Celebrating Dad
It’s been a while since my last post. Up until November last year, my world revolved around my first Stage 4 set for the Portsmouth project. As a team, we worked late nights and early mornings, pushing through stress and exhaustion, but I was learning so much. The project consumed me—until everything changed in an instant.
Sharing this isn’t easy, but I remind myself that architecture is about people, life, and emotion. The pain of betrayal—family members fighting over an inheritance that isn’t theirs—has made this sad process even more drawn out and bitter. In cutting them out, I’ve lost not just one life, but several in my heart.
Yet, both joy and pain shape how I think, design, and create. This post is not just a tribute to my father but a reminder that we are more than our work—and that’s okay. Life is fleeting, like music—precious, transient, defined by small moments. The joy of hobbies, of making loved ones happy, of bringing joy to others—this is what matters. Not money. Not how much you have.
One panicked call from my aunt in Hong Kong turned my world upside down. My father had suffered a fall due to his heart condition and was in critical condition. How could this happen? Why now? Why him? He was only 68. Within hours, my mother and I packed our bags as fast as a typhoon and flew to Hong Kong. Less than a week later, he was gone. Having experienced depressive episodes in the past, I worried that grief would send me spiraling. I reached out to my psychiatrist, seeking medication, only to realize the stark difference between grief and depression. I didn’t feel hopeless—just profoundly sad, as if a part of my soul had been torn away without warning, leaving behind unanswered questions, unshared laughs, and a final conversation I’d never get to have.
Work was incredibly understanding, giving me the time I needed to grieve. Portsmouth carried on, projects moved forward, but for that month, my only focus was family. Adam flew back to Hong Kong to support me, followed by family from Vancouver and dear friends from New York. Seeing my father’s old classmates arrive in packs to honor his life was heartwarming. So, this post is my way of celebrating him—my wonderful dad. A tribute to his life, his love, and the memories he left behind.
This all happened suddenly. I hope that dad didn’t get to see me look like the Trevi fountain in Human form. I had to google, how to write a Eulogy and asked ChatGPT for help. Dad, these few weeks, I feel like I have been swimming in custard.
But I know this is my last chance to thank and celebrate my incredible father. There are so many memories I hold dear. Some of my happiest moments with him were spent at sea, horseback riding, or cycling—full of laughter, music, and freedom. Anyone who knew him could instantly recognize his rebellious streak, fierce will, and insatiable curiosity. He was a free spirit with an incredibly kind heart.
Dad had many passions. He was snooker obsessed, loved exercising—he even did Trailwalker and ran the Standard Chartered Marathon—and enjoyed speeding down highways, always finishing the ride with an ice-cold Coke. He spent his career in semiconductor sales, loved technology despite being terrible at it, and had a deep affection for classic movies like The Godfather, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and action films. Music was a big part of his life, though he despised contemporary music, preferring nostalgic oldies. He was a big-picture guy, impatient with details, short-tempered at times, but with a newfound love for meditation in recent years. He was like a soft-boiled egg: a hard shell on the outside but soft and runny on the inside.
Some of my fondest memories with him are in the car. He’d say, "Steffi, I think these songs might be too disco or too hippy for mother,” So, When mother entered the car - it was Celine Dion, the second she closed the door , Boney M’s Rasputin at top volume.
Once, when I complained about the disco giving me a headache, he looked me straight in the eye, turned the volume up, and said, “You’re wrong—listen to it more. I’ll play it until you like it!” When I threatened to jump out of the car, he finally relented with Simon & Garfunkel or The Beatles.
He never Streamed music, he couldn’t figure it out, he would stop at Hong Kong Records or HMV, where he’d sing random song fragments really off beat and really out of tune with the wrong lyrics, to some poor part time sales assistant and ask them to figure out the song and recommend some CDs. I remember being so mortified, crouching behind the racks, dying of embarrassment.
We also had hilarious horse-riding lessons together. Both of us were thrown off our horses repeatedly—while they were walking slowly. He’d laugh and say, “Steffi, don’t tell your mother, but let’s agree we’re terrible at horse riding.” He was full of childlike energy. We rollerbladed at Pacific Place, enjoying the mall’s smooth marble floors while dodging security guards.
