Can This Moment Stay Forever?

I’m walking alone with Loki tonight. It’s Father’s Day. The date is simple: 15th of June, 2025. But something about it feels heavier than usual. I’m 38 years old now, which means I’ve spent 38 Father’s Days with my dad. Somehow, the symmetry makes time feel more fragile. How many more do we get? I don’t know. But I know today is one of them. And I don’t want to take it for granted.

We don’t talk much, my father and I. That’s always been the case. Neither of us are wordy men. We never sat down for long heart-to-hearts. We never wrote cards. But silence has its own language. And I think I’ve spent 38 years slowly learning how to read his.

The Man Who Showed Up Silently, Consistently

When I think of my father, I don’t think of a single dramatic moment. I think of something much harder to hold. I think of ten years of school pickups. Always on time. Always patient. Always with cut fruit in the car. That’s not something you do for praise. That’s something you do because love is a rhythm, not an announcement. He was just always there.

He raised three children without ever making us feel like a burden. I don’t remember him yelling. I don’t remember him rushing. I just remember that he waited. Whether it was school or tuition or some errand my mother needed done, he waited. He didn’t complain. He didn’t compare. He just served.

And he loved my mother in a way that still humbles me. My mom can be intense. She knows what she wants, and she wants it her way. I know this because I carry the same fire. I’ve hurt my own wife more than once with that stubbornness. But my dad never fought that fire with fire. He absorbed it. He adjusted. He stood in the middle of all our family’s noise and somehow became the quiet that held it together.

He didn’t talk about love. But he lived it.

There’s one image that stays with me, especially as I’ve grown older and thought about what marriage really means. I picture him standing beside my mother, not during a holiday or a celebration, but in the daily grind. I picture him choosing to stay. Choosing to soften. Choosing to love, even when it wasn’t reciprocated. Not because it felt good. But because it was right.

He taught me that love isn’t something you feel. It’s something you give. And you give it even when nothing is given back. You give it when beauty fades, when health declines, when emotions run dry. If one day my wife is sick and can no longer speak or smile or give back, would I still love her? If the answer is yes, and I pray it is, then maybe I’ve learned what he has been trying to show me all along.

What If Love Was Never Loud?

My father’s greatness was never in his job title. It was in the quiet decisions. He supported his siblings when they had nothing. Paid tuition for his younger brother to become an artist. Pulled the family out of a small town because he saw no future there. Moved them to KL. Gave them a shot at something better. He didn’t just provide. He lifted.

And he did it without demanding credit. That’s the part that really stays with me. In a world where so many men chase recognition, he chased responsibility. He could have done more, earned more, shouted louder. But he didn’t. He chose peace. He chose enough.

He never touched alcohol. Never gambled. Never got addicted to anything that would pull him away from us. He always encouraged me to work out, to stay healthy, to be responsible for my body. I set fitness goals now, but the seed of that discipline didn’t come from me. It came from him. From the way he showed me that health is a form of stewardship, not vanity.

Even his hobbies are simple. He enjoys groceries. Hardware stores. The joy he gets from buying small things and organizing his space is almost sacred. His handwriting is still the neatest I’ve ever seen. He lives with a quiet order that makes chaos feel unnecessary. People call him lazy. I disagree. I think he’s wise. He looks for low effort, high impact. He understands leverage, not in finance, but in life.

Every Chinese New Year, my mom would feel hurt because relatives would give smaller ang pao to our family. The assumption was that we were better off, so we deserved less. My mom would feel it deeply. But my dad never fought back. He just changed the narrative. He said, if this is upsetting, let’s stop the visits. Let’s take family trips instead. That’s what we did. Every Chinese New Year, we created memories, not through tradition, but through presence.

That’s how he loved. He didn’t try to change people. He just protected the peace. And in doing so, he protected us.

From Gratitude to Generation

He was a filial son too. Paid off my grandfather’s debts. Took care of grandma’s medical expenses for years. He never saw it as a burden. Just part of the role. A role he never asked for, but carried anyway.

And now, I see the weight of that role in my own life.

Today, I spent time with my son Ian. I celebrated with my father-in-law. I bought fish with my wife. I met with a staff who had resigned, expecting to talk about work but ending up talking about marriage. And then, finally, I sat with my dad again. All of it felt connected. All of it felt like a quiet passing of the baton.

What struck me most from that conversation with my staff wasn’t the frustration about work. It was the pain in her marriage. The unresolved hurt. The desire to build a family without knowing how. That’s when it hit me. This isn’t just about leadership. It’s about legacy. And legacy always begins at home.

Mental health is important. Community is important. But at the root of it all is family. If the family system breaks, everything downstream will eventually break too. So many things today are fake. Pornography as fake intimacy. Luxury as fake satisfaction. Fast food as fake nutrition. Social media as fake connection. Alcohol as fake confidence. Even video games offer fake achievement.

We’re swimming in a culture of illusions. And the only antidote is something real.

My father is real.

And if I want to build something meaningful, it has to start there. With quiet consistency. With forgiveness. With the choice to stay when it’s hard, not because it’s easy, but because love is a choice you keep making.

This life I have, it wasn’t earned. It was given. I didn’t build the foundation. I inherited it. And now it’s my turn to steward it. Not just for myself. But for my children, for my team, for the community we’re raising through Stellar.

Legacy isn’t just about what we leave behind. It’s about what we carry forward.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The strongest men do not dominate the room. They hold it together.

The most radical love is not romantic. It is repetitive.

The greatest legacy is not always chosen. It is carried.

I didn’t earn this life. I received it. And now I must multiply it. That is the reluctant legacy I carry. Not asked for. Not expected. But undeniably mine to live, protect, and pass on.

To the father who never needed to be loud, thank you for showing me how to live with quiet power.