A quiet reflection on fear, trust, and coming out of hiding.

Hey there. Sawaddeeka. Pradichaya here. We had a nice—and unusual—Christmas that continued into the New Year that you may find interesting, and I’d like to share it with you. Some warning: it was dramatic—a little traumatizing—but by the time it was over and done with, all was fine.

One beautiful evening, Ralph and I took off to buy a lottery ticket at the California border. As you know, we didn’t win (duh). It was a lovely night, and the casinos between Las Vegas and Primm were lit up with holiday lights. We stopped for dinner at a large casino on the way back to LV. It was not a disappointment—the food, the service, and the decorations were lovely and magical. Maybe it was the atmosphere; Ralph and I felt connected. We reminisced about how long it had been since we felt so good as a couple (we’re talking 36 years, before our first son was born).

The night was glorious, and the holiday spirit filled us with joy. We spent a long time there. This, too, was rare for us. As we both age, we don’t fancy staying out late anymore.

We felt good while Ralph drove us home. Even cars on the freeway seemed more friendly.

Then we got off the freeway and were about seven minutes away from home.

We heard a loud noise. At first, we thought it came from a sports car driving next to us.

Then it passed, but the noise was still there. Ralph rolled down his window, and we knew for sure that it came from the engine.

My heart dropped. “It’s the transmission, honey.”

The first thing that came to my mind was whether the car would make it home, followed by how late it was.

Then we both thought the other person had renewed the AAA membership (oops). Then fear took over. And for seconds that felt like eternity, my mind brought up only awful—and not likely to happen—“what-ifs.”

We bought this car used eleven years ago. Even then, it was an older model. But it had served us well and brought us across the country when we made our big move seven years ago.

My fear flooded in as my mind raced. If I was right (of course, I was), this meant it would be time for a new car. And I was not—we weren’t—ready for another financial responsibility.

My mind raced to come up with the worst-case scenario. If we couldn’t take on another obligation, we would have only one car—my car. And that meant Ralph would take it to work, all because my office is inside my house.

Panic started, and it felt harder to breathe as the world dimmed. It was already dark, and it went darker. If he took my car, I’d lose my freedom and everything that would tag along with it. I would shrink myself so, so small that I’d have no self left to shrink to. I would lose my identity, self-esteem, and every self-everything my mind could bring up.

Then I heard Ralph say, “I don’t have control of the steering.”

Before I could gasp in horror, the car stopped, and the engine, the lights—everything—turned off.

At that point, we were one stop sign and a few turns away from our house. Fear and panic circled back, and I tried hard to fight them off.

I wondered if we could get anyone to tow our car, how much it would cost, and whether we could walk home. Before my mind could get creative again, Ralph turned the key to start the engine. (Told you—it was an old car.)

It started, but threatened to stall. Ralph did what he could to accelerate, but the car didn’t want to engage.

I felt like it was moving sideways. “Is that even possible?” I asked myself. “Please, please, please drive us home.” It had been a good car and never gave us trouble. “Please take us home, then you can rest, dear car,” I said out loud.

Ralph said, “I won’t stop at the stop sign.”

At least it was late at night, and no car was in sight. Not only did he not stop, but every turn from there was so fast that my butt slid right and left on the passenger seat.

By the time I started to feel queasy, Ralph made the quick last turn onto our driveway. He stopped the car before it hit the garage door and turned off the engine.

We sat still. Ralph then got out of the car. I didn’t move.

He came around to open my door. “Honey, let’s go inside.” I felt numb but looked at him. “Nah-ah.”

“Why not?” he asked while gently pulling my hand.

Without budging a muscle, I shook my head.

“Nah-ah. If I get out, the car is lost forever.”

Ralph chuckled. “I think the car is gone, honey. Come on, let’s go inside. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Before I could shake my head again, Nicholas and Justin came out, holding Milton the dog in their arms. Milton wagged his tail and wanted to sniff me.

I got out of the car. The dog and I greeted each other.

“Bye-bye, Mazda. You’ve been so good to us.”

Inside, Ralph asked me to go up to bed. “We’ll think about this tomorrow,” he said.

“How can we afford a new car?” I started.

Ralph put his hand up to stop me. “Tomorrow.” He hugged me. “We’ll figure it out.”

Okay, I’m just going to say it.

Ever since I wrote the book From Gaprow To Keemao And Recipes In Between and started the COOK LIKE A THAI company, I’ve put most of our savings into it. For a few years—from not knowing anything about running an online business to the present time—I’ve learned from mistakes and failures. And, boy, have I learned a lot! But I’ve also added a lot of financial pressure on Ralph.

At the end of 2025, COOK LIKE A THAI started to show signs that I was heading in the right direction. Still, it’s far from where I’d like it to be. The thought of adding a car loan on top of our financial responsibilities made me shiver.

But Ralph was right. He told me to get some rest, and we’d think about our options tomorrow—no, he said we’d figure it out. Yes.

I also know in my heart that as long as I let the fear in the back of my head run loose, I won’t have any room left for the genius side of me to show up and figure things out.

Being a Buddhist has taught me to stay with the current for calm to happen, and to be present by observing without judgment.

That night, after two seconds of staying in the now, I fell asleep. It was mostly from exhaustion—from the extreme drama of being overly happy, then afraid and worried. They’re at opposite ends and put me into overdrive (later, I went into overheating mode).

