"Don't be sorry. Be here."

One of the most difficult words to say sometimes is "sorry." I don't think anyone actually enjoys apologizing. It means acknowledging you wronged someone. It's a blow to your pride. Sometimes we say sorry and don't really mean it; other times, we say it but follow it up with a cushion for our ego: "Sorry I spilled hot coffee all over your laptop, but..."

Recently, someone from my past sent me an email that was a straight apology for something that happened about two years ago. There was no ego in it, no hidden subtext. It was am "I'm sorry"--period--and it can't have been easy for her to send. Two years ago upon our falling out, there had been a lot of finger pointing and false apologies on both ends. But this email was different. There was something gracious about her words, something admirable about the way she took on the burden of responsibility on her own. Although I know both of us played equal roles in the end of our friendship then, her email, to me, meant there were more important things in the world than our bruised feelings from the past.

With no expectations, she humbled herself by reaching out. It made me think about the "prisons" we keep others in, whether we intend to or not, because we're angry or hurt. Sometimes, someone says something to you that really hurts you, and rather than try to fix the situation, you close up and turn down a different road. Perhaps a year ago if she sent me this email, I wouldn't have responded. Or I would have emailed back and reminded her how much she upset me.

With the recent news of actress Charlyne Yi's recollection of an uncomfortable encounter with a fellow actor, I've been thinking a lot about those moments we often run into in a day that stay with us – and perhaps don't resonate as deeply with the other person.

Perhaps David Cross doesn’t remember. I don’t know. But what I can say is that even the most well-intentioned people will unknowingly offend, and even if they don’t remember it, their words or actions may make a lasting impact.

I’m sure the person last week who mis-identified me as two different Asian-American women in one breath, and then waved his hand and said, “Oh, whatever” when I corrected him, didn’t think he was saying anything wrong.

Since 2017, I've picked a word to inspire the coming year – a philosophy, if you will. In 2017, it was "create," which led to weekly blogs, a podcast, and a burst of creativity across my professional career. "Reclaim" was 2018's word, which served as a reminder to be attentive to my own needs and desires, and not to sacrifice my mental health to please others. I chose "align" in 2019 to try and re-center myself after a year of personal pain, and in 2020, the word was "build" because I wanted to focus on building better and healthier habits, and also building a present that would transform my future.

As chaotic as 2020 was, I hope I did my best to hold "build" in my heart while walking through such a tough year. I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a good person as an adult because I grew up with the idea – as I'm sure many others did too – that adulthood was something entirely removed from adolescence; that being an adult meant the child I was and the lessons learned were put into a box and set aside as a memory once I crossed that magical bridge into "independence." 

Maybe it's more obvious to others, but it took me awhile to see it: growing up isn't about the things we leave behind, but rather about the people, places, and moments that've helped build us, and learning how to carry those things wherever we go. As I packed up my apartment to move last month, I thought about the devastation associated with the space where I lived for 3 years – the corners I cried, the ceilings I stared at, the places I sat to receive bad news. 

But I also thought about the hope I found that was built by the people and the things that have changed my life in both big and small ways: the mirrors where I learned to love myself, the rooftop where I gathered with friends, the card on my dresser sent by a friend at my lowest point. Those are the things that helped me build in 2020 and see that my "word" for the year didn't have to be something I took on alone.

So for 2021, the word I'm choosing is "encourage." I want this year's personal philosophy to be less about myself and more about others. I jokingly tweeted the other day that I wanted to exude "best friend character" energy to the rest of my friends, but there's absolutely truth in it: I don't think I have the energy and charisma to be the main character right now, but I damn well can put whatever I have into hyping up the people around me – especially the ones who've been there for me too. 

I also want "encourage" to serve as a little "note" to myself to continue being gentle with my head and my heart when I'm struggling, both personally and professionally. If I'm going to live my life believing in others, I should remember to also begin the day with believing in myself first.

Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for being on this journey with me in whatever way you have.

Between watching one-too-many rom-coms, reading Aziz Ansari's Modern Romance, and talking with my best girlfriends, I've come to the conclusion that I've never been on a proper date. As in: Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl on date. Boy plans more than just, "Let's meet up at happy hour."

Or however that's supposed to go.


