On the plane to Korea, hoping to make it just in time for my dad’s funeral, I had more thoughts than I knew what to do with. I’m someone who tends to replay things over and over in my head – rehashing conversations, dissecting every word, thinking about what I said or what I should have said. But this time was different. Despite everything going through my mind, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so clear about what I wanted to say.

A few days before my dad passed, I saw a baby deer lying on the road, severely injured, as I was dropping my son off at school. An older deer was nearby, staying close despite the oncoming traffic. It looked torn, as though it knew it was in danger but couldn’t bring itself to leave the baby’s side. I remember feeling completely heartbroken. For some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d seen. The image stayed with me, weighing heavily on my heart in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

Not long after, I came across something about the movie Interstellar on my phone, where something that initially seems inexplicable eventually reveals itself as a message you couldn’t have understood at the time. Then, just a couple of days later, my mom called, and my mind immediately went back to that scene where communication somehow reaches across time. I remember bracing myself, but nothing prepares you for an unexpected death. Just two months ago, I waved goodbye to my dad in Korea saying I’ll see him next year.  

Still in shock and unable to process what had happened, I hadn’t yet found the words to tell my six-year-old son, Tyler, that his grandfather had passed away. I knew it was a conversation I would have to have when I returned from Korea, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine how. Before leaving for the airport, I asked Tyler to bring me a book to read. Of all the books he could have chosen, he brought me one with an image of a deer with branches growing from it. I couldn’t stop looking at it. After everything – the deer I had seen on the road, my thoughts about Interstellar, and now losing my dad it felt like more than just a coincidence.

I’ve always believed in signs, even if I don’t always know what to make of them. Maybe someday I’ll understand these moments differently. But right now, I want to believe there was something in that image meant for me. That death isn’t only an ending. That something can continue, and something can grow from a life even after that person is gone. That the love, memories, and everything that has passed on to the people they loved don’t simply disappear. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to hold onto about my dad. Although his life has ended, what grew from his life is still here. Even Tyler’s name carries a piece of that. His name comes from my maiden name, Tai, because I always wanted him to carry a part of where I came from. And now, more than ever, that connection means something to me.

I couldn’t help but think back on everything that had happened in the days and weeks leading up to my dad’s passing. Suddenly, so many little things seemed to carry a different meaning. This month alone, I happened to be planning two father-daughter trips. One was for a father traveling with his daughter, now a young adult finding her own way in the world. The other was for a daughter planning a trip with her father, who had been recovering from cancer, choosing to make memories now rather than assuming there would always be a later. Two fathers. Two daughters. Two very different moments along the same spectrum of life.

I spend my days planning trips around people’s lives and my clients inevitably tell me why they’re traveling. An anniversary. A graduation, A new beginning. A loss. A celebration. A period of self-discovery. They trust me with incredible personal pieces of their lives so that I can create something meaningful around them. It only feels right that I share a piece of mine too. 

I recently attended a book talk with John Grisham and Danny Meyer for the launch of Meyer’s second book, What Could Possibly Go Right? Grisham was one of my dad’s favorite authors, and his books were something I often gifted him over the years. Meyer, on the other hand, had been influential in shaping my own career. Both had played a big part in our lives, in different ways. I got my dad a signed book that evening and texted him to tell him about it. I didn’t know then that it would be the last text I’d ever send him. At the time, I thought I would be bringing home something special for him. Now, all I can think about is how much I wish I’d brought him there with me instead.

And then there was The Imaginary Invalid, a Broadway play I went to see just a couple of days later. It’s a comedy about a man so consumed by his fear of illness and death that he loses sight of the life happening around him. At its heart, it’s also a story about a father and daughter, and the things we try so hard to control. Looking back, I find it striking that I encountered so many stories about fathers and daughters in the days leading up to losing my own. Now, as I try to understand what those moments meant to me, I’m also trying to make sense of our relationship, which was far from simple.

My relationship with my dad wasn’t always easy. My dad was complicated, and our relationship had its share of challenges. He spent more than 30 years working for one of South Korea’s largest conglomerates. He came from a generation where working hard to provide for your family often meant having very little time to actually spend with them. And when I was sent to the States at a young age so I could have opportunities I might not have had in Korea, the physical distance made it even harder for us to build the kind of relationship I sometimes wished we’d had. Work was such a big part of his life and identity that when he retired, I think he struggled to figure out who he was without it. There were things we didn’t always see eye to eye on, and parts of him I don’t think I ever fully understood. I loved my dad, but I also know that love doesn’t erase the difficult parts of a relationship. And losing someone doesn’t suddenly make those feelings any less complicated. Love, frustration, gratitude, regret. I’ve come to realize how easily all of those feelings can exist at once. And how much harder it becomes to sort through them when the person you wish you could talk to is no longer here.

