There are moments when life stops you mid-sentence — when the things you thought mattered most suddenly fall away, and all that’s left is love.
Hi babes — it’s been a while. I’ve been struggling to find words to say, and honestly, to figure out if I should even speak about this publicly. Fighting between my responsibilities and my heart. But after I’ve had a moment to clear my mind, I felt like it’s the right thing to do — so that maybe these words, these moments, can find the right people who need to hear them, or maybe comfort someone who’s going through the same thing.
It’s been a month since I’ve posted. Not because I ran out of inspiration, but because my world got very quiet. My days have been spent in hospital rooms, holding my mom’s hand, listening to the sound of machines, counting breaths, praying for small miracles, and learning that love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s in the waiting. Sometimes it’s in the strength to keep showing up even when you’re scared. In those moments, nothing else matters — not deadlines, not numbers, not even music. Just family.
There are certain moments when life — not so peacefully — reminds you that control is an illusion.
I’ve spent most of my life creating — through music, visuals, words. But this season stripped everything back to something painfully human. No lights, no deadlines, no perfection — just love, fear, and faith sitting side by side. For someone who was raised on structure, to plan and execute — this in-between, the waiting, the lack of control I have over the outcome — has humbled me back to faith, and shown me the strength of my family.
Right now, in this moment, curled up on a recliner they give to family members staying the night, I’m looking at my mom. Tubes and wires everywhere. ICU nurses coming in every few minutes to adjust machines when they start beeping again. I find myself looking up healing songs and hertz frequencies to queue up next. Maybe I’m just trying to find a way to be helpful in something I’m so helpless in.
October 5th, 2025 — 2:30 A.M.
I looked down at my phone and saw a missed call from my dad. Thinking back on that moment, it was almost as if I knew… that something bad had happened. I just never braced myself to hear the ER doctor say:
“Your mom came into the ER and became unresponsive. She experienced a ruptured brain aneurysm. I’m so sorry. She has no brain function. We’re transporting her to a neurological hospital.”
“…She’s what?”
Silence. You know that scene in a movie where everything slows down — words start sounding muffled, low, incomprehensible? That’s exactly what happened in this moment.
I don’t think I was even making sense as I called my little brother, frantically telling him to bring me a jacket and rush out the door. That entire car ride, all we could do was pray. I couldn’t understand what they meant by “no brain function” or “ruptured aneurysm.” All I knew was that my mom is a fighter — and no matter what that doctor said, she would fight for us. Cars on the highway seemed to stand still as I weaved around them, my heart and soul already next to my mom while my body fought to catch up.
When we pulled into the hospital and saw my dad standing there, I couldn’t tell if he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation or if he was putting on a brave face for his two children who stumbled out of the car and into his arms.
If you’ve ever been to a hospital, especially late at night, there’s something stark about it. As clean and perfectly organized as it is, the walls somehow hold onto the emotions of thousands of people who’ve walked through before you. The lobby was empty. I started panicking, wondering if we were even in the right place. Especially since my mom had been transported from another hospital. I gripped my Dad’s hand tighter as we followed the signs to security.
All I wanted was to get to my mom, and playing Maze Runner in a hospital was not on my agenda that morning. The guard was kind — he looked up her name several times until he found what unit she was in, then led us down hallways, across the courtyard, to the ICU.
As we stood in the dimly lit hallway, he pressed a button on a call box. A friendly voice asked for the patient’s name, and we gave it. Once again, we were told to wait while nurses got my mom situated in her room. I closed my eyes and held back sobs. After what felt like forever, that same voice came back through the intercom:
“You’re all clear to come in.”
We walked past glass doors and curtains until we finally reached her room.
It’s surreal — almost an out-of-body experience. Wires and tubes everywhere. The intubation tube made it hard to even recognize my mom’s face. The nurses said things like “she’s unresponsive… bleeding in the brain… breathing tube to help her breathe…” but my brain couldn’t process any of it.
As morning light filled the room, I grabbed my mom’s hand — my body finally reaching the destination my heart and soul had been chasing all night.
Maybe it was shock, or denial, or pure faith, but I refused to believe what they said: “brain dead.” I believed that no matter what, she could hear me — that she would fight, that she wouldn’t leave that easily. I believed love is the most powerful thing in the world, and that mine could bring her back to me.
I spoke in Thai, my voice cracking through tears: “Mommy, it’s Jamie. I’m here. Please fight. Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave us. Dad and Jonathan are here too. We’re all here… please.”
Her cold hand in mine suddenly squeezed. I looked up at her face — blink… blink. She opened her eyes.
The nurses froze in shock and ran to grab the doctor. She squeezed my hand again, looked at my brother, then at my dad. Her eyes were full of fear and confusion. She tried to talk, but the tube wouldn’t let her. We were rushed out of the room again. Disoriented, we wandered through the halls until we found a sitting area. All we could do was cry — waves of emotion too raw to swallow.