But in all honesty--and this is going to be half-embarrassing to admit and mostly amusing--I think I can only pinpoint one "date" that ever felt truly planned, and I'm not sure it entirely counted because it was with an ex-boyfriend and it was an anniversary.

Well, there's another "date" a few years ago that might count, but it ended with me discovering he was kind of racist and then having to lie about having a boyfriend to stop him from stalking me around coffee shops.

Anyways.

I could bore you with a lede about how social media has made it easier to be mean to one another on the internet, but instead I'll jump straight to the point, because the point is there's no way to lead into this tweet I received on Friday:

Inside my grandparents' home: the cross-stitch my mom made with all nine grandchildren's names and birthdates; the mantle lined with all of our graduation photos; the wishing tree from Mel and Kim's surprise baby shower we threw them back in August.

Families are frustrating. I think they're supposed to be, or else we couldn't learn to appreciate them in times of crises and need. I was born into a strong community full of strong individuals. It's a large family, full of aunts and uncles and cousins who feel more like a second set of parents and siblings. I think one of the saddest things about being away from all that now is the realization that if I ever had kids, they won't get to experience that too.

I've never thought of myself as much of a family person, but the more time I spend with them as an adult, the more I miss them. As the youngest, I never really got to bond with my cousins the way I wish I could have. Perhaps this is why 'communities' are so important to me: because they remind me of my most significant, yet distant, one.

Thanks to a persuasive New Yorker review of Parenthood, I marathoned through all of the episodes up until the latest one and found that the strength of the show lies in the irritating characters that you can't help but care about (except, maybe, Kristina). Watching Parenthood makes me homesick, and not just because it takes place in Berkeley, but because it's the kind of community I can only see now through photo albums. We're all so spread apart--and yet, when there are celebrations or holidays that reunite us, it makes me yearn for that community to exist year-round. Despite the frustrations and the arguments and the drama, there's still a love that can't be tossed aside.

Mom always told us that her father reminded them that family is the most important thing because, at the end of the day, that's sometimes all you have. And I think it's true. Sure, you don't have to love them, but you choose to because they're yours, and whomever you choose to date or marry better appreciate that too because my family is made up of a fierce love that radiates toward everyone who enters our home. Be prepared to be engulfed with passion, care and encouragement. When it comes to birthdays and holidays and every little milestone, we go big. We'll love you because someone in our family loves you, and that's all we need to know.

Being far away from my family makes me feel less connected to my identity and culture. It's tough to go from being surrounded by it, to never having it around. And because I didn't seek out similar communities in college, I had friends who would joke about me being whitewashed which, secretly, really upset me. They have no idea, I would think, of who I am or where I came from. Maybe it's my fault for never saying anything.

Anyways, the point is...it's difficult for me to articulate how important my family is to me. Each one of them has something that makes them special and unique, and I could spend pages and pages just writing about them. It makes me sad that I won't have the opportunity to bring new people into this community while I'm thousands of miles away.

In New York City, you have to walk with purpose. Know where you're going, and head toward it with confidence--or at least be good at faking it. (Whenever I think about navigating the streets, I hear Miss Jay Alexander's voice in my head telling me to "stomp it out.")

Someone last week asked me how I was so sure of myself. I let her in on a not-so-secret secret: I'm not all that sure. Like any good millennial, I waver between confidence and anxiety. I slap myself on the wrist when I make mistakes. I feel guilty all too often when I theoretically have nothing to feel guilty about at all.

But sometimes I worry that saying all of that is a way of shrinking behind other taller violets because I don't feel like I quite measure up. Or perhaps you all think I'm fishing for compliments. I'm not. Just ask my closest friends and they'll tell you how often I stress out about...well, everything.

That doesn't mean I know I haven't worked hard. I know that it wasn't just luck that brought me where I am. But that also doesn't mean I don't question whether I'm heading (stomping?) in the right direction from time to time.

Again--no resolution here. I feel like these daily blog posts, while difficult, have been cathartic in some way for me to unleash all of my anxieties and freak outs so that when the autumn rolls around, I'll feel refreshed.

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..."

I hate that some people are always trying to "find themselves." As Cortney pointed out during one of our long summer talks, "What are you looking for?? You're RIGHT. THERE."

I went through my Tumblr archives earlier because that's what I do when I'm in a funk: I look for inspiration from the familiar, because if there's anything I've learned from Cheever, it's that we hear the same lessons over and over, yet we are not always prepared to listen when we hear at first.

