… and when I returned, she had gone to sleep forever. I was there with her, in her final moments — and I got to let her go in her own way.”

The days leading up to the funeral, something I’d been pursuing hadn’t unfolded the way I’d imagined. I was feeling low — disappointed in falling short of my own expectations. And these words from Laura struck something deep in me. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I let them roll down freely, thinking , “After all, this is what truly matters. This.”

Two quiet questions rose within me:

Who will one day stand and speak about me?

How will I be remembered?

Then, I thought of nine years ago, when I made a bold decision: I quit my job. I’d always been an achiever. I’d chased goals, conquered challenges, and built a life many would call “successful”. I’d always tried my best to prove that I’m worthy. But I was working in an environment where my core values — respect, balance, and authenticity — were crossed out. My deep desire to be a loving, present mom felt almost subversive.

So I left.

I wanted to rebuild a life that felt successful from the inside out. It’s a life where I could have time with my children, live my passion and purpose, tap into my gifts fully, and lead from my joy, creativity, and wholeness — what I now call my Happiness Infinity® Zone.

It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been the most meaningful journey of my life. I’ve come to see that real success isn’t about achieving more or climbing higher. It’s about coming home to yourself and choosing to spend time on what may not bring me immediate praise or external rewards, but matters to me deeply and quietly nourishes my soul. Achievements are still important to me — but never at the cost of my joy and presence. I’ve simply stopped believing that worth must be proven through hustle and exhaustion.

Over the years, I’ve been supporting women — especially mothers — from all over the world to help them uplevel authentic happiness in both work and life. This work is invisible, quiet and unglamorous. There is no fancy title. But when I see a mom emerge from what one client called “a tunnel” and begin to enjoy her career, motherhood and a happier marriage, my heart sings. I’ve also nurtured my love for writing — crafting middle grade fiction and children’s picture books. This work, too, is quiet. There’re no awards to show for it. But when my kids and their friends keep turn the pages with joy, and when I see the sparkle in my daughter’s eyes, I feel at peace.

And yet — let me be honest. It’s been nearly a decade since I began training my brain to rewire old patterns, but sometimes, they still resurface. They’re rooted in my Enneagram 3 wing 2 wiring, the Achiever who helps. Though less frequent and softer now, these deeply wired patterns still work in the shadows and find their way in: when I face rejection, when I’ve worked so hard for something… and it doesn’t land, when the response is not what I hoped for. That’s when the old voice creeps in:

You’re not doing enough. You haven’t arrived. You need to prove more. Be more.

But Laura’s words for her mother shifted something in me. Rosie didn’t leave behind a long list of accolades or a public legacy. She wasn’t widely known, only to her family, friends and loved ones. She was just another ordinary being on this earth, but a beautiful one, who left behind a daughter who adored her, grandchildren who cherished her, friends and a community that remembered her smile and friendship. She imprinted on this earth a life filled with music, friendship, travel, love and a career reflecting her gifts and passion. And she left it in peace, surrounded by love and feeling enough.

That is a legacy. That is a life well lived. That is how a life’s measured.

Yet the disappointment in that work project still lingered — I hadn’t made peace with the outcome.

Two days later, my daughter came home from school, eyes gleaming. “Close your eyes, Mom,” she said. When I opened them, she placed a handmade Mother’s Day card into my hands.

Inside, she wrote:

“I think you’re cool, nice, fun, smart, creative, playful, and very fearless.”

“All about you: Likes to read. Amazing writer. Cool, smart, and kind. Loves nature.”

“Thank you for being you.”

“I love you because you’re my mom.”

Another page said:

If you were a genre, you would be: fiction.

If you were a drink, you would be: green tea latte.

If you were a car, you would be: old fashion car or Buggati.

If you were a chocolate, you would be: Venchi.

If you were a season, you would be: autumn or spring.

If you were a color, you would be: purple or pink.

If you were a fruit, you would be: a kiwi.

Reading her words, something inside me softened again. If I”m to measure my life the way Rosie’s life was measured, then I’m already enough. I once more realized that I don’t want to be remembered for how busy I was, how many tasks I juggled, how many people I pleased, or how impressive I looked on paper. I want to be remembered for how fully I lived, for how deeply I loved, for the bedtime stories and snuggles, for the laughter in the kitchen, for the women whose lives I shifted, for the quiet moments I chose to cherish instead of rush through, and for the kind of woman — and mother — I chose to be.

I hugged my daughter and told her that it was the best Mother’s Day gift I’d ever received. Because it was more than a gift. It was an answer.

How do I measure my life as a mom?

With love, not metrics.

With peace, not pressure.

With presence, not perfection.

Achievements, to me, are still important, but never at the cost of my joy.

And then, quietly, a new kind of commitment stirred in me, quiet but clear: To not stretch my energy thin, to stop saying yes to everything, to stop chasing what doesn’t nourish me, to instead say yes — to my kids, my husband, and loved ones, to my writing, to the women who really see the unique values and deep passion I bring in my work, and to my soul that longs, always, for peace.

That is how I now choose to measure my life — as a mom, and as myself.

P. S. A few moments of this ordinary yet beautiful life.