The Family We Forgot We Were

Rediscovering the Unspoken Bonds That Define Us, One Quiet Day at a Time

Hello, angel! Welcome back to the inside of my brain.

Today, I’d love to share a reflection on family, time, and change—captured during a quiet escape to Koh Samet. It’s a story of rediscovering the bonds that have always shaped us, even when we forget they’re there.

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January 16th, 2025

Koh Samet, Thailand

We jumped off the dock like kids again.

The sea was warm, the kind of warm that makes you forget the line between your skin and the world. Sky stretched overhead like a soft breath, and the water below barely shimmered. It was one of those afternoons where time slows to a hush, the kind of quiet that doesn't feel empty but full—like it's listening.

My sister and I floated side by side, drifting farther from the shore than we meant to. A strange rhythm set in between us: no need to talk, no need to reach, just bodies bobbing gently, tethered by something older than words. At one point, she slipped under the surface and didn’t come up for longer than usual. I laughed and called her name, half-playful, half-panicked. When she emerged, sputtering and smiling, I felt something tighten in my chest. Not fear—something older. Like realizing for the first time your sibling is no longer the small, fragile thing you thought they were, but something wild, mysterious, and wholly their own.

We swam back without speaking.

Earlier that morning, I’d watched my dad at the ferry terminal. He was sweating through his shirt, gritting his teeth as he lugged two rolling bags up a steep road in the sun. No complaints. No asking for help. Just doing what fathers do: carry things silently. I took one of the bags from him, not because he asked, but because I could. And for a moment, it felt like I was repaying a quiet debt I’d been accumulating my whole life.

My mom had picked this island. A short trip, a few days. The kind of plan she always makes when the family feels scattered and she wants to press us close again, like flowers in a book.

We fell into an easy rhythm. Meals by the water, mango sticky rice under palm trees, and no agenda but the tide. I let go of my routines, my planning, my endless creation. For once, I didn’t reach for my phone at breakfast. I didn’t think about the next project, the next city. I just watched my sister make our secret handshake before a meal and noticed how my dad’s jokes have softened with age. I saw my mom’s eyes linger on the waves like she was memorizing them.

There was a strangeness in it, too—a gentle ache that followed even the happiest moments. I felt it when my sister burst out laughing and leaned her head on my mom’s shoulder. I felt it when I caught my parents walking just slightly behind us, letting us lead. We’ve all grown older, yes, but something else had shifted. I wasn’t just their child anymore.

I was someone they trusted.

I was someone who could carry things.

That night, after our swim, we walked barefoot down the empty beach. The stars blinked lazily above, and the sand still held the sun’s heat. I brushed grains from my sister’s back. She didn’t notice. My parents trailed behind, shadows in the moonlight.

There wasn’t a big moment. No declarations, no family meeting, no cinematic sunset.

Just this.

A stillness.

A salt-kissed hush between tides.

And the quiet knowing that this time, this softness, won’t last forever—but I will carry it with me all the same.

Love,

Etai