Slice of Life: Cottage with the family
Définition: A “slice of life” is a narrative style that captures ordinary, relatable experiences—often without a traditional plot. It’s raw, honest, and sometimes beautifully uneventful.
After spending the last two years immersed in the heavily edited world of publishing—working closely with editors on my first book—I had almost forgotten how freeing it feels to write just for myself. Writing with an editor requires precision, restraint, and polish (understandably so—I'm not an amateur anymore, and I’m trying to enter the big leagues). But writing these “slice of life” pieces? It's like free association in psychoanalysis. No pressure. Just play. Like a pro hockey player returning to the street with his childhood crew.
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Both of my parents are Cambodian. They met in Canada after the war and had me and my brother. They each come from a family of four siblings, so I’ve always had a massive network of cousins. And being from a collectivist culture, “cousin” also includes family friends’ kids and random “aunties” who helped raise us. Blood or not, they’re family.
These days, I say no to a lot of fun things—especially during Montreal summer—because I’m deep in client sessions by day and manuscript writing by night. But there are a few things I always say yes to: my clients (gotta pay that mortgage), writing, life maintenance (sleep, showers, groceries), and my family.
This weekend? Family cottage weekend with my dad’s side—and a visit from my aunt and cousin from NYC.
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Montreal is such a unique city in North America : it blends North American hustle and ambition with european lifestyle. It’s where we do business in English, but make love in French. And if you didn’t know: Montreal is in Quebec, which is kind of like a country within a country. We speak another language, have a different school system, and even operate under a different legal code—Quebec uses civil law (think Napoléon-stuff), while the rest of Canada follows common law (think UK). We also manage our own immigration streams, language laws, and cultural policies.
Culturally, I feel Québécoise more than Canadian. I have little in common with Asians from Vancouver or Toronto. Think about it—I speak a different language than the rest of North America. French is my first language! I explained this in a previous post on commitment and exploration: my love for Montreal and Quebec isn’t based on blind patriotism. On the contrary—it’s because I’ve compared it with 30+ other cities.
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In Quebec, going to le chalet in the summer is basically a ritual. Yes, cottage life exists all over Canada, but ours has a particular vibe: rustic, unpretentious, and deeply communal. It’s wood fires, lake swims, shared meals, and a slightly drunk uncle playing cards. It’s not about luxury; it’s about disconnecting together.
So I wrap up work early on Friday, pack my bag, and go pick up my brother—we’re carpooling this year. We spend two hours in the car, catching up, which is rare and special. He’s been listening to Mel Robbins’ podcast lately (which warms my heart—he’s never really been into personal development like I am). Still, even with a hot-shot sister who’s a relationship and executive coach, he texts me like the most disinterested Tinder match ever. Siblings, eh?
I’m constantly amazed by the power of podcasts. Mine is small, but I regularly get messages from strangers telling me how one episode helped them more than anything else they’ve tried. That moves me. I have 500 regular listeners—not a huge number by influencer standards, but imagine 500 people showing up week after week to hear you talk. That’s no joke.
People underestimate how much work it takes to create content. My friends used to tell me, “You should be a YouTuber!” But they’re nuts—vlogging is a full-time job. If you’ve never created, you’ll never fully grasp how much it takes to be in creation mode instead of consumption mode.
On the drive, my brother tells me about a girl he wanted to date, but she wasn’t into it. They stayed friends and he told her :
“I’m down to be friends, but I have expectations for my friends too. We need to water the friendship from both sides.”
I was floored. Who is this assertive version of my brother? Also: it’s the first white girl he’s been into. He says, “I always thought white girls weren’t into me.”
It broke my heart a little. That’s internalized racism. I have it too. Sometimes, when I find a guy attractive, I instinctively think he’d prefer a white girl. Two seconds later, I catch myself—I know it’s not true—but that mental reflex is telling.
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We arrive at the cottage. There are 12 of us. Nothing makes me feel older than hanging out with teenage cousins. We’ve got the lake, paddleboards, a dock, and most importantly—a firepit. I love fires.
One of my cousins says, “Can you give me my phone so I can connect with nature?” I burst out laughing.
Then she looks at my phone case (which includes a card holder and a pouch for my AirPods) and says, “That’s such an old-person phone case.” I’m both offended and amused. I think, “Wow. That’s exactly how I’ll feel when my future kids roast me.”
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I’m the oldest cousin but the smallest. Most of the others are tall, gorgeous mixed-race teens—American-Italian, Chinese, white. I’m 5'3". They’re all pushing 6 feet. I love them deeply.