September 10, 2010: "I'm beginning to realize life is full of moving and searching- the idea of 'finding your place in this world' is so misleading because your place in the world is going to change, or move, or be split between several places." Based on my opening quote and this one from last year, I would say Cortney is the wisest person I know. It's true: nothing is permanent and we're always moving, changing, growing in ways we can't even fathom ourselves in the moment. It's beautiful and terrifying (mostly terrifying) and it should feel like you're floating out there in the universe on an asteroid alone. "What the hell am I doing?" you'll ask yourself, and you won't have an answer.

To sum up my feelings on "finding yourself," I can only turn to one of the most cliché phrases I know: "Life isn't about finding yourself, it's about creating yourself." It isn't about taking who we were in one place and transplanting it into our new environment. It isn't about holding onto those who made you who you were. You're in a new place, kid. Go make something of yourself.


Lately, I've found myself struggling with all of this. Here I am in an environment and place that is completely new to me. I go back and forth between wanting to be a hermit and wanting to be my old social self. But the anxieties I've grown to hide have manifested themselves in ways I sort of expected, and I think what I struggle with most right now is the attempt to purge myself of communications that can't be good for either party. I'm not growing in ways that will help others who are on that path toward creating themselves. I don't want to be the one to hold those people back, so maybe it's best to stop it right here.

This has gotten a bit emo, and I beg you to forgive me if you were expecting some deep philosophical insight into what it means to create yourself, but I've been exhausted lately and deeper in a funk. Maybe that impending thunderstorm will do me some good.

When I turned 25, I asked friends and family to share wisdom for that "quarter life crisis" everyone jokingly told me I was about to enter. I created a Google Form and sent it out to people to tell me what I should know about being in this "new" chapter of my life.  I took some of the responses and wrote them on pieces of paper that decorated my bedroom walls in New York: They were reminders at a time when I was feeling particularly lost and just a little bit sad.

Recently, I came across the Google Form in the depths of my Drive and went through the responses again. There were letters from people I still talk to every day, and letters from people I haven't spoken to in years. The advice is filled with humor and love and kindness – and if there's one thing I've really been blessed to have learned, it's that people are just so inherently kind.

"Let life come to you as much as you strive to live."

"Be kind to strangers!... No matter how often the city feels brutal and rude, I never feel like I'm contributing to it. And that's a great feeling."

"Scream into the pillow but always turn around and rest on it."  

I've been thinking a lot lately about those moments in my life where I was sure I had it all "figured out," or I had agonized about how I would never be certain of who I was or where I wanted to be. It's always been hard for me to recognize when I'm happy because I've lived my whole life under a cloud of anxiety and fear. There was always something waiting around the corner to remind me of who I was and where I belonged (or, rather, didn't belong), and so moments of joy never stood out to me as something to hold on to. 

Every "coming of age" story Hollywood tells us takes place in middle or high school, but I'm about to be 33 and I still feel like I have no idea what I'm doing.

Which is...fine. It's right. It, oddly, makes sense. Because I am comfortable now, more than ever, in admitting when I don't know something – no matter how big or small. By admitting I know nothing, I've learned to become open to everything. 

* * * * *

Finally, a check-in on 10-Years-Ago-Me (that photo to the right is from 2012!): 

