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“When I grow up, I want to be a mom.”

Little did I know, at five years old, that my seemingly simple dream would grow into a journey of international proportions. Little did I know that my family would emigrate to the U.S. just a few years later, that I would become the Chinese American mom of Ghanaian and Ugandan children, that I’d one day answer for my motherhood in a Qatari court, and that I’d find my home in the language of trauma and loss. I had simply been the quiet girl who was most comfortable hidden and inconspicuous. Ordinary. A mom. 

Now, I am a collector of beauty, gathered from glimpses, small things and unexpected places. I am a teller of stories—stories from across an ocean, and stories from across a table. I can feel at home anywhere, and never quite at home anywhere.

And I still enjoy just being the ordinary, quiet girl.

The Story

Doha, Qatar, January 15, 2013 On the day Gloria died, I went from being a wife, a mom, a sister, a friend, to— nothing. I was just another woman in prison, in the Middle East. Because my children were adopted, I didn’t count as a mom. Not a real mom. 

My husband and I were accused of murder and human trafficking and spent the next ten months incarcerated in separate facilities and awaiting trial. After our wrongful conviction and a lengthy appeals process, we finally returned back to States two years later. 

Through it all, I learned that family is much bigger than I thought it could be. Love is stronger than I imagined possible. And hope. Hope is a Person who never let’s you go even when you’d rather give up.