We're almost eight months into 2022, and I never set a "new year's goal" for myself. Not a "resolution," per se – but every year, for the past few years, I've picked a word to live by for the year as a sort of philosophy for how I wanted to approach life. Last year was "encourage" with the goal of maximizing the ways I show up to support others. 

As this year began, I thought a lot about what word I wanted to "live by," and I came up with ... well, nothing. "I'll think about it later," I told a friend who also did something similar. 

Later came and went, and I still didn't come up with anything. It's now July, almost August, and I still have ... nothing. And "nothing" is not a good word to live by: it's a feeling, an emotion, a state that I've been finding myself in lately. I can't figure out if I haven't been able to come up with anything because I'm burnt out or tired, or if there's something greater at play here: my own mental health.

A few years ago during a leadership program, we took these tests to determine the types of birds we are in the workplace. The goal was to understand our own strengths and weaknesses, and also understand the strengths and weaknesses of our colleagues (while also recognizing that the strongest ecosystem is made up of a diversity of birds). We took these long tests, and were presented with results that reflected both the type of bird we were in the workplace, as well as the type of bird we were in our non-work lives. I was identified as an eagle and a dove, which I was told at the time was an odd combination. It made sense though, when I really thought about it: I'm decisive at work (by nature of the work I've done, I didn't have a choice), and could also carry a bit of a temper when my expectations wasn't met. But outside of work, I tended to be a dove: introverted, a team player, a peacemaker – the perfect reflection of a Type 2. 

The challenge was to find a way to melt the positive attributes of both sides into all parts of my life, and while I think I've been successful in being more dove-like at work, I am pretty sure I have no idea now to be an eagle outside of the office.

I have this weird sort of insecurity of never having fit into cliques growing up. My alopecia, as a child, made me withdraw from the world quite a bit, and by the time I hit high school and was actually making friends, I was always worried that people wouldn't stick around ... so I focused on quantity over quality. When I look back at the friends I made in high school and who I'm still friends with today from those days, it's clear to me that I should've invested more in maintaining those relationships at the time.

But because of all of this, I can see where my dove-like tendencies stand out. I try to be a peacemaker because I don't want to upset people, but sometimes that comes off as being apathetic – which also can upset people who assume I just don't care. When I sense I've upset people, I am pulled back to those times as a child where my dad would yell and we'd be encouraged to apologize rather than stand up for ourselves. It was always easier, I was told, to just say sorry and accept I was the problem. 

All of those things have re-enforced bad habits in me as an adult. I find myself, especially lately, shrinking to the point of disappearing – all while wondering how I should ask for someone to be a witness to my life (or whatever is left of it). And then I think: maybe that's it. Maybe "witness" is the word to live by – how do I move through the world in a way that would make it impossible to disappear? At the end of the day, isn't that something we all sort of wonder? Who will be there to witness my life? 

I don't have an answer right now.

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.

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.

My grandfather liked beautiful things. As a kid, I would follow him around the kitchen while he cooked, watching the way he'd assemble plates. "It has to look good," he would tell me in Cantonese. See, the green bell peppers were too bland because they blended in with the other vegetables. The yellow ones (or "gold," as he liked to call them) looked the best.

Every memory I have of growing up and running around my grandparents' house involves me trying to get yeh-yeh's attention – and he always gave it to me too. We'd watch the laundry dry on the clothesline in the backyard. We'd walk around the backyard while ma-ma gardened. We'd sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. On weekends, he'd take my sister and me to the grocery store, and sometimes we'd get on the bus and go to the mall. At Macy's, he would point out the clothes that were the best quality and he would pick out new shirts and pants for ma-ma too. 

Our conversations were limited due to language, and I always wondered what our relationship could be like if I knew more Cantonese or if he knew more English. He spoke English better than ma-ma because of his years working in kitchens, but it was never enough for us to have long talks about anything substantial. 