Three years ago, I made one of the biggest changes in my life and started my own business. It wasn’t something I had ever envisioned for myself, but I’ve often figured out what I wanted by recognizing what I didn’t. As I looked at the path ahead of me, I found myself thinking less about where it might lead and more about whether it was one I still wanted to be on. That change gave me something I hadn’t even realized I was missing. Space. Space to work at my own pace. Space to rediscover old hobbies like reading and to try things I might never have made time for, like tennis. Space to surround myself with people I genuinely love being around. Space to work with clients who value what I bring to their lives, and to create moments I hope they’ll remember forever. I don’t take any of that for granted. But sitting on the plane to Korea, I realized that this change had given me something else, too. It gave me enough space to notice. Had my life still been moving at the speed it once was, I don’t know whether I would have had the bandwidth to sit with any of these moments. The deer. The book. The trips. The play. Or to recognize the thread running between them. And maybe that’s also what I’ve always loved about travel. Travel takes you out of the familiar environment where you’ve learned to move through your days without really looking. Suddenly, everything is unfamiliar enough that you start paying attention. You look out the window. You notice what people are saying. You taste something you’ve never tried before. You take the long way somewhere. You look at yourself, your child, your parents, or your partner a little differently because, for a few days, you’re actually present. Perhaps that’s what I’ve been trying to give my clients all along without fully realizing it. Not simply trips. Space to notice their lives. Since sharing the news about my dad, I’ve heard from those who picked up the phone just to hear their parents’ voices. Another decided to join a family trip, finding a way to make it work despite a busy schedule. If sharing my story encourages even a few people to make that call, take that trip, or spend a little more time with someone they love, then perhaps something of my dad’s life will have reached beyond our own.

And while it means so much to know that sharing my story has encouraged others to make time for the people they love, I’m still trying to figure out how to navigate this loss myself. I think one of the strangest things about losing someone is realizing that the world just keeps moving. Life continues much as it did before, except something fundamental has changed. I haven’t felt a loss like this before. When my grandfather passed away from cancer, I had time to prepare. Time to ask the questions I might never have asked, or to say the things I might otherwise have assumed I’d have more time to say. With my dad, I didn’t have that chance. And I think that’s what makes this loss so difficult to process.

Since his passing, I’ve found myself thinking about all the little things I wish I’d done differently. Why didn’t I have a recording of his voice? Why didn’t I take him up on those golf lessons? Why didn’t I call him more often? And lately, I’ve been catching glimpses of him in strangers. I’ll see someone in a crowd and, for a split second, swear it’s my dad. Then I realize it isn’t. It’s as though my mind hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that he’s gone. I know it’s impossible to live without regrets. There will always be things we wish we’d said or done. But maybe the point is to try to have fewer of them. To make time for the people and things that matter while we still have the chance, rather than assuming there will always be another opportunity. And perhaps that’s what I keep coming back to when I think about the play. We spend so much of our lives trying to plan for the future, assuming we’ll always have more time. But we can’t control what comes next. All we can really do is be present for the life that’s happening now. 

Grief doesn’t give us the chance to go back. It leaves us with what remains. His words. His habits. The things he taught me intentionally and the things I absorbed without even realizing it. The good and the bad. The ways he shaped me, and the ways those parts of him will continue through Tyler. During his retirement, my dad spent a lot of time drawing, and Tyler was one of his favorite subjects. I’d often tease him about whether the little boy in his drawings was really my son, but now those pictures mean more to me than I can put into words. He also wrote a book, 산사 가는 길 (The Road to a Mountain Temple) , drawing on Buddhist teachings to reflect on life, death, and the search for inner peace. He wanted to offer words of comfort and guidance to a younger generation navigating a world that can feel increasingly overwhelming. Reading it now, I’m struck by how much of it speaks to the very things I’ve been thinking about. He writes about finding meaning beyond work and achievement, learning to slow down, and asking ourselves what really matters. I wonder whether writing it was also part of his own search for meaning after retirement. Perhaps he was seeking solace in words, and now, as I write this tribute to him, I find myself doing the same. I am my father’s daughter.

At his funeral, it was mentioned that my dad had been close to finishing his second book. But when I looked on his computer, I found that he had completed the manuscript. I knew he was working on another book, but what I hadn’t realized was that 죽음과 이별 (Death and Parting) was devoted entirely to death, grief, and the experience of those left behind. One of the last emails he sent was about getting this very book published. He wrote about the shock of an unexpected goodbye. The last conversations we replay in our minds. The questions we ask ourselves about what we could have done differently. The strange realization that the world keeps moving when yours has stopped. The regrets, the guilt, and the struggle to understand how to continue living without someone you love. These were the very thoughts I’d been having, the very feelings I’d been trying to put into words. And somehow, my dad had already written about all of them. When I read his closing reflections, I got chills. Here I was, trying to make sense of losing him, and there he was, having written about the very thing I was struggling to understand. His words didn’t offer easy answers. They acknowledged the uncertainty, the pain, and the idea that moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting. It almost felt as though he were speaking directly to me. As if, without knowing it, he’d left behind the very words I would need when he was gone. If this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is.

