The last few weeks have been some of the most emotional, overwhelming, and meaningful of my life. In the span of just days, I became a grandfather to little Rhys and then a father again when Elsa was born a week later. Two new lives joining the family almost back-to-back, beautiful, miraculous, and honestly a little surreal.
Between Elsa’s birth, helping Xue recover, and supporting Sydnee from afar as she wrestled with her own anxieties, life has felt full in every sense, beautiful, exhausting, fragile, and changing.
This trip to Japan was supposed to be a simple visa run. Nothing more. But life rarely stays in tidy boxes. What began as a routine errand quickly became something deeper, a small window of time where family, healing, and new beginnings all collided.
To understand how the story unfolded, we have to start a few weeks earlier, on the day everything changed.
The Birth and the Storm After
Elsa was born on November 13th, and even though I’ve done this before, nothing prepares you for holding a newborn again. And the timing made it even more incredible — just a week earlier, my grandson Rhys had entered the world.
To welcome a grandson and then a daughter within days of each other felt like life hitting the accelerator on joy, responsibility, and reflection all at once.
But what people don’t talk about enough is the storm that can follow the miracle — the emotional swings, the shifting hormones, the sudden quietness, the flashes of frustration or cold distance that come out of nowhere. Xue wasn’t in tears; that’s not her way. Instead, her emotions would pull inward or flare briefly, and then settle again. It was a different kind of storm, but a storm nonetheless.
Slowly, with patience, rest, and a lot of quiet moments holding Elsa against my chest, we started to find our rhythm. The edges softened. The house steadied. Life began to feel like something we could balance again.
Leaving that behind, even temporarily, tugged at me more than I expected.
Cooking in the Chaos
The early postpartum days came with another layer of challenge: food. Xue was committed to a very traditional Chinese postpartum diet for the first 30 days — simple, bland, restorative dishes. Think porridge-like breakfasts, soft noodles, warm eggs, very mild flavors, and absolutely nothing spicy. Her usual fiery meals were completely off the table.
During that time, my role in the kitchen was limited. I could help here or there with noodles or eggs, but nothing more. Not because she didn’t trust me — but because tradition, comfort, and familiarity mattered to her in a time when everything else felt overwhelming and unpredictable.
And then came the turning point.
While shopping one afternoon, tucked away in the freezer section of the local market, I found real butter and shredded mozzarella. It felt like discovering a hidden ingredient pack in a video game — suddenly, Western comfort food was possible. Those two ingredients opened the door to flavors and textures I knew how to work with, meals that were warm, rich, and deeply satisfying without being spicy.
Around that same time, Xue slowly began letting me take over more of the cooking again. It wasn’t immediate — she had pulled back for a while, taking control of her own meals as she navigated the emotional ups and downs of postpartum recovery. But little by little, she allowed me back into the kitchen. And once that door opened, even just a crack, something clicked.
In the final week before my trip, I found my rhythm — and the kitchen felt like mine again.
Creamy mushroom chicken and noodles.
Pork tenderloin and potatoes stew.
Chicken Lasagna Soup, improvised with wide noodles and mozzarella.
Toasted Butter Rolls with Cheesy Eggs.
French toast with blueberry compote — a breakfast she’d never had before.
Xue began taking photos of the meals again, which secretly made me proud. Food became our quiet bridge back toward normal life — a small, steadying ritual during a fragile chapter.
A Father and a Daughter
Sydnee’s anxiety has always been part of her life, but with Elsa’s birth and the physical distance between us, it intensified. She told me she felt abandoned and replaced — two things that weren’t true, but feelings don’t always listen to reason.
With two new babies in the family — Rhys and Elsa — arriving almost together, emotions were running high for everyone.
This trip to Japan wasn’t just a visa errand. It was a chance to reconnect. To show her, not just tell her, that she’s still at the center of my life. In a small way, it also felt like an amends for the Europe trip I once took her brother on — one she still remembers.
