by Zhander P’ng
It’s my last Saturday morning in Puerto Vallarta. Not forever, not exactly—but long enough to feel the shift. I say “sort of for good” because I’ve learned nothing is ever final. Nothing is ever truly “for good.” But this moment—this leaving—carries a weight. A softness. A sacred kind of closure. And that, in itself, feels like a miracle.
I feel safe. That’s new.
Not just physically safe, but spiritually whole. Emotionally rooted. I know I’ll be okay. Actually, I’ll be more than okay. And that’s what makes this goodbye feel… beautiful.
This isn’t an escape. It’s an evolution. This is a culmination. A sacred unraveling. The end of a chapter that once had Wes at its center—a chapter that’s been rewritten in love, not bitterness. And I want to name him here, not out of longing or regret, but out of gratitude. Because when you can bring someone up without pain, you’ve healed.
I don’t carry grudges anymore. I walk in gratitude.
I walk in the frequency of love.
So how could I blame him? I thank him.
There’s still a part of me that wishes he could witness who I’ve become. That he could see me now—whole, soft, open, real. But I’ve learned that not every journey gets shared. Some are meant to be walked alone. And in that solitude, I found pride. Not the loud, performative kind. But the quiet kind. The kind that humbles you. The kind that heals you.
Presence Is the First Lesson
I walked my neighborhood slowly this morning. Not because I had nowhere to go—but because I wanted to notice everything. The street. The pigeons. The smell of the heat rising off the pavement. The strangers passing by. The man smoking, shirtless, smiling. The green. My God, the green.
That’s when the first lesson came:
Be intentional with every step.
Don’t rush your life. Don’t move so fast that you miss the sacred ordinary. The next lesson followed quickly:
Be aware. Be alive. Be conscious.
Bring the subconscious into the light. Be here—because this is where life lives.
And then, like clockwork, fear crept in. It always does. But I saw it. I greeted it. And I didn’t give it power.
Fear is a habit. An echo. An addiction to the past.
But here’s the truth: fear has no power unless I feed it.
I’ve let go of pretending. Of needing to be okay all the time. I’ve let go of judgment. Of needing others to see me in a certain light. I’ve even let go of the need to be “right.” Because when you truly vibrate in love, ego doesn’t stand a chance.
Change Doesn’t Ask for Permission
Things in Vallarta have changed in just six months. New murals. New stories. New energy. And that’s the next lesson:
Life doesn’t wait for your approval. It moves with or without you.
The goal isn’t control. It’s surrender. It’s remembering that the path matters less than the way you walk it.
And I’m proud of how I’ve walked. With humility. With grace. With presence. I’ve been shaped by this place—by its beauty, its contradictions, its people, its lessons. Vallarta became a home not because of how long I stayed, but because of how deeply I belonged.
Letting Go to Make Room for What Matters
I came here carrying too much—emotionally and materially. And now I’m leaving lighter.
No more accumulating crap.
If I want something new, I must make space for it.
The lesson behind the lesson is this:
I will collect heart. People. Moments. Experience.
I want to remember the way Eduardo smiled when I gave him my clothes. I want to remember how that act of giving cracked him open—and how he told me, quietly, vulnerably, that he was in love with me.
What a gift. What a responsibility.
To be seen—and to be the mirror that helps someone else see themselves.
With great light comes great responsibility.
It means I must keep aligning. Keep showing up. Keep walking with love.
The Power of Language and the Tenderness of Family
There’s something sacred about language. I said “Good morning” to a woman and she didn’t respond. Then I tried “Buenos días,” and her whole face lit up.
That’s the lesson.
Sometimes it’s not about what you say—but whether it lands.
Translation is connection. And learning someone else’s language—at any age—is a gesture of love.
The same goes for family. I’ve re-learned how to see my biological family through a new lens—not the lens of fear or pain, but of heart. I’ve let go of so much. I’ve forgiven myself first, and from that place, extended forgiveness outward—with boundaries, with clarity, with care.
I’ve learned that I am capable of love.
And I’ve learned that love doesn’t excuse harm—but it can heal it.
Chosen family taught me this too. And receiving their love required shedding layers of shame. It was uncomfortable. It almost felt ungrateful to be loved so well when I didn’t yet believe I deserved it.
But I chose to see the glass half-full.
Choose your hard, they say. And I chose to receive.
Starbucks and the Stories We Carry
I laugh now as I finally arrive at Starbucks—40 minutes after leaving my house. This place isn’t just coffee. It’s memories. I’ve met people here. Been seen here. Loved here. Left here.
One man once saw me from afar, moved closer, and said hello. Another and I started our story right here on this street. Starbucks was never the destination. It was the meeting point. The portal. The place love found me—again and again.
And that’s the biggest lesson:
Love will show up when you’re ready—not when you’re perfect.
Readiness isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Sincerity. Willingness.
And every time I level up, I meet someone better—not because they’re “better,” but because I am. More whole. More clear. More me.
So What Do I Take With Me?
I take the streets. The smiles. The “Buenos días.”
The shade of green I love most. The heat I hate. The pigeons. The wind.
I take the music I haven’t played yet—but will.
I take the lessons. The light. The losses. The learning.
I take the joy of knowing:
I’m a good man. A kind one. Brave. Gentle. Honest. Whole.
I’m ready to work again. To build a new life. To pack groceries or lead movements—whatever it is, I’ll bring my whole heart to it.
I’m not afraid anymore.
Because the greatest lesson is this:
Peace doesn’t come from perfection.
It comes from presence.
From showing up as yourself, fully, again and again and again.
This is how I leave.
This is how I love.
This is how I begin again.