1. I will sleep more. I think I'm sleeping less.
2. I will walk slower. Unless I'm midtown. By nature of not living in New York anymore, I definitely walk slower. All bets are off once I'm back in the city though.
3. I will not let social networks define relationships. I've pulled way back on personal social media use (although the pandemic did suck me back in).
4. I will smile more, despite the annoyances of day to day life. Did this, still doing it (or at least trying to).
5. I will close my ears to potential negativity. I will not take things so personally. I still take things personally, but less so than I did back then. I've also learned that not all negativity is intended to be a personal attack. I think there are layers to that, and sometimes criticism is warranted and worth learning from.
6. I will do more of what I say and say less of what I do. I'm working on this, every day. I want to continue to be someone who acts and spends less time telling the world what it is I'm doing. Not all actions need to be broadcast.
7. I will network (ugh). 23-year-old me would roll her eyes pretty hard. I network all the time, but I do think all the negative associations with "networking" needs to be removed. Networking isn't a bad thing, especially if you can truly build connections that are both personal and useful.
8. I will focus more on the positive. Always working on this!
9. I will read more, and I will read slower. I will take time to digest words. Yes, yes, and yes.
10. I will learn new things and new skills every day. Yes! Learning new things is great.
11. I will drink from the glass, rather than analyze whether it is empty or full. I've always had a hard time "seizing the day," and so this is a continual work-in-progress. I don't think I'm there yet, and I'm still quite the overthinker. 
12. I will pick up my phone more often. There are too many spam calls.
13. I will not impose my thoughts on others, and vice versa. What did I mean by "impose"? Because I have a portable soapbox for the things I care deeply about, and am not afraid to use it.
14. I will spend less time on the outside looking in. The pandemic has made me forget what I was like in my social interactions before 2020, to be honest.
15. I will not force myself to be somebody I think I should be. This continues to be my superpower: constantly throwing my authentic self in people's faces.
16. I will let love be louder than my emotions. I have. I've lost too many loved ones over the last 10 years to let my love for others be kept behind closed doors. 
17. I will not keep reopening doors that closed themselves for a reason. Phew. Yeah.
18. I will let go of those who have let go of me, or are in the process of doing so. Yeah x2.
19. I will not be scared to speak up. YEAH.
20. I will celebrate others as much as I can. Last year, my resolution word was "encourage," and I do remain committed to it. I continue to be grateful for the privilege to support my friends and community in their work.
21. I will apologize. I will forgive. I will always forgive. Forgiveness does have its limits, and I recognize that. Forgiving doesn't necessarily mean forgetting, and so drawing the line between those two things has been important.
22. I will put my dreams into words and I will pursue them harder. I think I'm doing this. I feel like I am – or at least trying to.
23. I will actually believe in myself. It's a process. We're getting there.

“That looks dangerous,” I said with worried eyes. I watched as Na climbed onto a small blue plastic chair and reach for the pair of scissors our mother kept on the kitchen counter.

Na didn’t reply, but grabbed the scissors and jumped off the chair. Her feet landed softly on the linoleum floor and she motioned to me. “Come on,” she said. I followed as usual. Na was almost two years older than I and anything she said, I did; anything she did, I wanted to do. At this particular moment in time, I watched as my ten-year-old idol swaggered from the kitchen to the living room with sharp scissors in her hand and an air of confidence surrounding her.

She bounced toward a bin that was filled with dolls and accessories. We had never been obsessed with Barbie dolls but we had plenty of them and plenty of Barbie-sized accessories: dresses, shoes, t-shirts and skirts. Na put the scissors onto an end table and reached into the bin. She pulled out a brunette doll in a yellow skirt and orange shirt.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Cut her hair.”

I frowned. It was technically my doll. My mother bought it for me after an enormous amount of pestering every time the commercial played. The doll was part of a trio of Glitter Hair Barbie dolls. Each doll came with a special comb and a tube of glitter. The commercial for the dolls showed young girls combing glitter into the dolls’ hair and then into their own hair. I used the glitter once before my mother realized how messy it was. She took the glitter away, but I didn’t protest. I wanted the doll for her neon red palm tree earrings and sleek yellow visor.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told Na.

“I’m not gonna cut a lot of it,” Na replied as she prepared to set up shop. She turned Glitter Hair Barbie upside down and combed her fingers through the doll’s long brown hair.

“Give her to me,” I asked. Na ignored me. “Give her to me!” I shouted. I reached over and grabbed the doll from her hands. I could feel myself beginning to cry and turned away so Na wouldn’t see. Na never cried and I didn’t want her to make fun of me.

“You’re such a baby,” she said, rolling her eyes, and left the room.

I grabbed a Barbie-sized brush from the bin of dolls and sat down on the floor. I ran the brush slowly and gently through the doll’s hair, the same way my mother brushed my own hair. “You have to be gentle,” she instructed, “or you’ll pull more hair out.”

There were no more tears threatening to burst from my eyes and, instead, I felt proud of myself for saving the doll. Poor Glitter Hair Barbie, I thought. There was no reason she should lose any of her hair. She didn’t do anything to deserve it.

“What are you doing?”