As soon as I woke up, I went right back to thinking about losing my car (to Ralph) if buying another wasn’t possible. That was followed by the fear of losing my freedom.

I found Ralph in front of his monitor, already sixteen cars ahead of me. I sighed and dragged my feet downstairs to get coffee.

After a few sips, I woke up.

“Honey,” I started, “before we look at cars, can we see where we can get a car loan?”

Ooo! It sounded so right! High five to myself. I’m such a responsible person! (There’s a story behind this, but for later.) Ralph started looking for car loans.

It was Christmas Eve. We had decided earlier that this year, Christmas would be quiet, humble, and a time of appreciation for each other. No gifts. (I can hear you all gasp from where I sit. But this is something you should try. We found that it re-connected me and my family. That alone was so rewarding.)

Everyone even agreed on a cooking day off for Mom/wife. The plan was to get a combination of food from Trader Joe’s and have a Christmas feast in our kitchen—not the formal dining room.

This helped my worried, fear-based mind a lot. So we spent the day submitting loan applications, searching the internet for cars, and driving to see the ones we thought would be the right fit.

We picked three cars in a similar price range: a small Mercedes SUV, a Mazda just like the one that died, and a Lincoln SUV.

We really liked the Mercedes. The price, lower mileage, and clean accident history made it a unicorn. If it were up to me alone, I would have had the dealership find a lender and do the numbers for us.

But it was Christmas Eve, and the bank didn’t get back to us. Plus, there were two more cars Ralph wanted to see. I stayed quiet. It’s something I trained myself to do for twenty years, since our move from Bangkok back to the U.S.

The other two cars were disappointments. They weren’t in decent shape and weren’t sold by authorized dealerships. Ralph and I didn’t trust ourselves to do business with those sellers, so we went home. Ralph called the Mercedes manager, left a voicemail, and wrote an email.

Christmas came. I tried to drop my worries and enjoy the day with the family. When that worked, it was wonderful. There were moments when I had to remind myself to be here, to be still.

On the 26th, around noon, the Mercedes guy called to let us know the unicorn car had been bought the same day we saw it.

Gaaaahhhhh!

I had a minute of near-meltdown (teary, weepy), which I’m actually glad happened. Finally, Ralph said he understood why I was so worried about the whole car situation.

He reassured me by saying the small Mercedes SUV wasn’t a unicorn—we would find another in the same price range. Then he added that if we did buy a Mercedes, it would be my car. He would take my little Nissan to work.

You can imagine how surprised—and relieved—I felt. Not only would I not lose a car, but I’d also be driving a small Mercedes.

Here’s the backstory: I’ve owned a few Mercedes before—S- and E-Class. Naturally, I’d love to have another Mercedes, even a smaller one.

Instead of searching online, we headed to a dealership closer to home to see what used or certified used cars they had.

Ralph was right. The first car wasn’t a unicorn. There were others.

After a couple of hours of test-driving, checking history and Carfax reports, and asking many questions, we decided on a C-Class.

Everything that followed went smoothly. All the fear and anxiety I’d felt beforehand seemed like a waste of time and energy. It might even have shortened my lifespan by eight minutes—ha ha ha ha!

We celebrated at an Asian buffet. Ralph drove my little Nissan, and I drove the brand-new “used” Mercedes home.

I felt like I’d gained my power back.

Seriously, we spend our whole lives blocked by our own worst “what-if” scenarios. Most of those thoughts never come true anyway. Yet it’s hard to replace this learned habit.

Why do we hurt ourselves with fear and doubt? Sometimes it feels like we punish ourselves out of guilt for mistakes we can’t let go of. I secretly think that these pains we repeatedly inflict on ourselves might even feel good in some strange way. Where did that come from? And why? I’m not sure. It’s individual—and probably something to discuss with one’s own shrink.

I don’t have a shrink, but I’m leaning toward seeing one. I have an idea of what might have started this negative what-if cycle. That’s something I may share later—but not now.

Now is about the present. Me, Ralph, the family, the new car (mine!), and the peace of mind it’s brought.

I only have to get used to it—feeling good, I mean.

What stops you from letting yourself be free from fear, doubt, disbelief, and lack of self-trust?

Get a piece of paper and a pen and write it down. Doing so lets you see things from all angles. You may discover that the answers you seek externally already exist within you. Just observe non-judgmentally.

Oh yes—I still teach you how to “Cook Like A Thai!”

(And no, I’m not going woo-woo or changing course on you.)

Why? Because I’m not going to dress up, cover my face with makeup, and show you only the “nice” parts of me.

A coin has two sides. We have sunrise and sunset. Day goes with night. Good isn’t the opposite of bad—they depend on each other. That’s how we transcend them.

So no—I have good days and bad days, and I don’t hide them. When I make Thai cooking mistakes, you see them. When I mess up a dish badly, you see that too. When dishes are good or just okay, you see that as well. I never present myself as more than who I am or what I can be. I have ups. I have downs. And they come around again and again.

My honesty, sincerity, and truth go into everything I do. That’s what has made me who I am.

Sharing this with you is a gentle reminder that we are human. I’m sharing my raw, bare, human self—and it is VERY okay to come out of hiding, even from yourself, and be who you’re meant to be.

So. Human.