my incredible fear of death made me a content creator and recipe developer
it's okay to cry like a swaddled baby every now and then
quick note: fam, my substack is now called Kathleen’s Kitchen. When I was a child, my mother bought a magnet and it said Kathleen’s Kitchen on it. My real name is actually Kathleen. The magnet was a blond-haired, blue-eyed chick. I’ve used a Sharpie to color her hair and eyes black, LOL. Also, I would like my fourth cookbook to be Kathleen’s Kitchen and one day be remembered as the Asian Julia Child, or Julia Child can be remembered as the white Kat Lieu. Whatever works!
dear friend,
so, a few things are a given in life. One is taxes, which you must pay yearly, and two is death, a certainty for us all.
Ever since I was a child, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, hyperventilating in a pool of my own sweat. The thought of ceasing to exist consumed me, keeping me up in the middle of the night.
I know I’m not alone here. Sometimes, maybe the thought crosses your mind and maybe your heart sinks. Maybe you brush it off. Many experience thanatophobia, or the fear of death.
When the sun sets or the day is extra rainy and gray in Seattle, discomfort settles quietly. Sometimes, it feels so suffocating that I get a mini panic attack. I’d wrap myself in blankets, like a human burrito or swaddled baby, then cry.
This fear, so painful and unsettling, has also shaped me, pushing me into the arms of creativity. I’ve always found solace in creating and making things, whether it be painting a hydrant for my city, crocheting a toy for a patient when I was a doctor of physical therapy, or baking cakes and cookies for my neighbors.
There’s so much solace in creating things that would live on long after I’m gone so that, in a sense, I live on. Perhaps this is why people write books, why I’ve authored three cookbooks and hundreds of food articles and recipes.
Whether baking, cooking, writing, or creating content online, the creative process became a way for me to feel anchored and present in the here and now. I believe our actions, words, and creations, whether it’s the recipes we develop, the relationships we build, or the small moments we share with others, can echo through time. In a sense, we still exist even when we’re not physically here on this earth. Everyone we touch with our words and creations carries a bit of us with them.
My father’s wisdom resonates with me today, five years after his final breath became air. “Everyone always says the grass is greener on the other side. But I think my grass is the greenest.” Dad would always say this after he mowed the lawn back in our home in Coney Island. Though he didn’t have much in life, he appreciated everything he had. He taught me to be grounded, to not compare my life with others, and to feel grateful for everything I have today.
And I am. I am so grateful for everything. I am thankful even for all the pain I’ve experienced, as it continues to shape me today.
Memories of my father help him live on through me. This post echoes his presence. It’s like he’s still here, and he feels all my love and sees my tears as I write this.
In the quiet moments when I remember you, Dad, you live on.
These thoughts, how we can still exist through memories, stories, and creations, have eased my fears of death and my fear of ceasing to exist. Maybe this is why I’ve found so much joy these days as a full-time writer and content creator, after a major burnout in my 13-year-long career as a physical therapist.
It’s so easy to get lost in the idea that everything will one day end. It’s so easy to give up when things look grim, right? But I think the real human experience is about the moments in between that remind us of what’s beautiful and worth holding onto.
Hugs from my son. My 76-year-old mother leaving me happy emojis on my content. The constant acts of service my husband performs for me, without expecting anything in return.
These days, the fear of death has made me focus on our present, on creating, and on nurturing others. And on loving deeply. And somehow, these have been small acts of rebellion against the very thing that scares me: the end.
While we may never know what’s on the other side, we can make this side meaningful. Make it count.
For me, I will continue to share my fun and easy recipes, my reflections on the human experience, my rants against cultural appropriation, and how annoyed I feel to see Giada on Jimmy Fallon making chocolate pasta while I get death threats for making chocolate rice or green onion coffee.
When I rant, I forget about my fear of death; I’m charged by a moment of anger and feel a hit of strange dopamine, so please excuse me when I’m acting like a petty Betty.
Ultimately, I think it’s not about how long we’re here or how grand our presence is. It’s about how deeply we’ve allowed ourselves to live. And not just live. Love.
It’s the small acts, the tender moments, the things we leave behind that quietly weave their way into the lives of others, like threads in a tapestry we may never fully see or understand. We are woven into the fabric of everything we’ve touched, and that, in itself, is immortality, n’est-ce pas?