Alayna Erhart is a mixed-Asian filmmaker and writer based in Seattle, WA whose films celebrate the heartfelt, human-centered truths that bring us together and inspire more compassionate living. It’s only fitting that her writing does the same. She is currently developing the manuscript for her memoir––an incisive reflection on healing intergenerational wounds, salvaging love from losses both ambiguous and acute, and finding her inner-light in an implausible place.

When did you experience your big loss and grief and who was the person in relation to you? 

In 2011, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. I was fortunate to experience three and a half more years with him until he passed in November 2014. His death marked a paradigm shift in everything I thought I knew––about my values, my purpose, my family, myself. 

What words would you use to describe his character?

Intelligent, Committed, Integrous, Ambitious, Diligent, Practical, Courageous, Pained, Noble, Flawed, and Courageous

What is your earliest memory of your dad?

I am very much a steward of honesty, so in truth: my first memory of my father was a terrifying one. As the second born first-generation Chinese American son (and one of nine children), my father carried a lot of his own unattended trauma; neither of us had the chance to explore those wounds when he was alive. The year before I was born he had started his own private dental practice. He and my mother had also bought a home in an upper middle class neighborhood. The pressure I’m certain he felt to be successful and provide for our family took a detrimental toll on his ability to be a compassionate, warm, present parent. My first memories of him were of his anger.

Have you integrated the loss of your dad into your everyday life?

Sometimes it’s the fleece jackets I wear. I have three or four of his pull-overs in rotation and when I pull them over my shoulders and zip them to my chin, they feel like his hugs. Sometimes it’s in my relationship to my fitness routine. He was an avid athlete and I inherited that same drive. I’ve learned in the last five years to be kinder to my body and its capacities, but generally speaking, I love the feeling of being strong and connecting with his legacy through that pursuit. Sometimes it’s in my appetite for reading. I always remember him reading over the daily newspaper or a hardcover nonfiction book. He valued learning and what better way to do that than through the daily practice of expanding your mind. Mostly I think it’s in my daily ambitions––however small or large––with my business, my writing, improving upon my hobbies like gardening, piano, bread baking, etc. Someone close to my dad once called him “a perennial student.” And I feel so connected to that part of him when I study ways to improve and enjoy my own life.

How would you define the word “HOPE”?

The persistent belief in something precious and ideal.  

What does the word “healing” mean to you?

When my dad first passed, I remember feeling fearful of how time seemed to forge a schism between me and my memory of him. I almost clung the pain of losing him as a way of staying close to his ghost. I’ve learned healing is something that cannot be forced when you are grieving. There will be times you wish you could absolve yourself of the pain, but it’s truly something that courses through you as much as you course through it––with time and reflection.

What gifts have you found in the midst of your grief?

The gift of transformation. I questioned everything about my life and priorities when my dad passed. In doing so I found myself in a pretty dark but clarifying state of mind, fixated on “what’s the point” of everything––of legacy, of aspiration, of adherence to social norms, and even of getting out of bed every day. Though I was in deep pain, my existential quandaries opened me up to transformation. On a whim I joined a gym in my neighborhood and that’s where I met my husband. The example he’s shown me in his all-encompassing devotion to empathy, mental health, and nonjudgmental living not only saved my life when I’d entered a really wreck-less stage of grieving but also shaped the way I interact with the world and myself. Every moment of every day. In finding my husband I finally discovered a home I’d always dreamed of finding refuge in, and in discovering home, I finally felt free to be the person I’ve always wanted to be––the person I didn’t think I deserved to discover. 

How has your loss changed you? 

I’ve always been a sensitive and emotional person. The loss of my dad gave me full permission to tap into that even more fully with no apology. It made me curious about my darkness, about my trauma. It lowered my threshold for bullshit––like putting up with the expectations of others that are completely unaligned with my values, putting up with toxic relationships, putting up with superficiality. Losing him helped me feel courageous and informed enough to seek what makes me feel alive, proud, and at peace. And that has been the gift of a lifetime.

What is your biggest trigger and what helps you cope when it hits? 

Woof. In the freshest stages of grief, music of sentimental value was hugely activating. Six years later, I still find sometimes looking at his photographs to be heart wrenching. And when that tidal wave hits, I embrace it. I let the music play. I let my tears flow while looking at his image. I talk to him, I journal about him, I go cuddle my kitty in a good fetal position cry. I let that sorrow inspire the depth I seek in all things. I’ve also found it helpful to reach out to someone who knew him and ask for one of their favorite stories about him. Storytelling feels like salve for the aching soul.

What kind of grief support have you found to be most helpful?

THERAPY and READING (memoir, grief-specific writing, etc.) I would not be where I am today without the five years of therapy I invested in following his passing. That is undoubtedly true. 

What do you want the world to know about your dad?

I think we have a tendency to venerate the dead in ways that eulogize perfection––with or without our knowing, this impacts our inability to acknowledge our own and our collective imperfections. Our universal humanness. I want people to know my father was a beautiful, impressive, devoted, and haunted person. We did not have the best relationship when I was younger and our path to becoming close when he got sick was a bumpy one. But I wouldn’t change that. And I don’t fault him. I will forever see him as a person very much deserving of care he never received for his own child wounds. I love him as tremendously as I wish we could share in conversation and memories today. The complexity of my father and of our past feeds a quest I know I’ll never have closure to; nor do I need that closure. Why attempt to close something that’s infinite?

What makes you feel most connected to your dad who is no longer here? Is there anything specific or a symbol that you look for that reminds you of him?

I have a framed hand-written post-it in our home office that simply reads: “Good luck today. Love, Dad”. His handwriting is expeditious, angled, and crisp, but in its materialization, it invokes a brief and mighty moment of thoughtfulness and care that I know my father had for my success in life. I love this tangible artifact of his love and all it represents, both in its pragmatism and its simplicity.

If your dad could tell you anything, what do you think he would say to you?

“I’m proud of you, Alayna. I really am so proud of you.”

If you could choose one picture that best visualizes/represents your life now post-loss, what would it be? 

LOVE this question. It would be a picture of me writing or reading under the shade of a big, wise tree––contemplative and immersed in a safe place I’ve created with my partner, teeming with life and sanctuary for all forms of being. Grounded. Earnest. 

If you knew he could drop by and visit tomorrow, what would your ideal day with him look like? 

Omg don’t play with me like this! I’ve never once dreamed this up––what a beautiful thing to imagine.. When he was sick we couldn't do much outside of the house because he was so weak and tired. I would love to go on a little day trip with him to a gorgeous hike in the Cascades (a snow-capped mountain range east of Seattle), sandwiches & jerky for lunch, photographing the sights together on our DSLRs and nerding out over camera technology, music cranked to eleven in the car ride home where we could close out with a beautiful home cooked meal in our garden, prepared with the chef’s knife and dutch oven he bought me before he passed. 

What do you wish you had said to your dad before he left this earth? 

I don’t know who hurt you, but I can tell you unequivocally that you didn't deserve it, that you are more than your accomplishments, that you are precious to me despite our past, and I am so profoundly grateful for all you are.

Is there anything else you want to say on this topic?

Thank you. I’m so touched you reached out to me about this project. The act of sitting with my experience and putting words to its meaning has been a blessing all its own. <3

Publish date: February 15, 2021