I looked up. My mother walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Still holding the doll, I went to sit next to her as she turned on the television to resume the videotape of a Chinese drama she was watching.

“Mommy?” I asked after a few minutes of the tape. “Can you braid my hair?” I had seen her braid Na’s hair so many times. She used to braid my hair too, as well as curling it and styling it and pinning it up, but she stopped once my hair started to fall out. Now, she only touched my hair to cover the bald spots.

She tore her eyes from the television screen to smile her warm smile at me. It wasn’t a smile of glee or amusement; it was a sad smile, one she had worn on her face for the past year since my hair began falling out. “Here,” she said, motioning to the floor in front of her. “Chaw.”

I sat down on the worn, maroon carpet and my mother took a plastic comb off of the end table where Na had left the scissors. My mother was always careful when it came to my hair because she was afraid that any tension would pull more hair out. She didn’t want to cause any more damage in fear that one day my hair would all be gone and I would finally break down.

With her soft hands, she ran the comb slowly and gently through my hair. I knew that was all she would do. We sat quietly as the television played. I bent Glitter Hair Barbie into a sitting position, put her on the carpet in front of me and began to braid her hair.

"Just get a job."

I'm sure every twentysomething is familiar with those four words, and I'm sure most of them hear it from their parents. I know I have.

Let's be real: it is hard these days to be a college graduate. I would argue this fact is undeniable, but when you're up against an older, stubborn generation who insists it's not hard, arguing is exhausting. Jobs are rare to come by. Paid internships are hard to obtain. You could sit in front of your computer and send out three applications a day for a month, and sometimes you won't hear anything in response. And the more you try to tell you parents this, the more they don't understand. "I don't understand why you can't just get a job," they cry.

The most recent New York Times Magazine had an interesting feature about this subject. They followed a group from the class of 2011 at Drew University to see what they were doing. The sample size is fairly accurate of the people I know myself: there are those who are working their asses off and still not even getting a rejection letter; they're just being ignored. There are those who are just hanging out, and barely trying...just being "comfortable" with reliving college. There are those who refuse to apply for anything but a job in their field. There are those who've lucked out and found jobs or paid internships in their field.

I recognize that I am one of the very, very, very, very lucky ones. The path was not easy, and it definitely was not met with understanding from my parents--as well-intentioned and supportive as they may have been. I finished a quarter early before walking at commencement with the intention of job searching and finding something so I wouldn't have a hiatus in the summer. I wanted to go straight into an internship, a job, something. I had Mengfei as a model for the path I should consider taking. Between March and May, I sent out cover letters and resumes regularly, while still working at the School of the Arts and New U, and freelancing on the side. I gave myself some breaks, looked at it as my own summer vacation since I didn't intend to have a "summer" come June.

I got two potential interviews out of my efforts--one I didn't get offered, but had counted on, and one I got offered, but turned it down because it was unpaid. Both were in D.C. and both strung me along for nearly a month.

I ended up heading back to Sacramento for about a month, and forced myself to apply for at least one job a day. I sent out multiple cover letters to everywhere I could find--internships, jobs, temporary work. I looked in San Francisco, Sacramento, D.C., New York. I got two interviews in San Francisco for internships that had nothing to do with my major. I got rejected from one, and the other never even responded after my interview and follow-up emails.

When I finally got a phone interview with Education Week, I was starting to give up. I got the internship offer on Fourth of July while up in Portland, and nearly fainted. It was a step in the "right" direction--to the east coast, in a field I was interested in. But moving was a headache and stressful, particularly with the questions and the "Are you sure you really thought this through?" probing from my parents. "Why can't you just get a job here?" they asked. Take a look in my "sent" folder in my inbox! Tell the dozens of employers who never even responded to me to tell me something!

Me and Jenny at the NPR News Desk hub.

After a month at Education Week, I ended up at NPR and it was a dream come true. I worked with amazing interns and gained the experience I was dying for in the "real world." But as my time at NPR began ticking to an end, I went back to sending out cover letters and resumes twice a day, and praying somebody would throw me a line.