In moments like that, the mind replays everything. Missed calls. Things left unsaid. You start bargaining with memory, wishing you could go back. You play the blame game, asking why you didn’t see the signs. Why you couldn’t do more to help. Wondering when you’ll get to have a moment where you could talk again. To say all the things left unsaid. Hours pasted and we sat there in silence. 3 Charoen’s out of 4 — waiting for anyone to come speak to us.
I searched my phone for answers, trying to understand what was happening. Back in her room, all you could hear was the ventilator’s hum, the soft beeping of the EKG, and the rhythmic drip of medication.
The following day, she had two brain surgeries to save her life. The doctors explained the risks and complications, but we wouldn’t give up hope. We had to hold onto something — even if it was just a glimpse of having her be okay. I sat beside the woman who gave me life, praying for a miracle.
Days and nights began to blur together. This chair became my home — a place to watch the mix of spinal fluid and blood drain from her brain into a bag, to watch color slowly return to her face.
If you’ve been through something like this — you know it’s not linear. Progress and regression dance constantly. I’ve been learning to let go of control, to cherish every tiny win, and to be gentle with myself as she heals inch by inch.
My mom, my family — they’re my why.
She’s the reason I learned what resilience looks like, what sacrifice feels like, and what love truly means. Everything I’ve ever done — every song, every dream, every goal — comes from seeing her chase her dreams. Watching her fight every second right now, reminded me of that.
I grew up seeing love shown not only through words, but through effort. Through long hours, through scraped knees, through my parents dreams of achieving the American Dream.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always felt this deep need to make it all mean something.
To make the sacrifices worth it.
To turn pain into beauty, and fear into faith.
The truth is, my mind has been silent lately. I’ve been present. Sitting with what’s real. Holding onto cold hands, that used to hold me up when I was little. I never want anyone to think that I take my career for granted.. that I just finally release music after years of working then suddenly disappeared…but these moments made me realize that my definition of success means nothing, if the people I love aren’t okay.
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been — I’m still here. Just a little quieter, a little more human, a little closer to what matters.
If you’re going through something similar, you’re not alone. Healing from loss in any capacity is not linear. Lean on your friends and family. Voice your fears and pain. Give yourself grace, and allow yourself to heal as they do. Remember: you can’t show up for anyone if you’re falling apart yourself. Do mental health checks. Step outside for fresh air and sunshine. Try to sleep. I know how hard those small things can feel when you’re focused on someone else’s progress — but the last thing they need is for you to fall ill too.
For the Ones Who Are Caring
Caring for someone you love can break your heart and fill it at the same time. But even caregivers need care.
SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration): Offers free, confidential support lines (988) and mental-health resources for anyone feeling overwhelmed.
NAMI – Family Members & Caregivers: Community support and education for families navigating illness.
Mental Health America: Articles and self-check tools to help you recognize burnout and find balance again.
Caregiver Action Network: Real-life caregiver tips, online groups, and 24-hour support.
If you start noticing your body feels heavy, your sleep disappears, or you’ve stopped doing things that bring you light — that’s your cue to pause and ask for help. You can’t pour from an empty cup, even for someone you love.
For Those Searching for Answers
If you’re here because of a brain aneurysm — trying to make sense of words a doctor said too quickly — these are good places to start.
Brain Aneurysm Foundation: Clear explanations, survivor stories, and guidance on diagnosis and recovery.
Mayo Clinic: Detailed information on symptoms, scans (CT, MRI, MRA), and when screening is recommended.
Preventive Screening Review (National Library of Medicine): Helps you understand who should be screened, how often, and why.
Ask your doctor:
Do I have risk factors that make screening important?
What are my options if something is found?
What can I do to reduce my risk now?
Knowledge doesn’t erase fear, but it can turn it into action — and that’s powerful.
We aren’t out of the woods yet. My mom’s journey is still long, but we’ll be right here beside her — cheering her on, as she’s always done for us.
The world teaches us to move fast, to keep posting, to stay visible — but sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pause.
This silence isn’t an ending. It’s a reminder: the most beautiful things are often born in the in-between — in the moments when you’re just trying to find your way back to yourself.
If you’re one of the many who’ve messaged me asking for more music or wondering where I’ve been — I promise it will come. But for now, I’m letting this chapter breathe.
Because sometimes silence is part of the song.
To my friends and family who have endlessly shown up and continue to do so — thank you — for making some of the hardest moments in my life a little less lonely.
I love you,
— Jamie
Resources: For Hearts Learning How to Grieve
Grief isn’t linear. It’s not five neat stages — it’s waves. Some days you float; some days you can’t breathe. And that’s okay.
SAMHSA: Coping with Bereavement & Grief: National guide for finding grief counseling or crisis help.
GriefShare: Free 13-week support groups (online and in-person) to walk with you through loss.
Dougy Center: Grief resources for families and young adults.
If you’re grieving while your loved one is still fighting, that’s called anticipatory grief — and it’s real too. Talk about it. Write about it. Sit outside for five minutes and let the sun hit your face. Healing isn’t loud; sometimes it’s the quiet moments where you choose to keep going.