I keep coming back to that image of the deer with branches growing from it. The idea that even when a life ends, something of it continues to grow. A close friend told me that deers are believed to be spiritual messengers, symbols of love, protection, and renewal. I hadn’t known that when these moments happened. I still don’t know exactly what to make of it all, but somehow, knowing that has brought me a little comfort. Will there ever be closure? I honestly don’t know. Maybe those signs will eventually bring me closer to finding some peace. Perhaps writing this tribute is part of that, too. A way of making sense of what I’ve lost while recognizing everything that remains, and how those pieces of him will continue to grow and take on new meaning. I keep thinking about all these moments and how differently I see them now. Losing my dad has changed the way I look at so many things. I’m still trying to make sense of it all, and I imagine I will be for a long time. But if there’s one thing I want to carry forward, it’s to pay closer attention. To the people around me. To the little moments. To the ordinary days I thought we’d have more of. To the things I might otherwise have overlooked. There are always signs. Always. And I hope you make enough space in your life to see them, too.

The Light Has Gone Out, but the Path Remains

The light went out.

Without warning. Without explanation.

The light we had relied upon disappeared, and darkness filled the room in an instant.

In that moment, we could see nothing.

Not what lay ahead, not what lay behind us, not even where to take our next step.

But as time passed, and we grew a little more accustomed to the darkness, we gradually came to understand something.

Although the light had gone out, the path itself had not disappeared.

The path was still there. We simply had to learn to walk it differently.

This book was never meant to guide you along that path.

It did not tell you where to go or how far you needed to travel.

It sought only to offer, quietly, the reassurance that you are not alone in the darkness.

This book does not tell you that death is not the end, nor does it promise that everything will soon be okay.

Sometimes, those words come too quickly and feel too easy.

Instead, what this book hopes to say is this:

You can keep living even when you’re not okay.

You can take another step, even without the light.

And if you’ve made it through today, that alone is enough.

Life after the light goes out is not the same as before.

But just because life is different does not mean it has lost its meaning.

Perhaps it is within that very darkness that life takes on a different depth.

More carefully.

More truthfully.

More humanly.

If, as you close this book, you are still surrounded by darkness, that is okay.

Even if you cannot see it now, the path remains.

And that path has already begun, right where you are standing.

The light has gone out, but life has not ended.

You are still breathing, and each breath you take creates the next step forward.

For today, simply having made it this far is enough.

The path remains.

And you are already standing upon it.

— The End —

맺음의 글

불은 꺼졌지만, 길은 남아 있다

불은 꺼졌다.

예고 없이,설명도 없이.

우리가 의지하던 빛은 사라졌고,어둠은 한순간에 방 안을 채웠다.

그때 우리는아무것도 볼 수 없었다.

앞도, 뒤도,다음 발걸음도 알 수 없었다.

그러나 시간이 지나어둠 속에 조금 익숙해졌을 때,비로소 알게 된다.

불은 꺼졌지만길까지 사라진 것은 아니라는 사실을.

길은 여전히 그 자리에 있었다.다만 이전과 다른 방식으로걸어야 했을 뿐이다.

이 책은그 길을 안내하려 하지 않았다.

어디로 가야 하는지도,얼마나 가야 하는지도 말하지 않았다.

다만 어둠 속에서혼자가 아니라는 감각만을조용히 건네고자 했다.

죽음은 끝이 아니라는 말도,곧 괜찮아질 거라는 말도이 책은 하지 않는다.

그 말들은 때때로너무 빠르고,너무 가볍기 때문이다.

대신 이 책은이렇게 말하고 싶었다.

괜찮지 않아도살아갈 수 있다고.

빛이 없어도한 걸음은 내딛을 수 있다고.

오늘 하루를 버텼다면그것으로 충분하다고.

불이 꺼진 뒤의 삶은이전과 같지 않다.

그러나 다르다고 해서의미가 사라지는 것은 아니다.

오히려 그 어둠 속에서삶은 다른 깊이를 얻는다.

더 조심스럽게,더 진실하게,더 인간답게.

당신이 이 책을 덮는 지금,여전히 어둠 속에 있다면괜찮다.

지금은 보이지 않아도길은 남아 있다.

그리고 그 길은당신이 지금 서 있는 자리에서이미 시작되고 있다.

불은 꺼졌지만,삶은 끝나지 않았다.

당신은 여전히숨 쉬고 있고,그 숨 하나하나가다음 걸음을 만든다.

오늘은 그저여기까지 와 준 것만으로도 충분하다.

길은 남아 있다.

그리고 당신은이미 그 위에 서 있다.

— 끝 —