Like before, of the dozens and dozens, I only heard from three places: one rejected me, two wanted me.  I looked at my fellow NPR interns--they were all so much more talented than me, and so many of them are still left hanging. What does it take for someone to offer us a position...anywhere? I told everyone who asked me that it was 90% luck, and 10% who you know. I'm sure my NPR application wouldn't have been looked at if the woman who interviewed me (who actually wasn't my supervisor) hadn't known one of my references personally. With Education Week and MSNBC, I feel like I really lucked out and just happened to apply at the right time. But I worked damn hard, and sometimes it's as if the older generations don't see that in the youth.
It's not uncommon to jump from internship to internship these days, which is impossible to explain as well. And it's also not uncommon to not be hired after an internship. "Why can't they just hire you?" my parents have asked on multiple occasions. Well, it doesn't work that way anymore.

Also...enough with the "unpaid internships" already, would-be employers! You could at least offer something...or call it what it really is: a volunteer position. Oh, and "entry level" doesn't mean "3-5 years of experience"...c'mon. And the least you could do is send a generic rejection letter to people who've applied or that you've interviewed. And you could do it in a timely fashion--not a month later, which is how long some people I know have waited to hear back after an interview.

"There are plenty of jobs!" some will say, pointing to coffee shops and restaurants. I don't want to disparage those industries. Yes, "someone needs to work those jobs," but it's so discouraging to go through four years of competitive undergraduate courses, and work toward one field, one career, and then be told you're not good enough for it. Also, most service industries won't hire you if they look at your resume and see you've been training for something else. Why would they want to hire someone who will just leave as soon as they get the opportunity they're "really" looking for?



To answer that, I know plenty of people who have various versions of their resume: one for those coffee shop and restaurant jobs, one for secretary work, and one for the career they really want.

So...this is my really long way of answering that all-too-familiar request of "just getting a job."

Dr. Vivek Murthy at Saturday's AAJA gala

I was really struck by something the Surgeon General spoke about at the AAJA gala Saturday night: "Happiness can be cultivated."

I won't lie and say I'm always a positive person. In fact, just ask me how I feel about the New York subway system, and I'll talk your ear off with complaints for an hour.

But something I've always believed is that happiness should not be tied to your circumstances. Because, often, external factors are just out of your control. Your work environment is terrible? Your living situation isn't ideal? If you let every little gust of wind shake your world and destroy your happiness, then you'll never really be happy. I say this having an avalanche of shit that's come my way over the years--disease, financial struggles, deaths.

But being a negative person only hurts you, after all, and just drives others from wanting to be around you.

It's a struggle to try and practice what's preached. I have trouble remembering this at least half a dozen times a day. The habits associated with having a quick temper don't disappear right away.

But I strongly believe what Dr. Murthy said on Saturday--that happiness is tied to longevity and health. I think about some of the perpetually negative people I know, and they always seem to be battling an illness of some sort or complaining about an oncoming illness. Don't we all need to find a way to balance out the negative energy? Life is already hard enough.

A final note before I get off my Soapbox of Ranting: embracing happiness is a choice. Have the agency and the bravery to commit to it.

Last year on my 25th birthday, I asked friends and family members to send me thoughts about turning/being 25, and what they would've liked to have known when reaching that milestone. That "quarter-life crisis," as it's known.


I took some quotes and thoughts from those letters and added them on a bulletin board in my room. Earlier this week, after a particularly crappy day, I went home after work and crawled into bed and was listening to a podcast when I looked up and focused in on this:

"There's no such thing as a quarter-life crisis. Just everyday life. We're always going to go through changes. We just believe this is our last chance to be the superstar we were always meant to be."

I don't own an iron.

I never really thought about this before. Whenever something needed to be straightened out, I would just hang it in the bathroom during a hot shower and use my hands, a la Loretto choir dress style. I never really had much need for an iron, anyways--just one more thing to move around.

But when I was back in Sacramento recently, I was watching my grandpa iron his shirts before we went to lunch, and it occurred to me how weird this was to me. The last time I used an iron must've been high school, and only because my mother told me to. Sure, there are times now I'll be sitting on the metro and I'll look down at my slightly wrinkled shirt and think, "Shoot, I look like a slob," but then I move on with life, and nobody comments (out loud, at least).

As I rolled up my clothes and shoved items in my suitcases to prepare for the next chapter of life in New York, all I could think was, "I'm going to look like I rolled out of bed when I get to work." What a great first impression, huh?

