I'm Ian Miller Kavin. People who know me call me Ian.
They see a guy with an American name, an American accent, maybe a little too tall to blend in easily on the crowded streets of Chiang Mai. They assume I'm just another foreigner who ended up in Thailand for the weather, the food, or maybe the Instagrammable temples. But most of them don't know that my story didn't begin here — and it didn't begin in the U.S. either. It began somewhere in between.
I was born in Austin, Texas — a city of cowboy boots and live music, where my dad, Mark Kavin, grew up. But before I could even walk, we were boarding a plane across the world to my mother's hometown in northern Thailand. That's where I grew up. That's where I learned to ride a motorbike before I learned how to drive a car. That's where I ate sticky rice with mango under a bamboo roof during monsoon season. That's where I became… me.
But who exactly am I?
Well… I'm a 26-year-old boy — yes, I'll say boy, not man — because sometimes I feel like I never really grew up. I still live with my parents in the same modest house tucked behind the jasmine trees my grandfather planted. Every morning, I wake up at 8 a.m., not to head off to a fancy office or chase some grand dream, but to take care of things around the house. My dad's away most of the time for work, and my mother — my mâe — needs someone now more than ever.
She had a stroke last year. It changed everything. One side of her body is weak, her words slower than before, but her eyes… they still hold the same fierce love. She used to sing while cooking breakfast. Now I hum those tunes quietly while stirring her porridge. Some days, I feel like I'm holding the pieces of our family together with thread, pretending it's all fine when it's not.
I have a younger sister, Mayuree Miller. She's the one who's working, building her career, chasing goals. And then there's me — the guy who finished a Fundamentals of Acting course, of all things. I thought it would help me find confidence, maybe even a path forward. But the truth?
Every time I step on stage, my chest tightens, my throat locks up, and my heart races like I'm being chased by something I can't see. Last semester, during one of the final performances, I almost fainted in front of everyone. The lights were too bright. The silence from the audience was too loud. And the panic… unbearable.
Sometimes I ask myself: Why did I even choose acting? Why dive into a world that demands you to be seen when all I want is to disappear when eyes are on me?
Flashback: Acting Class, Final Semester
The classroom was freezing — not because of the air-conditioning, which barely worked — but because of the nerves. Cold, sharp, creeping up my spine like a warning.
"Okay, Ian, you're up," Professor Mallory said, clipboard in hand, her eyes scanning everyone with that half-impatient, half-hopeful look. She didn't know I was already spiraling inside.
I stood up, my palms wet. My classmates — twenty pairs of eyes, too many — turned toward me. Some smiled politely, others were bored. I clutched the worn script in my hand, the lines memorized, rehearsed in front of the mirror a hundred times. But now, they slipped from my brain like water through my fingers.
I took a breath. One line in… two lines… and then it hit.
That familiar rush — the wrong kind. My heart pounded like it wanted to break out of my chest. My hands shook. My vision narrowed. I couldn't hear myself speak anymore, only the sound of blood rushing in my ears. The lights, the silence, the pressure — it was all too much.
My co-actor stared at me, confused, waiting for my cue. Professor Mallory tilted her head, about to say something, but before she could, I stepped back, stumbled a little, and sat down—or maybe collapsed on the floor. I don't remember which.
I heard someone ask if I was okay. I wasn't. I couldn't speak.
That was the day I realized acting might never be for me — not because I didn't love stories, not because I didn't want to be someone else for a while — but because my body refused to let me.
After that, I skipped the next few classes. Said I was sick. No one asked too many questions.
Back to the Present
After that day in class, something shifted — not just in me, but in how people looked at me.
Before, I was the quiet one. The guy who didn't talk much but always showed up, always listened. Some classmates would sit next to me, borrow a pen, ask about homework. I was never the center of attention, and I liked it that way.
But after the panic attack, it was different.
Some of them avoided eye contact. As if fear were contagious. As if the sight of me losing control reminded them they could, too.
A few asked if I was okay. But not because they cared — because it was the polite thing to do. Their eyes flicked away before I could answer.
