“When running from pain, louder it becomes.”
(Yoda… or someone like him)

Before 2015, Christmas in our family looked much like it did for many others.

We spent days wandering through shopping malls and stores, trying to figure out what to buy for the people closest to our hearts. We don’t have extended family in Canada, so the list was short, but the effort was still there. Shopping for gifts, preparing a traditional dinner, visiting friends, snapping photos on Christmas morning—and then, suddenly, Christmas was over.

It worked while the kids still lived at home.

Once we became empty nesters, Blazena and I started questioning the routine.
“Why are we buying presents for our adult children?” I asked.

More importantly, we realized we had very little time to truly enjoy each other’s company. We were always shopping, cooking, or rushing somewhere.

So we decided to change things.

Instead of staying home, we would leave for a warm place before Christmas and return after. The money we would normally spend on gifts, food, and the general holiday buzz would go toward a family vacation at an all-inclusive resort.

Everyone liked the idea.

The following year, I booked a trip to the Mexican Riviera for the whole family. It was great.

That became our tradition. Instead of staying home, we travel somewhere warm, eat well, relax, take excursions, and make memories.

One Christmas, we stayed at a beautiful five-star resort in Puerto Vallarta. The rooms were modern, the food was excellent, and the activities were plentiful. Everyone did their own thing during the day, and we came together for breakfasts, dinners, and excursions.

Patrick went sailing and fishing. Luke went snorkelling. Blazena and I usually sat by the pool, enjoying the warmth and the view.

One particularly beautiful morning, shortly after 4 a.m., I walked down to the beach. I leaned against a palm tree and began my meditation.

I had started meditating about seven years earlier, and by then it had become part of my daily routine. I could meditate anywhere, but doing it among palm trees, facing the ocean, felt like a gift.

I noticed a security guard making his rounds. He had seen me there the past few mornings. He nodded and continued on.

About thirty minutes into my meditation, I heard a woman’s voice in distress.

The hotel’s architecture caused sound to echo, so at first it was hard to place. She was urgently calling someone’s name. I didn’t pay much attention until I realized the voice was getting closer.

Moments later, a young woman stood in front of me. She was clearly upset and asked if I had seen her boyfriend.

I told her calmly that I had not.

Seeing how distressed she was, I asked if she wanted to sit down and talk. She nodded and sat beside me on the warm sand. Her voice was raspy, full of emotion, as she told me what had happened.

She and her boyfriend had gone to a party. They argued. He left her there. For the past two hours, she had been searching nearby hotels. He wasn’t in their room. She was afraid he had left her.

As she began to calm down, I asked gently,
“What else is happening in your life?”

She looked at me, puzzled, as if asking why I would even bring that up. After a pause, she said quietly,
“My dad died two weeks ago.”

Tears poured down her face.

I asked her to tell me about her father. She spoke about their difficult relationship and how she had never tried to make things right. I asked if she had allowed herself time to grieve.

She said no.

She told me she had been running from it. Even this trip to Mexico, with a very new boyfriend, was an attempt to escape the grief she refused to face.

As the sun began to rise over the horizon, her tears slowed and then stopped. I suggested she go back to her room and get some rest.

“I’m sure your boyfriend will show up once you’ve slept,” I said.

She stood up calmer than before, her energy noticeably different. She thanked me, hugged me, and as she turned to leave, she looked back and asked in a serious tone:

“Tell me… are you my personal Yoda?”

I smiled and said, “Yes.”

That was the day I became Yoda.

Epilogue

A few hours later, over breakfast, I told the story to my family and a couple of friends. Everyone loved it. Since that morning, within our family and close circle of friends, I’ve been known as Yoda.

I don’t mind. Yoda was a fine creature. Being compared to him feels oddly comforting.

I’ll always remember that young woman whose name I never learned.

By Tibor Yoda

Assisted by AI