Thirteen years ago, yeh-yeh had a stroke. It was my first year in college, away from home, and I remember getting the call about it. It was the first time I ever really faced the idea that he may not be around anymore. For my whole life, he was always there – stoic and dependable in his armchair with me sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him. During commercial breaks, he would tap me on the head and laugh when I batted his hand away. Sometimes he would sneak me extra snacks ("shh" he'd say, raising his eyebrows) or a quarter or dime from his pocket. We sat like this even well into my teens and 20s.

That Christmas, after surviving the stroke, he greeted everyone who came into the house with a hug and a smile. It was unusual for him, but it was clear that he was grateful he got to see everyone's faces again. For us, we were grateful it was at least one more dinner together. 

We'd have many dinners again after that. Every health struggle, he battled – and won. "All you need to do is change out his batteries, and then he's good to go," my dad joked after yeh-yeh – at 98 years old – recovered from pneumonia and a COVID scare in the spring. It would take a couple days, but then he would be back to his old self, laughing and teasing. 

The last few years in the nursing home changed him. Before, he was so independent and strong; but seeing him confined to a wheelchair was hard. Whenever he saw his grandchildren or great-grandchildren, though, seemed to light him up. He liked the staff at the nursing home and they liked teasing him right back. "This is my granddaughter," he would say to everyone we passed while I chaotically wheeled him around in circles through the lobby. A volunteer who came to take residents out for walks around the building outside stopped us once to say hello. 

"Mr. King's gotta lot of energy!" he said to me. 

"I hear he's a troublemaker," I responded. Yeh-yeh scoffed and told me to shut up while I poked him in the face. 

Over the last few months, since ma-ma passed, my uncle set up regular Skype calls through the nursing home so my cousins and I could see yeh-yeh and say hi. Every session, yeh-yeh would tell us not to waste time or money calling him, but I think he was secretly happy he could see us all. 

We buried yeh-yeh this morning, the majority of us via FaceTime. With him in his casket was a green vest he wore regularly over the last few years, one of ma-ma's knit hats, and the UCI baseball cap I bought him one year. 

Today would've been ma-ma's 97th birthday. I guess he just couldn't wait to see her again to celebrate. 

At a socially distant funeral, there are no hugs allowed. At a socially distant funeral, tissue boxes are the only thing that can be shared. At a socially distant funeral, you stand in the sun and watch a coffin lowered into the ground by strangers wearing gloves.

You stand six feet apart from your loved ones, stance wide to avoid stepping on another person's grave.

You leave and go home.



My grandparents have always been the heart and soul of our family. On birthdays, we gathered around cake in the kitchen with the 70s-era wallpaper that never changed; on holidays, we miraculously fit everyone around a long table in the living room for dinner.

As the youngest of nine grandchildren on my father's side, my memories of these moments are a little hazy. I don't remember some of the finer details of what we ate or what we watched or what we laughed about, but I remembered observing: I watched the way the adults sat huddled together on the couch, trading gossip. I watched how my cousins interacted and made little notes to myself about the way they dressed or the way they spoke so I could mimic it later. I liked watching ma-ma watch everyone, smiling because the small house was filled with so much noise.

My favorite thing about ma-ma was her smile. She rarely understood what my cousins, sister, and I were talking about, but she still liked watching us. When she laughed, her whole face lit up. Sometimes, yeh-yeh would make a bad joke and she would shake her head but you could still see her lips tug up in a smile. When it was time to take photos, she always reached out to hold the person nearest to her.

She'd wake up early every morning to do tai chi in the backyard. She would tend to her garden and insist we take the vegetables home. She went to church every Sunday, where she was a leader in her community. When we stayed multiple days and nights, there was always at least one night she'd insist we do something fun like get pizza from Little Caesars or go to the sushi restaurant (that is now a Korean restaurant).