I remember Mei Noi — the one who always partnered with me during improv games — she started choosing someone else. I couldn't blame her. Who wants to work with someone who might break down in the middle of a scene?
The worst part wasn't the embarrassment. It wasn't even the panic itself.
It was the silence that followed.
No one said anything outright. But I could feel it — the space growing between me and the rest of them. I became the fragile one. The unpredictable one. The guy who couldn't handle it.
It made going back to class harder. I'd sit in the back, nod along, pretend to take notes. My body was there, but my mind was somewhere far away — usually at home with Mâe, or lost in thoughts about who I was supposed to be if this path no longer made sense.
A Quiet Decision
It didn't happen all at once.
There wasn't some dramatic goodbye, no standing in front of the mirror tearing up my script, no emotional farewell to my classmates. It happened quietly, like a candle burning itself out. A slow flicker until the flame just… wasn't there anymore.
One night, I sat at the edge of my bed after helping Mâe into hers. The house was silent, except for the soft hum of the fan and the distant barking of street dogs. I stared at the shelf above my desk — where my acting notes, monologue printouts, and that thin course certificate were gathering dust.
I remembered how I used to hold those papers like they meant something. Like they were proof I was moving forward.
But now? They felt like pieces from someone else's life.
I reached up and slowly took them down. Not angrily. Just gently, like folding away a memory. One by one, I placed them in a box — not to throw away, not yet — but to put away. Out of sight.
I sat back down and whispered to the room, or maybe to myself, "I think I'm done."
And it felt… both like relief and loss.
I wasn't angry at myself. Not anymore. I had tried. I had stood on stage, felt the lights, spoken the lines. But sometimes, trying isn't enough to make something fit. Sometimes the dream isn't yours to keep, no matter how badly you wanted it to be.
I had no idea what came next.
But I knew this: whatever future I had, it would start not with pretending to be someone else… but finally learning how to be me.
Almost the End
It was near the end of the last semester when Professor Mallory asked to speak with me after class. Her tone was gentle, not like the sharp authority she usually carried when someone forgot their cue or missed a rehearsal. This was different — personal.
"Ian," she said, folding her hands on the desk, "I know this hasn't been easy for you. But I also know you have something real inside you. Something honest. That's rare."
I kept my eyes down, unsure how to respond. The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It was full — heavy with things we both knew but hadn't said.
"You don't have to keep performing if it hurts you," she added. "But finish the course. Just finish. You've come this far. And after that… maybe it won't be the stage. Maybe it'll be something else. This generation… there are so many ways to tell stories, to create. You might find your place where you least expect it."
I looked up, finally meeting her eyes. There was no pity in them. Just respect. And something close to pride.
"I know you meant that," I said softly. "Thank you. I appreciate everything."
She smiled — a small one, but it stayed with me. "You'll be okay, Ian. You just need time. And space to find your voice — in your own way."
That was the last conversation we had before graduation.
And I think, in some quiet way, it permitted me to let go of who I thought I had to be — and make room for whoever I was becoming.
A New Lens
It started small.
Scrolling through Instagram late at night, past the usual selfies and travel reels, I found myself stopping more and more on portrait photography pages. Not just landscapes or food — but people. Emotions frozen in frame. The way a simple tilt of the head or shift in light could tell a whole story without a single word.
Model photography. That's what they called it.
I didn't know why I was drawn to it — maybe because it still felt like acting in some way. Just… quieter. Instead of being the one on stage, I could be behind the curtain. Framing someone else's story. Capturing a feeling rather than performing it.
The more I looked, the more I believed: Maybe I could do this.
So I started teaching myself. YouTube tutorials. Free online guides. I'd study angles, lighting, lenses, editing styles — anything I could find in the few quiet hours between household chores and helping Mâe with her exercises.
Then I begged my dad.
Not like a kid begging for candy — this was different. I stood in the kitchen one evening while he was washing his lunch box from work and said, "Pà, I want to try something. I think I'm serious about this."