So when she sent a photo of herself and Zavion on the plane — smiling, excited — something inside me relaxed. She was already on her way back to me.
Leaving Dalian
Leaving Dalian wasn’t simply grabbing a bag and heading to the airport. It meant stepping away from a newborn and a recovering wife, even if just temporarily. But it also meant stepping toward my daughter after five long months apart.
I wanted the arrival in Tokyo to go smoothly. I pre-planned everything — studied train routes, found the ATMs, bought Narita Express tickets in advance. I wanted their first steps in Japan to feel easy.
But of course, no good story begins with everything going according to plan.
Touchdown in Japan
Narita Airport welcomed me with a calm efficiency that caught me off guard. Clean, quiet, well-organized — it made arriving feel easy. I settled into Terminal 1 to wait for Sydnee and Zavion.
Then I found out their flight was actually coming into Terminal 2.
And it was landing an hour later than expected.
Suddenly my perfectly timed train ticket no longer seemed so perfect.
What followed was a sprint through Narita Airport: chasing down the shuttle to Terminal 2, watching the minutes slip by, swapping out my train ticket, checking arrival boards, and praying I wouldn’t miss them coming through the doors.
But in the end, I made it.
I reached Terminal 2 just in time to see Sydnee and Zavion walk into the arrivals hall — tired, smiling, and suddenly very real again. The hugs erased every bit of the scramble. We regrouped, changed the train tickets again, grabbed theirs, and headed toward the Narita Express together.
After five months apart, the three of us were finally in the same place again.
Waiting to Begin
On the Narita Express into Tokyo, we made a pact:
Get to the hotel.
Drop the bags.
Don’t sit down.
Don’t lie down.
Go find ramen.
We were exhausted — especially Sydnee and Zavion after nearly 24 hours awake — but hunger beat exhaustion. After checking into the hotel in Shibuya, we stepped back out into a sea of neon lights, crosswalks, and restaurants on every corner.
I thought our challenge would be choosing among too many good options.
I was wrong.
What I didn’t know was that Sydnee had a specific ramen experience in mind. Not “ramen.”
That ramen.
And so began the Great Ramen Quest.
The Ramen Quest
We walked for at least an hour through Shibuya’s crowded streets, following maps, weaving between people, checking signs, chasing the idea of the “perfect” bowl.
Eventually, we reached the famous ramen spot we had marked on the itinerary.
It was perfect — warm, cozy, delicious smells pouring out the door.
Then the host asked, very politely:
“Do you have a reservation?”
We did not.
The wait would be 80 minutes.
For three exhausted travelers, 80 minutes was a dealbreaker.
So we headed back toward the hotel, promising ourselves we’d pick something that simply looked good. And eventually, we stumbled upon a small, inviting ramen shop with open seats. We sat. I ordered a beer and a Coke — and the Coke came in a frozen mug, the kind of ice-cold Coke I haven’t had since the States. In China, Coke is cold at best; this was glorious.
The ramen was rich and comforting, with a depth of flavor that even I — not the world’s biggest ramen lover — had to appreciate.
We left with full stomachs, calmer spirits, and just enough energy to walk back to the hotel and collapse into bed.
First Impressions of Tokyo
Tokyo hits you fast — but it hits softly. The lights, the movement, the sheer volume of people… and yet the city feels safe, clean, almost gentle. It’s impossible not to feel the energy of youth here. Groups laughing, couples wandering, people walking with purpose but without urgency.
There’s a rhythm to this place that feels both foreign and strangely familiar.
As we walked back from dinner — through neon-lit streets, over small water canals glowing with purple lights, surrounded by a tide of late-night pedestrians — I found myself thinking:
I could live here.
We’re only here for three days, but something tells me these will be days I remember for a very long time.
Tonight, I’m lying in a quiet hotel room in Shibuya, full of good ramen and gratitude — for family, for safe travels, and for the chance to write a new memory with my sweet Sydnee Sue and Zavion.
Tomorrow, the adventure continues.
Echo From The West 