An early morning, I saw a message from my close sister at work. She had sent me a screenshot of an image of a whale and an article, along with her message: “I know you love to paint whales, so I thought of you when I saw this article.”

I do love whales. One of the things on my list is to see a whale up close.
But what if someone who’s afraid of water — especially deep water — has a connection for whales?
I realize I haven’t spent enough time learning about them. I just feel safe and warm when I see a whale.

Painting or creating different kinds of art about whales has always been a mindful, calming activity for me.
Once, I even sent one of my small whale paintings to a stranger through a postcard campaign.
I really hope she received it — though it’s quite common for mail to get lost when sent from my country. :”>

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Here is the article after being translated from Vietnamese to English.
I’m not entirely sure how accurate its is about the whale (you can correct me if you know more), but for me, it was a beautiful and moving read:

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“When a whale dies, it doesn’t disappear.
It sinks down to the ocean floor, slowly and silently, like a final farewell sent into the deep water.
That moment is called a whale fall* – the death of a whale, but actually, it is not the end.
It is the beginning.” (This reminds me of another article I wrote earlier.)

*A whale fall refers to the process when a dead whale sinks to the ocean floor, creating a localized ecosystem that supports various deep-sea organisms.

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“At the seabed, where light cannot reach,
the body of a whale becomes an entire living world.
For many decades, it nourishes hundreds of marine species – from sea crabs and eels
to creatures never seen on land, or even known to science.
From one death comes an entire ecosystem.
A rebirth of life – complete and silent.”

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“But whales give even more than that.
Throughout their lives, they absorb carbon from the atmosphere.
When they die and sink into the deep sea, they carry that carbon with them,
locking it away for centuries.
Silently, they help cool the planet — even after they have stopped breathing.
Their death not only nurtures the ocean,
but also protects humanity.”

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“And while alive, whales sing.
Songs without words, echoing hundreds of kilometers through the sea.
That’s how whale mothers call their calves, how pods find one another,
and how someone in another ocean sends out a song of longing,
hoping one day to return.
A way to keep anyone from getting lost.
A melody to connect estranged souls.
It is memory. It is yearning.
It is the most primal message still present on this planet.”

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“Few people know that the heart of a blue whale is the size of a small car.
And when it dives deep to the ocean floor,
that heart beats only twice per minute –
as if whispering to the world:
‘Be calm. Go deeper. Live slower.’”

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“The greatness of whales doesn’t come from thundering sound or massive bodies.
It comes from what they give to life:
protection, memory, and even love.
They are the silent keepers of the ocean’s wisdom.”

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“If elephants embody compassion on land,
then whales are those who carry kindness swimming through the sea.
And both remind us that greatness doesn’t need to be loud.
Greatness is knowing when to pause, when to give,
and how to leave something behind — even when it’s time to go.
To leave a part of yourself behind that continues to live on,
in the flourishing of the world.”

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At the end, being great like a whale reminds me of something a colleague once said:
“Leadership doesn’t need to be loud, and it doesn’t need to be fast.”

I still enjoy contributing in silence — my manager once gave feedback that I need to share more and be loud about it.
Quietly, I still want to be my own great whale, and I still aspire to be a compassionate and silent leader.

I know that I always like these big animals: 🐋 or polar bear?

Thank you 🙂