And she also did things that drove us a little crazy. Once when I was a toddler, before my mom had a picture session scheduled, ma-ma decided to cut my hair with no warning (the photos still make my mom sigh). When I was 4, ma-ma threw my favorite stuffed animal into the washing machine and Mom spent a long time sewing it back together (I still have it with me). She always scolded me for not eating enough because I ate fast, so I used to wait sometimes until she was watching me and I would purposely eat slow – and then she'd scold me for eating too slowly.

In 2005, I became the last grandchild still living at home while everyone else was in college or off working. The time I spent at ma-ma and yeh-yeh's house revolved around doctor's visits or errands that my mom drove them to and from. Ma-ma and I would sometimes walk around Kaiser while yeh-yeh waited at the pharmacy. (Once, we found a vending machine and she gave me quarters so I could buy chocolate for us to share.) I'd watch yeh-yeh later at Target picking out new kitchenware. Sometimes we'd go to dinner and then go back to their house to watch Wheel of Fortune or the end of Kings games.

I know I didn't always appreciate ma-ma the way I should have. Looking back, I've realized how lucky we all were to have had ma-ma in our lives. A few years ago, my cousin Mel interviewed ma-ma and yeh-yeh about their lives on tape. At the end of it, she asked them what lessons they wanted to share with everyone. "No matter how many generations," yeh-yeh said in Chinese, translated by my aunt, "remember unity. Don't be mad at each other for little things."

I can see ma-ma nodding her head. It's why she loved seeing us gathered in her house, I think: Unity. Family. Forever.



Only 10 of us were allowed inside the chapel. Three of my cousins, my sister, and I were part of that group. We filed in separately. Yeh-yeh sat in his wheelchair next to the casket, peering in every so often where ma-ma lay with her Bible. One-by-one, we approached for final goodbyes amid the flowers and the red roses placed lovingly to the side (she loved red roses; yeh-yeh always bought them for her). We weren't supposed to hug yeh-yeh, but I snuck in a quick hand squeeze (I had received my negative COVID-19 results that morning) and my cousin Nathanie handed him a tissue.

The funeral home employees suggested we FaceTime family members who were standing outside or who couldn't be in town so they could see ma-ma one last time. We took photos through our tears, then sat in the pews and made small talk until it was time to close the casket.

Yeh-yeh was driven in a golf cart to the graveside, where the rest of us eventually gathered. There were a few chairs out, but no tents or coverings to protect us from the 100-degree weather. My uncle and a few of my cousins spoke, sharing lovely memories of ma-ma.

I glanced over at yeh-yeh in the golf cart occasionally, far away from the rest of us. I had made him a sandwich earlier in the day because he'd be missing lunch at the nursing home. He ate it while everyone spoke and then it was time to lower the casket. We threw flowers in, and then it was time to leave.

So many of the customs and traditions had to be put aside, which included gathering over a meal. Over the next couple of days, we gathered in smaller groups. I know when this pandemic is over, we'll find opportunities to celebrate ma-ma's life. For now, I'm grateful we got the chance to be together in some way: together – as family, forever. It's what ma-ma would want.

We waved goodbye as I walked out the door, and then I suddenly woke up. My bedroom was still dark but I knew something was different about the world. Two minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text letting me know she was gone.

I went back to sleep, and tried to re-enter the dream for just another moment.

• She used to take Na and me on long walks in the morning. We would go to this office building that had an indoor public space. There was a giant fountain with a fish statue coming out the top. Ma-ma would always tell us, before we started walking, that it was "time to go see the fish." For a long time, we thought she meant actual, alive fish, so we were really confused.
• If I was reading a book on the living room couch, even if it was bright outside and I could see just fine, she would come over and turn on the lamp on the end table because she didn't want me to strain my eyes. 
• She didn't like watching the end of sports games if the score was too close or if they were going to go into overtime. It made her too anxious, so she'd watch up until the last couple of minutes and then leave the room. (I still do this sometimes too.)
• She made greeting cards and bookmarks for people. She always had card stock, stamps, stickers, and colored pencils ready to go in case she needed to bring a card to someone at church. 

