The Quiet Ones Who Carried the Light: A Love Letter to the Unsung Spiritual Teachers Among Us

There are people who don’t speak their wisdom out loud, who don’t perform their greatness for the world to see. They simply live it. And if you're lucky, you’ve been loved by one. For me, I was loved by two. They didn’t have spotlights. They didn’t have microphones. But their light? It filled every room.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately. Maybe it’s the way the sunset paints the sky when I’m alone on the balcony. Maybe it’s the quiet mantras I play at dusk—gentle prayers that echo something ancient. Or maybe… I’m finally old enough to understand what they truly gave me.

✨ My Grandfather: A Life of Soft Devotion

He was born into a large Vietnamese family—one of ten children. There were too many mouths to feed, so he was sent to live with monks at a temple. Imagine that: a child, too small to carry a burden, and yet already seen as one. But instead of growing bitter, he grew kind.

He later left the temple to forge his own path—one filled with hard work, heartbreak, and love. He married my grandmother, a woman who also came from a long line of unhealed abandonment, a woman whose wounds showed themselves in anger, in control, in hardness. She ruled the house with an iron will, her pain spilling into the family like wildfire. I used to wonder how a man so soft could stay by a woman so hard.

But now I understand—he didn’t stay because he was afraid. He stayed because he saw her. He saw through the armor. He understood her pain. And instead of reacting, he radiated.

My grandfather was the kind of man who combed his hair before morning Tai Chi, not out of vanity, but dignity. He practiced sword dance in the park, his movements precise and beautiful. He had “fans,” but his charm was effortless—it came from his joy.

He picked me up from school when my parents were separated. He piggybacked me through floodwaters when my kindergarten classroom was submerged.

When my mom said no to buying more books, he quietly slipped me the money. He never asked for anything in return. He protected me. He believed in me. He made me feel like I was never too much. He always extended his lights to all around him. He loved to buy lottery daily, a dreamer they said, but I saw a kind man who couldn't refuse pleading eyes from a child as young as his own grand daughter. He never called himself a healer, but that’s exactly what he was.

When I flew back to Vietnam during his final days, six months pregnant with my son, he had terminal cancer and a feeding tube. Still, he smiled. Still, he laughed with my toddler daughter. Still, he woke before dawn to practice Qi Gong. Even while his body weakened, his spirit didn’t waver. Looking back now, I realize that my grandfather taught me the most powerful lesson of all: gentleness is not weakness, that true strength is quiet, that love doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

As I look back, I also remember the contrast between my grandparents’ spiritual expressions. My grandmother became devout in her religious practice. She went to the temple regularly, donated generously, and played recorded mantras loudly, as if to declare her faith to the world. I recognize now that much of her discipline came from a sincere yearning—but also from fear, a need for control, a desperate reach for peace that always felt just beyond her grasp.

My grandfather, on the other hand, never went with her to the temple. He stayed home. And at the same quiet time each day, he sat at the family altar and recited his mantras softly, gently—never loud enough to disturb others. He didn't perform his spirituality. He embodied it. This isn’t a judgment on my grandmother. She did what she knew. She carried heavy burdens. And perhaps her path was to seek peace through ritual. But I’ve learned something essential in witnessing both of them: true light doesn’t need to announce itself. True peace doesn’t raise its voice. It just is.

My Great-Aunt: A Warrior of Love

She was my grandmother’s older sister—but her soul, to me, felt like a different lineage altogether. While my grandmother and I often clashed, my great-aunt felt like home.

She was the other person I ran to when I was in trouble, if Grandpa wasn’t around.

She combed my hair. She let me roll her cigarettes. She embraced me, exactly as I was.

As a child, I thought I was drawn to her because she “spoiled” me. But what I was really drawn to… was her light.

She ran a porridge stall in front of our home. It was humble, but her food was beloved. She rarely made much money because every day, she invited neighborhood children—hungry and barefoot—to eat for free. Everyone who knew her has a story of receiving her care, her help, her warmth. She loved without conditions, without exception, including animals. I remember that she had a furry dog who was run over by a car. She swore to never keep a pet again, yet, when someone had to give away one of their puppies, she took him in, her love renewed.

But the story that defines her spirit for me is the one no child should have to live through.

She married during the chaos of the Vietnam War. Her husband was enlisted. She secretly worked as a mail courier for the Vietnamese army—and was once caught and tortured by American soldiers. She was forced to swallow gasoline. Yet even after such cruelty, she never carried bitterness.

While her husband was away, she gave birth to a stillborn. While unconscious from exhaustion, her in-laws took a baby who was abandoned at the hospital and placed her in my great-aunt’s arms, afraid she couldn’t bear the truth. My great-aunt raised the girl as her own. Over time, the child’s eyes turned blue—a color that drew whispers. She was likely the daughter of a local woman and an American soldier.

But my great-aunt said nothing. She protected her with all her might. She dyed the child’s hair black every month to shield her from cruelty and rejection. Even her husband, upon discovering the truth, embraced the child as his own. And when he died in the war—murdered by the very forces that had taken so much from them—my great-aunt still chose love. She continued the raise her child with only unconditional love.

Years later, the child she raised moved to the U.S., and when she became pregnant, she sponsored my great-aunt to come help. Despite not wanting to leave her homeland, despite the snow and the loneliness and the language barrier, she came.

She came because love called her. One of my fond memories of her in the USA was when I took her to San Diego Sea World, and noticed her having a whole conversation with a horse. She became more beloved in my heart.

She was often alone in the foreign country, far from everything familiar. But she never complained. She held steady. She held strong. She eventually passed from esophageal cancer—a haunting echo of the trauma she had once survived. But even in her final moments, she was still thinking of me. She looked at my husband with pleading eyes, silently entrusting me to him, still protecting, still loving.

🌿 Two Souls, One Sacred Thread

In a world obsessed with noise, platforms, and performance, these two souls were my quiet revolution. They were my first spiritual teachers, not because they quoted scripture, but because they lived it. They taught me that presence is healing, that devotion is a way of being, that softness—real softness—is a kind of sacred power.

They didn’t need robes or titles. They didn’t need to be seen to be holy. They just needed to love. And they did, with their whole lives.

We often look for healers in robes, or spiritual guides on pedestals, or coaches with perfect words. But sometimes, the most powerful healers are the ones who never claim to be one. They’re the ones who quietly love you back to life, the ones who hold peace in the middle of chaos, the ones who choose patience when it's easier to snap, the ones who show up, not because they want something, but because love moves through them like breath. We all have people like this in our lineage—earth angels who weren’t perfect, but who shined anyway, who smiled through heartbreak, who gave more than they received, who showed us the way not by preaching, but by being.

💫 An Invitation to You

Look back. Who in your life quietly carried the light?

Who picked you up when no one else noticed you’d fallen?

Who gave you warmth when the world felt cold?

Whose presence made you feel safe, even if they never had the words?

Who loved you when you didn’t yet know how to love yourself?

Who gave more than they received—and never asked to be thanked?

Maybe they’re gone now. Maybe they were never celebrated. But your soul remembers.

Honor them. Tell their stories. Let their light live on through you.

Because the quiet ones… the unsung angels…They are the true spiritual teachers.

✨ A Final Whisper from the Ones Who Raised Me in Spirit

“Keep your heart open, even when it aches.

Be soft, even when the world hardens.

Let love be your quiet revolution.

You don’t have to be loud to be powerful—You just have to be real.”

With deepest reverence, for the ones who showed me the way home.

Solarys 🌙✨