Vietnamese people treat weddings like the Olympics. And this one? Gold medal ceremony. We are three hours in, fourteen courses deep, and six costume changes strong. There are dragon dances. And fog machines.

We just finished a photo with all of my cousins, and my auntie leans in and brushes a hair from my face. “All this beauty and no husband?” she says. “When will you send me invitation to your wedding? You get old now. Maybe stop waiting for prince.”

Ma’am. Trời ơi. I’ve had three Hennessys and a deeply destabilizing flashback to the last man I dated, who thought birth control was a government conspiracy. I cannot with you right now.

But I smile. My face says, “Yes, Auntie, thank you. I will find a husband so you can attend my wedding, and our family will fulfill our destiny.” Gong.

What I don’t say is: I am not waiting for a prince. I’m waiting for myself. For the part of me that doesn’t fold under scrutiny or disappear into someone else’s timeline. I’m building something. And even if it doesn’t have a red envelope or a roast pig at the end of it, I hope it has peace. I hope it has joy. I hope it feels like home.

But for now, I take another shot with the cousins. I eat the next course. I dance with my aunties. And in the middle of the multicolored light show and matchmaking, I catch myself feeling it—gratitude. Not because I’m doing what they expect. But because I’m strong enough not to.

YOUR PLUS ONE AND OTHER APPETIZERS

We went back to the table and realized we were the only single adult. No partner. No kid throwing jasmine rice. No one is whispering, “You ready to go soon?” Just us. Picking at the duck like it was a metaphor.

And that’s when the internal dialogue kicked in. Not the loud shame spiral, but the quiet, practiced one:

“You’re too far behind.”

“You are too much.”

“Maybe they’re right.”

This is the moment no one prepares you for. Not your therapist, not your astrology app, not even the self-help book you read on the flight over. It’s the moment where your family, your hormones, and your Instagram feed all conspire to convince you that you’re falling behind.

But here’s the thing about “falling behind.” It assumes there’s a race. A finish line. A ceremony where you get crowned for having the most optimized life.

Spoiler: there’s not. There’s just you, in your most Asian-family-appropriate dress, sitting at a circular table, trying not to cry into your súp măng cua.

SPRING ROLLS AND SOUL ROLES

There’s a moment at every wedding—usually somewhere between the seafood and the slide show—when something soft takes over. Maybe it’s the second glass of pinot or the ballad your cousin belts out with surprising accuracy, but your defenses start to loosen. You look around the room and realize everyone is carrying some version of hope and heartbreak. Even the auntie who interrogated your womb status an hour ago is wiping her eyes and mouthing the words to “My Heart Will Go On.”

In that moment, you stop being the main character in a rom-com montage of failure and become something better: a witness. To your family. To your feelings. To the fact that maybe being single at this wedding isn’t a punishment—it’s a pause. A breath between chapters. A life still unfolding, one spring roll at a time.

This is where gratitude first flickers. Not because everything is okay, but because you’re still here. Face flushed, hair slightly wilted, lashes heroic. Fully yourself in a room that still doesn’t quite know what to do with you. And yet… you’re not shrinking.

NO SERIOUSLY, AISLE BE FINE

Back at the hotel, it’s quiet. We unpin our hair. We peel off the lashes. We take a breath that has nothing to prove. That’s when it lands. A flicker of something warm—not accomplishment, not pride, but presence. Gratitude doesn’t always show up with a confetti cannon. Sometimes it’s just the relief of being with yourself again. Of knowing you can hold your own hand, even when Auntie tries to marry it off.

Because yes, the banquet was beautiful. And yes, our family is full of love (and pressure). But what are we building? It’s something slower. Softer. A life that doesn’t depend on timelines or table assignments to feel worth celebrating. One where gratitude isn’t a performance—it’s a practice. And tonight, that practice starts with taking off our heels and saying: I made it through this day. I’m still here. And somehow, I’m okay.