He turned to look at me, towel in hand.
"I want to learn photography. Real photography. I've been studying, and I think I have a chance… but I need a camera. A good one. Like the Nikon D850."
He didn't answer right away. Just nodded, slowly, like he already knew this conversation would come.
Later that week, he came into my room holding a small box wrapped in brown paper. "I can't afford new," he said, "but this one's good. Second-hand. From a guy at work."
I opened it.
Nikon D850.
I didn't say anything at first — the lump in my throat was too big. But he saw the look on my face, and he smiled. It was the same tired smile he wore every morning before work, but softer now. Like maybe, just maybe, he was glad to see me want something again.
"I know you stayed for her," he said, quietly. "And I know you've given up a lot. But that doesn't mean you stop living, Ian."
And that was the first time in a long while I felt like I could still have a future — one click at a time.
First Shots
So I started at home — where everything else in my life had always begun.
My first subject? Mayuree Miller. My younger sister, the star of her own digital world. She was more than willing — she practically jumped at the idea. As a content creator, she loved dressing up, posing, playing with moods and styles. She'd been asking me to take her photos for months before I even considered holding a camera. Funny how things work out.
She showed up to our first mini-session in the living room wearing a wide-brim hat, a flowy off-shoulder dress, and the confidence of someone born to be in front of a lens.
"Don't mess this up, Photographer-nong," she teased, flipping her hair dramatically.
I rolled my eyes. "Don't blink too hard, Superstar."
The first few shots were shaky — my hands still learning the feel of the camera, the buttons, the way light dances through a lens. But then something clicked — not the shutter, but inside me.
It felt right.
And then there was Mâe.
She couldn't walk much, not without help, but she insisted on putting on her soft pink blouse and a small gold pin that used to belong to her mother. She smiled when I pointed the camera at her — really smiled, like she hadn't in months. Not just for the photo, but for the moment.
It was happiness shared between the three of us — a rare, honest kind.
We decided to make a weekend of it.
My dad was away for business, and the beach wasn't far. We packed the car with snacks, a picnic mat, and enough clothes to survive an impromptu photoshoot with Mayuree's 10 outfit changes. Mâe sat in the front seat, humming a song I hadn't heard in years.
When we reached the coast, the wind greeted us first. The sea was a soft blue, and the sand warm beneath our feet. I took out the Nikon — my Nikon — and felt that same stillness in my chest, the good kind. The kind I never felt on stage.
Click. Mayuree dancing barefoot near the water.
Click. Mâe laughing as her scarf blew away and Mayuree chased it.
Click. A self-timer photo of all three of us, smiling under the orange glow of sunset.
And for the first time in a long while, I thought — maybe I don't need to perform to be part of a story.
Maybe I just need to see it… frame it… and share it.
The Stranger with No Smile
While we were sitting on the mat, snacking on dried mango and laughing over Mayuree's latest reel idea, I had this sudden urge — a hunch, really — to snap a few portraits of Mâe.
She shook her head, already trying to shield her face with her hand. "No, Ian. Not now, I look messy," she said in Thai, half-laughing.
But I smiled and lifted the camera anyway. "Just one, Mâe. For me."
She rolled her eyes but let me take the shot. It was one of those moments where the light hit just right — her smile soft, the sea behind her glowing in golden light, and her hand gently resting on the edge of the picnic mat. I knew, instantly, it would be one of my favorite photos of her.
Then Mayuree nudged me. "Hey, we should get a photo of all three of us."
"Yeah," I said, standing up and dusting sand from my jeans. "But we need someone to take it."
I scanned the beach — couples, kids, tourists… and then I saw him.
A tall guy, maybe in his late twenties, walking alone. He was dressed neatly — beige linen shirt, dark slacks rolled just above the ankles, sunglasses hanging from his shirt pocket. He looked like he stepped out of a minimalist fashion ad. Calm, composed… and totally expressionless.
Still, I waved and called out, "Phi! Phi! Can you help us snap a few photos?"
He stopped, turned slowly.