I discovered his fascination with something called the Vegetable Orchestra - an Austrian musical group who uses instruments made entirely from fresh vegetables - Imagine, Leek violins, carrots trumpets, and pumpkin drums, later turned into a soup for the audience. He also actively participated in something called Meditation Prayer Disco Zoom Party. This crazy man didn’t take life too seriously and I respect him for that.
You might have noticed the pictures, He loved the ocean - Whether we were swimming with fish, snorkeling, or eating the fish, he always found ways to share his love for water. When he was stressed he told me about driving to Niagara Falls, and told me to do something similar when I was at Uni.
And in warmer climates, He loved jet skiing and the novelty of banana boats. He also loved parasailing because he said that he felt like Jesus. We tried going fishing as a family once, none of us had patience and found it hilariously boring, he also said “the people who love fishing need to get a life and to get some better hobbies”.
When it came to art, in a city and a culture that doesn’t really respect the arts, Dad really encouraged me to explore and express myself. He helped me with school projects, like the time we made a massive trumpet fish model together. We also built a toilet roll house. threw eggs out of windows and made mini parachutes. He gave me no shortage of wacky ideas and opinions—especially about my drawings of animals. He’d say, "its Too fat, looks wrong, have you ever seen a dog before, looks like a cat" It’s funny to think about how much feedback he gave me on my drawing considering that I now do this professionally, given that he only ever done two paintings himself.
He worked in sales but found joy in being sold to, treating every sales pitch like a good story. Sometimes I find him, far too trusting of people. But that openness, giving time for their stories and backgrounds says something about his warm, accepting character. He had a strong sense of right and wrong and wasn’t shy about telling you when you were wrong—and why you were wrong.
Dad often said, “It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” and he lived by that principle. He hated bureaucracy, couldn’t tolerate small talk, and had no problem telling people exactly what he thought. While his raw honesty wasn’t always appreciated, it showed his strength and integrity—the man had backbone and guts - a rare breath of fresh air in today’s world.
Regarding my professional development he gave clear instructions from an early age - "I want you to live somewhere you can think freely and say whatever you want. Do work that makes brings you joy, but make sure it’s good work that helps people. Don’t waste your life away on something you dont like - it’s not always about money, life is not worth living that way.”
Dad, I’m now in the affordable housing sector—designing for everyday people. It’s not easy but I enjoy what I do and I find it fulfilling and meaningful. I really hope you are proud.
I also want to tell you that I am now living in a city where people are bicycle obsessed. I cycle every day now / Not just in parks and not just on weekends. I really love it, I have now have this cute folding bicycle that you will probably find ridiculous. Some of us are even thinking of training for a big cycilng trip up in Switzerland. You taught me how to cycle and trained me all those years at Tai Po and Beas River Jockey Club, thank you for teaching me one of my treasured hobbies.
I wish we had more time together. He didn’t make it to 70, or even to my 30th birthday next week. I’ll miss his message—something like, “Happy birthday, Steffi. How’s Mom? Make sure she’s happy! And you really need to try intermittent fasting.” I’m heartbroken that he’ll never meet Adam, walk me down the aisle, meet my future cat, and/or child. You never even had the chance to see my projects, given that you encouraged me to be an Architect. I couldn’t even take you to see the ABBA voyage show, where all the singers are avatars - you could have dressed up as Benny, and I can dress up as Bjorn.
The day mother and I got the phone call from Irene, we never saw it coming. I had just barely gotten to enjoy the relief of your heart attack last year, only to find out the the freedom-loving man I knew would never walk, see, or speak again after his stroke. But true to his character, he made a quick, peaceful exit—an “Irish goodbye” to the world.
Grief is so complex. How do you prepare for an upcoming loss while still making the most out of the time you have now? How do you not let this unbearable pain rob you of the goodness that you still want to enjoy? If you were expecting an answer, I’m not the right person to ask. Instead I just take my time and learn to let go. I cherish the good days, and give room for the bad. He told me several times, "I know you’ll be sad when I pass, but promise me you won’t be too sad. Look at the ocean, listen to good music, and remember the happy times, that’s it." After all, how lucky am I to have received so much love that I feel this much sorrow?
So for now, I’ll listen to the Beatles and know whenever I miss you, I can find us in my minds eye sitting side by side, in a car, coke in hand, you puffing away at your Cuban Cigar, driving on a highway towards the ocean. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and I miss you deeply. Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories. I love you dad.