• She was deaf in one ear (we always forgot which one) because of her years working at the cannery when they got to the U.S. Sometimes she didn't realize how loudly she spoke because she couldn't hear herself in one ear. This would backfire on her sometimes, much to our amusement.
• We made dumplings with her a few times, but using a mold. Recently, Na and I tried to fold our own dumplings by hand and it was really hard. We wish we had that mold.
• She loved to garden. She used to point out the vegetables to me that were just about ready to be picked and cooked. 
• She always knew when the weather report would be on on every local news station, and she knew what order to watch them in too. I don't know how she knew, but she got it right every single time.

I watched her, this time around, in every interaction we had--at Christmas dinner, at lunch the next day, at dim sum a few days later. When she walks past her children or grandchildren, she reaches a hand out to touch their arm. It would look like she was using us to steady her balance, but it was a light touch and sometimes the person wouldn't even notice. Her wrinkled hands brush against us as she walks as a display of affection, of letting us know, "Hey, I'm here." Ma-ma has this way of shivering when it's cold that I noticed I do too. She scrunches up her shoulders and gives a quick and violent shake of her arms, as if the chills just attacked her from out of nowhere--and she doesn't just do it once; she does it three, four, five times, and then stops, as if she's suddenly warmer. When yeh-yeh says something funny, she smiles (no teeth) and shakes her head, amused.

I imagine that when ma-ma wakes up each morning, she already knows what jewelry she's going to wear, what color lipstick she'll put on, and what outfit she might like to put on. She always looks put together, just as she did 10, 20 years ago. Her hair was curlier back then, and she walked a little faster, but she's still so very much the same. She still loves us all very much the same.

Tuesday, March 31, 4:03 p.m.

"Look at my child!"

In a group chat with my friends, I send a video of the pixelated little blob moving around the screen.

"What a lovely blob," someone replies. "You must be very proud."

I was. I had kept this Tamagotchi in its box since Kristen gave it to me in December for Christmas. I was too anxious to commit to hatching it and letting it begin its life. What if I didn't have time? What if it, like every plant I've ever owned, died in 2 days? 

According to the user manual for this "Gen 2" Tamagotchi, the little blob will no longer die. It grows into an alien form and then eventually goes home: "Tamagotchi character will always return to its home planet. How well you care for it helps determine how long Tamagotchi character will stay on Earth."

Kristen names it Tam. We decide it is gender neutral.


But it's not like I was doing anything else.


Wednesday, April 22, 11:01 a.m.

Beeeep...beeeep...beeeep...

This was a beeping I hadn't heard before. Normally when Tam needs something, there's a series of quick beeps – three sets of three in a row – and then they quiet. Tam had been doing it all morning as I neglected them. I had made the choice a couple days before that I would let them reach the age of 23 because anything that was 23 or above was what the user manual identified as an "amazing" job.

The truth is: I had grown tired of Tam. The only reason they were surviving was because I've been in quarantine, and so every need they've had, I've been able to fill immediately because I'm not really living my own life right now. I go from my bedroom to the dining table to the couch and life has kind of just been repetitive like that.

So when Tam beeps, I have nothing but time.

It was starting to get depressing because as Tam aged (a day is equivalent to a year for them), I became more and more aware of how little I've been doing with my own life. As Tam sought food and playtime, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into habits that felt a little pointless. No matter how much I was tending to my own needs, it didn't feel like anything in my life was changing. I was static, as was the world, and it no longer made sense to keep trying to pretend like things were "normal."

Beeeeeep. Beeeeeep. Beeeeeep.

The beeping was slowing down. It was mimicking a heart monitor, and suddenly, I didn't want Tam to go. Tam's neediness was giving me purpose, and as the contract at my current job comes to an end, what if nobody needs anything from me ever again? What if Tam is the only reason for me to get up and not stay in bed all day?

I press buttons frantically, trying to see if I can stop or reverse what's happening.

Beeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeep.

And then it stops. And then Tam is gone. There's a little alien in a UFO now on the screen, floating away, up to the stars.

The user manual tells me I can hatch a new one. But something about that feels wrong. If I started again and kept them alive through the quarantine, would I continue to only feel I had purpose if they were alive and doing well? How much more needy would they get as the days stretched on? Would I become resentful and then go through this cycle of wondering all over again?

I'm OK with keeping Tam's screen in space. It feels aspirational, in a way: Tam got out of this world, this situation. I guess it's kind of nice to feel like we'll all get there someday too.

Yeh-yeh is in the hospital. He has a fever and a cough, and it’s officially been diagnosed as pneumonia. They tested him for COVID-19. I am aware – now, more than ever – of fear.

I’ve felt this fear before, those times when people I loved were suddenly faced with intense illnesses or death. My grandfather, at 98, has battled a lot. He’s survived a lot. But COVID-19 is different, and I think about him alone on a hospital bed, disoriented by the lights and the noise. His English is basic, but nowhere good enough to understand the situation. Yet visitors aren’t allowed in the hospital, even to translate, and all I can hope for is that someone speaks Cantonese well enough to be by his side.

When I was a freshman in college, yeh-yeh had a stroke that sent him to the hospital. It was my first time living away from home and the first time I had to really confront the thought of not being there if something bad were to happen. As I grew up and moved farther and farther away, it was a reality that became almost inescapable, and by the time I moved back to California, I was just relieved to be a 45-minute plane ride away from some of the worst moments of my life.

But now, it didn’t matter how close I was. If yeh-yeh’s test comes back positive, I could be a 10-minute walk away and it wouldn’t make a difference because I still wouldn’t be able to see him, to try to make him laugh, to hold his hand, to pretend I wasn’t crying.

And, suddenly, I’m mad at myself. Why didn’t I try harder to retain my Cantonese? Even if yeh-yeh had a phone I could reach him at, my limited Chinese and his limited English would clash. It worked when we were in person, but over a phone line or even a video call, it didn’t quite make sense.

We say postponed, I think, because "canceled" is too harsh. In reality, I think we all know the truth.

Three-hundred and fifty miles away, up north, yeh-yeh and ma-ma are in a nursing home that's been locked down from outside visitors. At 98 and 96 years old, I wonder if they're wondering why the daily visits from family have stopped. I think yeh-yeh must know, at least. He's still sharp and has been reading the Chinese newspapers frequently, when he gets them. Last month when I saw him, he told us there were people dying in China and we should be careful.



One of the hardest parts about this new reality we've found ourselves in is not knowing how long it will be before we can all see each other again. It isn't just the physical distance that keeps us apart right now; it's also the technology barrier – the lack of means to even communicate – and, most importantly, the language barrier.

I used to envy my friends whose relationships with their grandparents were built on conversations that extended beyond, "Have you eaten today?"/"Yes." But my poor Cantonese and my grandparents' broken English ... We've always struggled to really communicate.

And yet I know, without question, that we love each other as much as people who can speak to one another every day. During last month's visit, I showed ma-ma pictures on my phone of Disney trips and my life at USC, and in between drifting in and out of consciousness, she would nod and smile and point to the familiar faces she knew.

Yeh-yeh is more talkative because, by nature of his life, he's had to be. We still joke around in small ways and he remembers how old I am. But he doesn't know what I do for a living or how I spend my days or what music I listen to or what foods I've decided I like and dislike.

But none of that really matters. What matters is that I miss them.

It's surreal that the decade is ending. This might be the first year (at least, that I can recall) where I didn't even realize a new calendar year was right around the corner, let alone an entirely new decade. I've been thinking about how to reflect on the last 10 years, but it's been tough. So much has happened – so much that I've forgotten – and ultimately what I want to focus on is how right now feels: challenging, hopeful, peaceful. And I'm grateful for it too.