And yes — he was cute. Sharp jawline, slightly sunburnt nose, hair tousled by the breeze. But not a single smile. Just a quiet, curious look.
He nodded once.
"Thank you! Just a few, yeah?" I said as I handed him the camera.
He took it carefully, adjusted his stance like he'd done this a hundred times. No chit-chat, no small talk. Just click-click-click. Quick, clean shots.
When he handed the camera back, I smiled and fished into the snack basket.
"Here," I said, holding out a Kit Kat bar. "For your trouble."
He took it, glanced down at it, then looked at me — then at Mayuree and Mâe.
And then, strangely, he thanked them.
"Khob khun krub, mae... nong," he said softly.
And without another word, he turned and walked away.
I blinked. "Mate… what's your problem?"
Mayuree burst out laughing. "He's probably shy."
"Or dramatic," I muttered. "Like he's walking off to his own indie film soundtrack."
But as I looked down at the camera screen, flipping through the photos he took, I couldn't help but admit… he had an eye. The angles, the light, the way we looked — it was perfect.
Maybe he wasn't so weird after all.
Or maybe… he'd be back.
The Tide Turns
I glanced at my phone — 4:56 PM.
The sun was lowering, orange spilling across the sky like melted sherbet. I nudged Mayuree gently.
"Let's go home," I said.
But Mâe, who had been quietly watching the waves for a while now, spoke up, her voice soft but steady:"Just a few more minutes."
Mayuree and I looked at each other, then at her.
"Okay, Mâe," I said, smiling.
Then I turned to Mayuree. "Stay here. I just want to walk for a bit — enjoy the sunset."
She nodded. "Don't go too far. Be back soon."
I gave her a quick two-finger salute and started walking down the shoreline, camera slung over my shoulder. The air was warm, the light just golden enough to make everything feel cinematic.
About ten minutes in, I reached a stone viewpoint that jutted into the sea. It was crowded — unusually so. People were standing like they'd just spotted a K-drama finale being filmed. Phones up. Eyes wide. Excitement thick in the air.
I smiled, curious. As I got closer, I noticed him — him — the tall, rude guy from earlier. Right in the center.
Except this time, he wasn't quiet. He was surrounded by girls — and guys — shouting, "Phi! Phi kaa! Over here!" Snap. Snap. Snap. Everyone was taking photos like he was some rare bird on a runway.
And then it clicked.
That wasn't just a good-looking guy who passed by our picnic.
He was a celebrity.
I didn't know what kind — actor? model? influencer? But the way people treated him… it was clear. He was someone.
I was still processing it when my phone buzzed — and everything inside me shattered.
Mayuree.Crying.
"Phi! Come now! Mâe passed out! She's not waking up!"
I froze. My vision blurred. My breath shortened.
Panic surged up like a tide inside me. My legs moved before my mind could keep up. I ran. Fast. Barefoot, breathless, the camera bouncing against my chest.
By the time I got back, I saw them.
Mayuree on her knees, shaking Mâe, tears down her face. Mâe lying motionless on the sand. Her favorite pink scarf slipping off her shoulder.
I dropped to the ground, screaming her name."Mâe! Mâe! Wake up! Please!"
My voice cracked. My chest tightened. The world spun. The familiar pull of a panic attack — stronger than ever.
I didn't notice who was around. Didn't hear anything but my own heartbeat crashing in my ears.
But someone stepped in.
Cut through the crowd.Pushed gently between me and Mayuree.Took control.
It was him.The same guy. The one who hadn't even smiled at me earlier.
He knelt beside Mâe, checked her pulse, called someone — or maybe spoke to someone nearby. I can't remember.
I blacked out.
Hospital Room
White walls. Cold chair. IV beeping somewhere behind me.
I opened my eyes, still in shock. The doctor stood near the door, voice low and expression unreadable.
"Please call your father now," he said. "This is important."
I looked over at Mayuree, whose hands were trembling as she dialed.
30 minutes later, Dad arrived — face drawn, shirt still creased from the drive.
