Pho, Poland, and the People I Love

Pho, Poland, and the People I Love

We just got back from eating Pho An’s Vietnamese soup.

Something about the warmth of that bowl reminded me of home—of Barbi and Bella. We’ve always loved sharing pho together as a family. The steam, the flavor, the slowness of it—it’s more than a meal. It’s presence.

Tonight, though, I’m not with them.

I’m sitting here with my cousin Lorraine—miles away from Barbi and Bella—but somehow closer to home than I’ve ever been. The stories she’s been sharing about our Polish lineage, our family name, and where we came from—it’s been more than history. It’s been healing.

There’s a strange kind of comfort in finding out who you are. In learning that your people came from resilience and grace. That the eagle on the Polska crest doesn’t just represent a country—but a line, a legacy, a calling.

At the same time, my heart misses my girls.

Barbi and Bella—wherever you are tonight, I hope you’re growing together. I hope you feel me missing you, just like I feel you missing me. These moments apart are temporary. But the love? That runs deep.

I’ve also been hearing stories about my dad—about his journey growing up in Colombia and in New York as a 13-year-old boy. Imagining his life as a teenager, navigating countries and cultures, reminds me how deeply this legacy runs.

Tonight was a mix of soup, memory, laughter, and roots.

And somehow, all of it—Poland, Pho, Colombia, New York, Odessa—feels like home