After all... This was the decade I graduated from college; the decade I lived in six cities (and once on an air mattress in a living room) and ate $1 pizza on weekends because it was all I could afford.

I traveled abroad for the first time, hiked a world wonder in China, and climbed the tallest church in Amsterdam. I saw tulips and cheese wheels and King's Cross, and I also went to Disney World and only got violently ill once.

I strengthened old ties and made new connections, celebrated milestones with friends and grieved the deaths of loved ones.

I got my dream job. I quit my dream job.

I fell apart. Often. This year alone, I both suffered a loss of identity while also uncovering more of who I am. But I also hit rock bottom and nearly pushed everyone away in the process.

I made mistakes.

I learned.

I'm still learning.

And whatever happens in 2020, and beyond, I'm ready for it.

There’s a part of me that’s always believed that personal reinvention can be right around the corner. A new year can mean a new outlook; a new home, a new routine. When I left DC, I believed I would find something akin to destiny – whatever I thought that was – in Manhattan, and when I packed up to return West six years later, I was certain I was finally ready to grow up.

All of that is to say that the naive optimist in me still believes I can be changed by the world around me, and that the insecurities that planted themselves in me as a child were somehow washed away by tears, alcohol, or holy water.

At 30, the one certainty I’ve been able to articulate in life is that reinventions do not happen overnight.


“Why do you need to change yourself?” a friend recently texted me after a Skype session of venting. “What’s so wrong with just being you?”

I don’t know. I just feel like I’m still some sort of...wrong.

I’m too impatient and not impulsive enough. I get too obsessed with small details and forget the bigger picture. I worry about things out of my control at 2AM. I’m deeply afraid of hurting others – so much so that it’s sometimes stopped me from being honest

I’m dramatic.

This whole blog is indicative of that.

But maybe I’ve always been wrong about what it means to reinvent oneself. I’ve always thought of it as this hard stop on a former version of being and a clean slate to begin a new chapter, as if a person's life can be divided into volumes with a specific beginning, middle, and end to each story. And I guess what I'm realizing right now is that that way of thinking erases all of the good (and the bad) that a person can learn from and build upon moving forward.

I mean – I feel like I knew this, in theory. But to know it, in practice, is another thing. Hard stops, clean breaks...they don't necessarily exist when you're growing and learning. When I left New York, I needed the lessons of how the city changed me to create a new path; when I left my job this summer, I needed the hurt feelings to remind me that my job is not my identity. At every moment, when possible, I used to try and run from failure – but I think I've needed that pain to really grow.

As a new decade rolls around, all I can think about is the inevitable changes about to enter my life again – only this time, I don’t see it as a reinvention. I think I’m actually starting to like the person I am right now.

I don’t want this to be a metaphorical lit match. I’ve just been wrestling with this, internally, for months and trying to understand what it is I’ve been feeling.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been scared that the public perception is I failed. That I couldn’t “hack it.” That I gave up. The truth is that I do feel like a failure. I do feel like I couldn’t hack it. I am convinced I gave up.

My breakdown this summer is well-documented, so you don’t need the CliffNotes again. I’ve been working through a lot of what happened and it’s only lately I’ve been able to put it into words: I left my job because I realized I was too young to be burnt out. A lot of that burnout came because I grew tired of fighting to be visible in a space not built to hear my voice. I grew tired of trying to prove to an out-of-touch, rich funder that the work mattered while she was told people she “bought” me/us.

I grew tired of fighting to justify my existence.

When I was in college, I was in an unhealthy relationship. It was abusive. He took advantage. I tried to tell people, and I tried to ask for help, but I was ostracized – and, admittedly, I lashed out. And after I walked away, I saw who stayed by his side.

It doesn’t take a trained professional to connect the dots: That was when I began to believe that I was inconsequential.

This is messy. I knew when my identity and worth began being tied to my work, it would be messy. And I know saying any of this puts a black mark on my record. All I can hope for is that someone reading this can learn from my mistakes. Yes, we will mess up. We will break. We will be forgotten.