"What happened?" he asked, voice breaking.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
I looked at Mayuree instead.
Because honestly?
I didn't remember a thing.
The Waiting Room
The fluorescent lights above us flickered softly, humming against the silence that had settled in the hospital hallway. My leg wouldn't stop bouncing. My hands were cold and clammy.
Then the doctor reappeared.
"You're the husband?" he asked.
My dad stood, nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I am."
"Please come with me."
And just like that, they disappeared behind the double doors.
Mayuree and I sat in silence, hands tightly clasped, her fingers trembling in mine. My heart was pounding again — too fast, too loud — like it was trying to break free from my chest.
We waited.
And waited.
Minutes felt like hours. Then finally, the door opened.
Dad walked out.
His face — it didn't look like him. It was pale, sunken, as if the life had drained out with each step he took. His shoulders sagged like they couldn't carry the weight of what he had just heard.
"Pà?" I said, standing slowly. "What did they say?"
Mayuree rushed forward first, grabbing his arm. "Pà, tell us. What happened? What did they say?"
He looked at her, then at me.
And then he said the words I never thought I'd hear.
"I'm… I'm sorry. She's leaving us."
Everything inside me shattered.
"No…" I whispered.
My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened like iron hands were squeezing it shut.
"No, Mâe… no…"
My knees buckled. I dropped to the cold hospital floor.
"You can't do this now! Not now! Please, Pà, do something! Call someone! She can't—she can't go yet!"
Tears blurred everything. I was screaming now — or maybe I wasn't. I couldn't hear anything except my own voice begging, crying, breaking.
"No, Mâe! No! Don't leave me—!"
Then everything went black.
The Last Light
When I came back to my senses, I found myself sitting beside her hospital bed. Machines beeped softly in the background. Tubes and wires snaked from her frail body to blinking monitors. My hands trembled as I reached for hers — still warm, still here.
But seeing her like that — pale, weak, depending on machines to stay alive — broke me. I started sobbing again, quietly this time, but uncontrollably. I felt helpless. Miserable.
My father stood across the room. The strongest man I've ever known… was crying. Silent tears ran down his face as he stared at the woman he built his life with.
Mayuree sat in the corner, head down, arms wrapped around herself, crying in that breathless way like she was afraid if she made a sound, it would become real.
The doctor came in, quiet, respectful.
"If she wakes up," he said softly, "please… have a good conversation with her. We don't know what will happen next."
Hours passed. None of us moved much. Just sat with her, watching every breath she took. Praying.
Then… her eyes fluttered open.
"Mâe…" I leaned in, eyes blurring with tears again. "Mâe, I miss you."
She turned to me slowly, a faint smile touching her lips.
"Me too… my baby," she whispered.
Then, with effort, she added, "Can we… get a family picture? Snap it… with your camera…"
I choked on a sob, holding her hand tighter.
"Yes, Mâe. We can. We will," I said, smiling through tears. "We'll take so many after you get better."
She nodded gently, her eyes already beginning to close again. Preparing herself. Maybe for more sleep. Maybe for more than that.
We didn't want to think about it.
The next day, Dad and Mayuree both took leave from work. We weren't sure how many days we had, but we wanted to make each one count. I brought all my camera gear to the hospital — every lens, every battery. I wanted to capture every smile, every breath, every blink.
We took photos in the hallway, on the hospital balcony, even at the small garden outside when the doctor allowed her fresh air.
She smiled in all of them.
Day six.
Hope felt stronger.
That morning, I went home quickly to grab more clothes for all of us. We were planning to stay longer that day, maybe play her favorite Thai songs, maybe talk about future trips.
Around 10:13 AM, I rushed back into the hospital, camera bag still on my shoulder.
But as I turned the corner near her room, I saw them — the doctor, the nurses — standing outside.
Something felt wrong.
I ran.
"Wait, please," a nurse said, gently pushing me back. "We're doing our best."
I froze.
The walls blurred again. My throat clenched. I called Dad.
"Pà… come now. Fast. Something's happening."