In Cambodian culture, age still matters. There’s a reverence for elders, even if you’re only older by a few years. I’m now at a sweet spot: still at the kids’ table, but too old to do the dishes. That job goes to the younger cousins now. I’ve done my time.
My dad shows up and immediately starts handing out money to the kids. They politely refuse, and I jump in:
“Take the money while adults still give it to you. One day, you’ll be my age, and you’ll be the one paying for everyone.”
Naturally, my dad brought his poker set and started teaching the teens. My 14-year-old cousin from NYC—quirky, awkward, tie-dye shirt, massive headphones—claims she’s a beginner. Mid-game, my dad eyes her and says, “I think you’re bluffing.”
She laughs and confesses: “Okay, fine. I’m level 30 on Discord for Texas Hold’em.”
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Later, we head downstairs to watch TV, which feels like a real treat for me—I don’t even own one. We can’t agree on a movie, so we settle on Too Hot to Handle (our other option was a documentary called Poop Cruise, about a powerless cruise ship).
The show is so cringy I have to hide my eyes. The premise: sexy singles can’t hook up or they lose prize money. I try turning off my professional brain, but I can’t. The whole idea assumes people are always horny just from seeing someone in a bikini.
Then I remember: not everyone is like me. Not everyone is surrounded by thoughtful, intellectual clients. Some people are like the contestants on that show. And it only takes three minutes for me to realize… I’m actually jealous of their shamelessness. They don’t care about being seen as “smart.” I do. That’s something I’m still working on—how liberating it must feel to not give a damn about optics.
My 14-year-old cousin is sitting on the couch reading a comic. I lean over, and we both see an anime porn popup. Huge boobs. The word “anal.” I ask, “Do you see these often?”
“Yeah… like every five ads.”
I say nothing—too tired—but make a mental note: I’ll do some sex ed with her later. Occupational hazard.
The next day, we chill by the firepit. My 16-year-old cousin shows me his prom photos. My aunt and uncle threw a mini pre-prom gathering with a limo and everything. He looks like a giant next to them in the pictures—these are going to be core memories for him. It melts my heart. I hope I can host moments like that for my future kids.
Meanwhile, my dad and his sisters gossip. Childhood memories flow. Trauma dumping happens casually.
My aunt shows a photo of their old Mercedes in Cambodia—pre-war. My dad casually says, “That car saved our lives. We escaped the Khmer Rouge by 5 km. If our dad hadn’t spotted his accountant driving the other way, we wouldn’t be here.” He says it like he’s telling a joke.
Later, we try paddleboarding with the family dog. My dad gives me surprisingly precise instructions. “How do you know all this?” I ask.
“Because of the war.”
I don’t respond. What do you even say to that?
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Later, a cousin from my mom’s side shares an Instagram reel in our family chat. It’s a Black guy saying, “I ain’t never heard a white person say they at their cousin house. Why white people ain’t got no cousin?” 😂😂 and the comments are even more hilarious.
“we got them. we dont like them”,
“they voted for trump”,
“They usually say “we’re going to Brian’s” or some formal shit like that”,
“Because they call them by their names only! I was dating this one white guy and he would say stuff like “I’m hanging with Jesse and Mike” and I would just assume they were his friends. Then I’d see them and say “Why do you guys all look alike?” And then he’d finally say “Oh, these are my cousins.” And I would always look so confused because why didn’t you lead with that! 😭 Black people will let you know that someone is family before we even say their names 🤣 We start with “This is my cousin, and then we say their names. lol”
“Meanwhile Latinos claim cousins that aren’t even cousins because how do we explain that’s our Mom’s best friend’s daughter?”
I laugh. And I feel so grateful to have this kind of family.
Above all, I feel grateful because I know what belonging feels like. It’s not just a concept I read about in a psychology book—it’s something I live, deeply and consistently. And that’s rare. Belonging is a core human need, as essential as food or shelter, yet many people—some of my clients included—have spent their whole lives feeling like outsiders, even in their own families.
Having been in the army, I’ve experienced a kind of brotherhood that’s hard to replicate in civilian life. That level of trust, of shared mission, of wordless connection—it leaves a mark.
But what I’ve come to realize is that true belonging isn’t about shared hardship or grand gestures….it might be about not having to perform.
When I’m with my family, I’m not the career woman people know. I’m just Kanica—no makeup, in joggers, hair in a messy bun, full-on acne—and I’m loved, just as I am.
And if that’s not success, I don’t know what is ♥️