Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
That morning of Dec. 26 on the Thai island of Koh Hong, the sky was impossibly blue; the salty air cooled my skin. Twenty-one years ago I was 12 and ready for a day of adventure. Dressed in a bathing suit and water shoes, I followed my father and uncle down a trail roughly 30 metres from the beach. Dense tropical foliage enveloped us, sunlight flickered gently through the leaves. Suddenly, screams erupted from the shore.
Thick trees obscured our view. “Stay here,” my dad commanded as he and my uncle ran to the beach to find my sister and aunt. I stood frozen, unsure what was happening. Moments later, a British family hurried past. The mother pointed to the rising water, now brushing our ankles as the tsunami came closer. “We need to move,” she said. I didn’t ask questions, just followed.
When my dad returned, I was gone.
The next two days were a blur. The British family shepherded me up a coral-studded slope, then onto a boat waiting to take us to safety in Phuket. As we sailed northward, I gripped the vessel’s edge, numb to everything except the fragile hope I’d made the right choice. That night, as I lay in a borrowed bed, shock lifted just enough for fear to set in. Despite the kindness of these strangers, I ached for my family.
The next morning, this temporary family helped me search for my own. We combed through photos of people missing and dead, many bloodied and distorted. I quickly numbed the fear that my family could be in a similar state. Finally, after a call to my hotel and a five-hour car ride, we were reunited in a parking lot. My sister just emerged from surgery – her spleen shattered from being caught under a mangrove root. My aunt had broken ribs. “That was a long time away from you,” my mother said, tears soaking my shoulder as she, my uncle, brother and I embraced.
Later, I would learn the true magnitude of that day – the 2004 tsunami killed over 227,000 lives across 14 countries causing US$9.9-billion in damage and countless psychological wounds. My family was alive, but everything had changed.
Survivor’s guilt arrived gradually, then consumed me. Life’s fragility pushed me in two directions. Some days, simple pleasures like the first bite of a favourite meal carried a vividness often reserved for special occasions. Other days, those same joys felt hollow, almost offensive. How could I lose myself in small moments when so many would never see another day?
To escape this pendulum swing between gratitude and guilt, I tried living life to the fullest – calling it a tribute to those who hadn’t made it. This perpetual movement served another purpose, too. It drowned out nightmares that jolted me awake, eased the anxiety that anyone I loved could disappear in an instant – classic symptoms of PTSD I’d rather ignore. Best to keep moving.
For years, this worked. Fourteen kilometres swum daily, graduate school, building a small business, moving to Rwanda. I thought I’d made peace with it all, transformed trauma into purpose. But I’d lost touch with being present.
When chronic exhaustion finally forced stillness, my perspective on having children shifted with it. This wasn’t about abandoning ambition for domesticity, but discovering a third path that could perhaps honour both.
Parenthood, as it turns out, strips away illusions. My kids – now two and four – don’t care about survival narratives. They vomit during meticulously planned days and laugh during my moments of existential doubt. They’re captured by chasing imaginary lions or offering tentative waves that break adult composure, spilling laughter across restaurant tables. My children taught me life is about finding a rhythm – knowing when to push forward and when to witness a moment as it unfolds.
The tsunami taught me how quickly certainty can vanish. Just as I was grasping this, uncertainty found me again – this time in Tanzania when my youngest needed surgery. At three months old, she was wheeled into the operating room on my lap, her hungry cries echoing through the sterile corridor. When she was in recovery, I paced the outdoor hallway; fear pressed so close I was almost sick. But I had to remind myself: Life’s unpredictable and sometimes we can’t control outcomes. We can only show up.
The terrified 12-year-old lost at sea still lingers in me. Strangely though, sitting with discomfort has unveiled a quiet kind of resolve. Now, as a parent, I’m learning what that resolve is actually for.
What I hope for my kids is a sense of ease – not the fleeting kind from avoiding challenges or chasing temporary achievements but a sturdier one that comes from trusting their own path. I hope they learn it’s okay to feel and navigate it all without believing life is something to conquer. They’ll watch me wrestle with this, too, only to realize one day that I’m navigating just as much as I’m guiding.
Hayley Mundeva lives in Kigali, Rwanda.