Ha Son Nguyen 1981-2026

Ha Son Nguyen

November 25, 1981 – September 8, 2026

There are some people you cannot explain neatly.

Ha was one of them.

He was funny, sarcastic, complicated, deeply loved, sometimes impossible, and completely unforgettable. He could make me laugh when I wanted to kill him, frustrate me beyond belief, make me worry sick, and somehow still be the person I wanted beside me at the end of the day.

We were not perfect people.

We were two imperfect people, made of flaws and good intentions, loving each other through the mess of being human.

We used to say to each other, “I love you, baby — messy parts and all.”

That was us.

Messy parts and all.

Ha leaves behind his daughter, Kacey Nguyen, and Jackson Smathers-Palleschi, who loved him as a stepfather and as part of the everyday rhythm of growing up.

He also leaves behind his niece, Eliza Fernandez, and his best friend, Michael “Mikey” Fernandez, the man Ha called his brother.

Ha and Mikey had their own language. Years of sarcasm, shorthand, ridiculous jokes, and the kind of friendship where half the conversation probably made no sense to anyone else. Mikey was fierce and steadfast in Ha’s life. He stayed. Through the good, the bad, and everything in between.

To Kacey, he was Dad.

To Jackson, he was woven into years of memories, conversations, laughter, camping trips, ordinary days, and the little moments that become enormous once someone is gone.

To Eliza, he was family.

To Mikey, he was a brother in every way that mattered.

And to me, he was Ha.

He absolutely loved Bubby, my cat, which is especially funny because before meeting her he insisted that he hated cats and was allergic to them. Their friendship started the very first night, when he saved her from a balcony. After that, she had him. She became part of his routine, his comfort, and his home.

Even now, she still waits for him.

I think we all do, in our own way.

There is still a part of me expecting the door to open.

Expecting the phone to ring.

Expecting him to be late, like always, and then finally walk in.

Ha loved his family deeply. He carried people with him even when relationships became complicated or distant. He missed people. He talked about them. He wished things could be repaired.

And toward the end of his life, there was hope.

He had started counseling.

He had started working again.

He was trying.

That matters to me.

His life was not simple. Neither was loving him.

But love does not have to be simple to be real.

I loved him without condition, without pretending away the hard parts, without needing him to become perfect in order to matter to me.

I loved him, baby — messy parts and all.

And I still do.

There are people still reaching for their phones to call him.

There are stories that will keep being told because saying his name is one way of keeping him near.

There are children and loved ones learning how to carry someone forward when they cannot bring him back.

Ha mattered.

His life mattered.

He was here.

He was loved.

And he will be remembered.

Rest peacefully, Ha.

You were never just the hardest parts of your story.