He and Mayuree arrived twenty minutes later. None of us spoke. We just stood there. Waiting.
Praying.
The door opened.
And we knew. Even before he spoke.
The doctor looked at us with a face I'll never forget — tired, gentle, full of sorrow.
"I'm sorry," he said. "She's no more."
After She Left
The hospital walls that had once held our fear now held only silence.
I remember my father dropping to his knees — not dramatically, not loudly — just… collapsing. Like something inside him finally let go. He wept into his hands, the same hands that had always been too steady to shake.
Mayuree didn't say a word. She stood frozen, like she hadn't heard it properly. Her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. But no tears came for a long moment. She just stared at the floor.
Me?
I couldn't breathe.
It was like my lungs had shut down. My heart beat out of rhythm, my hands trembled. I backed against the cold wall, then slid down, curling in on myself.
"Mâe…"
Just her name. That's all I could say.
They let us see her one last time before they took her away.
She looked… peaceful.
Like she'd fallen asleep to the sound of waves. That same softness was on her face — the kind she wore whenever she watched me photograph sunsets, or when she listened to Mayuree talk about makeup, or when Pà told one of his silly, too-long stories.
I placed her favorite pink scarf beside her hands. Tucked it in. I didn't want her to feel cold.
I whispered, "We'll take that picture someday… in another life."
The Funeral
Thai and Western traditions met in the way we laid her to rest. We dressed in white, as is custom — not black — because white meant purity, peace, a final freedom from suffering. Monks chanted prayers that floated into the air like smoke, carrying our grief to wherever souls go when they leave us behind.
We offered food. We burned incense. We bowed our heads and prayed.
Family friends came. Even neighbors who hadn't visited in years showed up. They brought flowers, warm hugs, and sometimes just silence — the kind that said, I don't know what to say, but I'm here.
But me… I sat beside her until the very end.
Even after the chants stopped and the last person left, I remained next to her. My knees ached. My heart was hollow. But something in me said — don't move. Maybe it was her voice. Or just the echo of it.
I think… I think she would've wanted me there.
After
The night passed. And we returned to the house we had always called home.
But it wasn't the same.
We tried to be normal, whatever that meant. But everything was off balance, like the gravity in the house had changed.
There was an empty chair at the dinner table.
The jasmine tea sat untouched in the pantry. Nobody brewed it anymore.
Her favorite shawl still hung on the back of the living room chair — untouched, undisturbed.
I spent hours sitting by the window, just staring.
What did I use to do when Mâe was here?
What did I do for myself?
I couldn't remember.
I think that's what grief is — not just pain. It's confusing. It's the rewiring of your life after someone takes a piece of it with them.
Quiet Changes
Mayuree moved back home for a while. She said it was temporary — but we both knew she just couldn't stand being in her condo alone. Not yet. Every night, I'd hear her crying softly in the room across the hall. Some nights I'd knock. Some nights I wouldn't.
Dad… he changed, too. He started taking long walks every evening. Always at the same time — just after dinner, right when the sky turned gold. He'd come home with red eyes and quiet sighs.
We all grieved differently.
Me?
I stopped photographing for a bit.
The camera sat on my desk, untouched. Covered in dust, like it too was mourning.
A New Light
One night, during dinner, the silence between us felt heavier than usual. The sound of cutlery tapping against plates filled the room, but no one really tasted the food.
I put down my spoon and took a deep breath.
"I want to pick up the camera again," I said, my voice soft, almost hesitant. "And… try something. I know Mâe would love it."
The moment I said her name out loud, my throat tightened. My eyes welled up, and the tears came before I could stop them. It wasn't just sadness. It was something else — like a fragile kind of happiness trying to break through the grief.
Both Dad and Mayuree paused.
Then, slowly, they nodded.
Mayuree reached out and placed her hand on mine. "She'd be proud of you, Ian," she said, her voice trembling.
Dad didn't say much — he never really did. But he gave me a firm, steady look and just said, "Go for it, son."
That was enough.