I suppose the lack of an iron is representative of instability, not so much a symbol of an unkempt demeanor. I'm not a slob (normally) and I always get my work done at the end of a day. So don't judge my appearance, world. I promise I'm clean, just a little off track right now.

I want to tell you about 2007.

Graduating from high school is weird. If you asked me to walk you through the day, I couldn't, because I don't remember it really. I remember being anxious and nervous and excited, all at once. I remember my best friend at the time reaching over and grabbing me by the arm before it all began. "Dude," she said. "This is it."

It's odd the moments that stand out – the conversations that replay easily on a loop. And then there are some that I remember in the distance but couldn't tell you any details if you paid me.

Sometimes it's the most random things I remember, and I don't know why.

Like yesterday, I was thinking about one of the last open dances of the year that was inextricably "career" themed, but I showed up as a rock star because I was tired of people asking me what I wanted to do with my life.

"Isn't that what college is for?" I vented to my friends.

"This is literally just a silly costume for a dance," they said, annoyed.

I was always waiting for the future to reveal itself. I was so sure there would be signs. When I think about it now, I'm pretty sure if there were signs, I ignored them all. And maybe I'm still ignoring them or fighting them without realizing it. I keep thinking that eventually I'll come to a fork in the road and it'll all make sense, and 2007 me would say, "Ohhh. Of course." And then in 2027, I can look back and remember the late-night messages and the talks and the people who told me to go to bed instead of staying up until 12:51 a.m. writing loquacious blog posts that have no real purpose except to selfishly clear my own head.

But then again, perhaps, it's not that selfish.

I cannot breathe without writing first. I can't write without remembering to breathe. The two actions are linked, like two arms swaying back and forth on a walk down the street. It's why I started blogging weekly, even if I sometimes felt like I didn't have anything to say. It gave me an outlet for times when I felt small, times when I felt voiceless, times when I felt too tired for life.

But right now, I think I need a break. I've gotten all the words out of my brain that I think I can muster, and while I sort out what's in front of me, I need to also sort out what's been around me since 2007: the anxiety, the nerves, the fear. And as much as writing helps sometimes, I also think it's become a crutch I've leaned on too heavily at times because reflection can be easier than embracing what comes next. Nostalgia feels more comfortable than dipping your toes in new waters and exploring a future unknown.

The next time I write to you, I want to tell you about 2018.

My grandparents - most likely in Hong Kong, post-war.

I used to watch my grandma work on her garden through the living room window of her Sacramento home. The backyard was more than just a place to grow food; it was a place we explored and pretended was another world. The grass was our soccer field, the clothesline was a jungle, and the sprinklers were what we imagined running through a waterfall must feel like. In the mornings, it was a tai chi space; in the afternoon, it was a playground.

As I grew a bit older, I was envious of my classmates and friends who lived near parks and whose parents allowed them to go to sleep-away camps and join sports teams. Their worlds seemed to have no limits to where they could go and where they could play, and yet I could only call the rectangular space in a Sacramento suburb my park, my world.

But I think I get it now.

Na and I spent a large part of our childhood calling our grandparents' home our own home, so it goes without saying that the story behind that front door is as important as the one housed in my parents' two-story home. To get to the home my parents built and nurtured, you have to understand where each of them came from: from different homes in different places, all traced back to a country halfway around the world. Both sets of my grandparents found love during war, and escaped into Hong Kong when the Communists came. Their worlds changed dramatically, and even more so when they came to the U.S. at a time when a quota stopped many Asians from doing so. I get it now why they stuck to their kin, afraid of being the obvious foreigners.

Mei gok - "golden land." A land of opportunity. My grandparents didn't do it for themselves; they did it for their children and their grandchildren, and the generations to come. It never occurred to me as a child that the stories of war and torture and escape weren't just inside the pages of an unwritten book. These were the realities of real peoples' lives, my families' lives. The wealthy landowner who was tortured and killed and his wife who committed suicide were my great-grandparents. The diligent engineer who abandoned proof of his educated status to avoid being taken, the young girl who hid her younger family members during war...the soldier and the nurse who stood by the Nationalists until they lost...those were my grandparents.

I get it now why they held us so close when we were young, and spend their days and nights worrying about us now that we're older. I think there's still a lot of pain for what they lost back home as children and young adults. I think they want to make sure that despite all the people they couldn't quite save, they could at least save us from whatever might hurt us.

They came to America with broken hearts, and so I get why they pushed us so hard: to make sure we we were strong enough one day to push on despite our own heartbreaks and struggles.

I don't think my grandparents know how much their grandchildren know about their lives back in China. I remember the look in yeh yeh's eyes when he saw the book of old photographs we'd put together for him from old photo albums we found in their spare bedroom. It must've been 60 or 70 years since he saw many of those faces in person, and the stoic army man I remember growing up with disappeared for just a moment. I wished I could unlock his heart for a second and know everything he was feeling, but I know I'll never know. I can only hope I understand the strength he and my family mustered up to keep going despite all that had happened.

After spending a short week in Beijing and seeing thousands of faces that reminded me of my grandparents, I was overwhelmed just thinking about the sacrifices so many of our elders made for us. And as a child, I know I never appreciated it, and the funny thing is they never forced me to appreciate them for what they did. They stayed quiet so much of the time about the things they saw, the emotions they felt, the anguish of losing everything they knew. When we fought and cried and pouted over what we thought were robbed childhoods, they knew better. I know better now. I get it.

When I'm in a creative rut, I like to surround myself with music and stories and writing that can feel like a warm hug: art that is comforting and familiar and reminds me of times when I've felt inspired to just make things.

But the flip side of that is that it can also feel a little sad. Sometimes I'll listen to something or watch something and just think to myself: "I could never create something that beautiful."


Sometimes, I go through these phases where I'll pick an artist whose work I like and just dive headfirst into consuming everything – I'll listen to everything available on Spotify. I'll fall down a YouTube rabbit hole. I'll read every interview they've ever said anything new in. The past two weeks, the subject of this obsessive behavior has been Mika, whose debut album "Life in Cartoon Motion" came out 10 years ago. (It wasn't an album that was received incredibly well in the U.S., and Mika himself isn't as commercially successful here in the U.S. as he is abroad.)

But I remember listening to "Life in Cartoon Motion" the first time and feeling like it was special. As his later music emerged, I didn't follow his career as closely, which is why when "Grace Kelly" came up on my Spotify recently, I was reminded of a time when the world felt like a blank canvas before me, and I immediately went and downloaded his entire body of work.



There's something lovely about his journey as an artist. His music doesn't fit comfortably into one genre, and it's evident he's constantly exploring the world and his perspective through his music. Each song, each album was part of his own journey as a person, and it's so clear from his writing on "The Origin of Love" and "No Place In Heaven" that something has changed in how he views himself and the world.

When I first started this blog in 2009, I was writing every post in a coffee shop, whether it was the campus Starbucks, the Peet's across the street, or the Cyber A Cafe outside of my work. Occasionally I'd sneak in some writing at the library or in between classes or in my apartment while Andrea and I watched America's Next Top Model. It sounds a bit cliché (a writer in a coffee shop--not a novel concept), but the coffee shop was where I felt most comfortable.

As I grew as a writer (and am still growing!), I had more ideas and more thoughts in the most random of places--in the kitchen while cooking (er, microwaving...) dinner! In line at the grocery store! On public transport! My notes from a coffee shop were becoming notes from everyday life...which, frankly, is exactly what I'd always hoped it would be. (Hence the silly "disclaimer" on my About page.)

But by now, you're already familiar with my inability to really follow through on projects. I tend to start a lot of things, and then taper off. Writing every day, for example, as I'd said I was going to do this year--hasn't quite happened. I start a lot of posts and scribble down thoughts on paper or in drafts that never make it to the blog. Life is so extraordinarily vast that I was frantic to write anywhere and everywhere, and then it would overwhelm me and I'd stop.

I know--blaming "life" for not blogging often is weak.

Sometimes, I'm afraid that social media has replaced so many of the interactions I've used to treasure and hold so dearly. A tweet or Facebook status update is assumed to be enough; a blog post or Instagram photo appears to tell a full story. Even with my own parents, who follow me on most social platforms (sometimes, to my dismay), they'll refer to tweets from three weeks ago as if it was a story I had told them personally.


It's not that I'm exactly complaining about this. We all participate in social media willingly; nobody forces you to tweet or Snap. But it's easier, isn't it, than writing lengthy emails or talking on the phone. Sometimes, it's even easier than making time to sit down for coffee with someone and catch up on life.