But I also believe we’ll be OK.

I'm always hesitant to write so candidly for fear of coming off as a brat. I've been cautioned my whole life about showing my cards too early, too much. (But the nice thing about a blog, I guess, is that it's OK to be a little selfish. After all, my name is in the domain.)

The night I wrote the final draft of what would become this essay, I found myself reading and crying over Everyone's a Aliebn When Ur a Aliebn Too once again. It's a book I knew would produce that reaction: the first time I read it was on the anniversary of my aunt's death – one of the events that led me back to California in the first place, and one I don't think my family will ever overcome. I sat on the couch in my one-bedroom apartment in downtown LA, alone and crying uncontrollably. I couldn't explain why, but it made me feel so hopeful at a moment when I didn't want to feel hopeful.

I read it again after I lost one of my closest friends last year and cried again because it made me feel less alone.

And I cried reading it again on the night of June 23 before staying up until 2AM, pouring my heart out in a Google Doc. I don't know why I cried this time. I think I was just so tired.

Change is rough. I expected this year would be full of changes, and I already knew I was ill-equipped to handle a lot of it. The adrenaline rush of leaving a toxic environment behind isn't necessarily enough to carry a person through an entire season. I told everyone I was fine – happy, even – without confronting the truth: I was not OK.

The entire summer feels like a haze. As I've come out of it, I've begun to check myself in every interaction, every moment. It's helped me understand the highs and the lows of my own emotions, and to understand when to go out and when to stay in. I've learned when to speak and who to speak to, when to write and when to stop. I have erased myself from narratives, where necessary.

I am learning to be OK.

As autumn approaches, I'm feeling stronger than I did even just two weeks ago. I can see my steps a little better, and I can see the faces more clearly of the people around me. I'm still not 100% there yet, but it's a start.

To those who reached out to me and didn't give up when I broke, thank you. I am grateful for another day and another chance to try again.

"So what have you been doing this summer?"

Honestly? I've been talking to people.

Let me explain. In my "9-5 job" (that was more like "6-10"), I talked to a lot of people: colleagues, freelancers, potential collaborators. I talked at at least one meeting every day. I talked about web traffic and trending topics and whether or not we really needed that semicolon. I talked about invoices that got stuck in a system and how I wasn't ignoring an email, I just never received it because of some spam filters I have no control over.

It was, like I said, a lot.

What I felt I never had the time or mental energy for was to talk about myself. It sounds selfish, I know, but even in those moments where I'd meet up with a friend and they would ask, "How are you doing?" I went into autopilot. "I'm fine," I'd say, or, "Doing alright." I never felt like I had the right – the audacity – to tell them how I was really feeling: Burnt out. Tired. Even more anxious than usual.

It's not that I didn't think they'd listen or care, but I felt guilty even expressing an ounce of dissatisfaction after being told over and over that I was lucky to be doing what I was doing. Those who had chastised me for daring to call myself a manager at 26, with no professional managing experience beforehand, constantly reminded me of the privilege I was given and the opportunity I was wasting by being unhappy.

It was also a reminder of what I'd been told my whole life: Life is hard and you're lucky to have your head above the water. Those feelings you're feeling? Put them aside.

When I was 15 and had my heart broken for the first time, I went down to the living room in tears and sobbed on my mother's shoulder. She allowed me a few minutes before telling me to go to bed and the next day, we never spoke about it again. In my family, it was uncomfortable to openly show emotions and to talk about feelings. Doing that took up too much time and space when we could be focusing on other things like school, work, etc. If we had intense feelings about something, the message was clear: keep it to yourself and get over it. Life moves forward.

Of course life moves forward.

Since leaving my job, I've been sitting down with friends – people I've known for years, people I formed friendships with out of work and collaborations over the last year or two – and really talking about feelings (not just mine, but theirs too) and how I haven't been "fine" or "doing alright" for awhile now. In the immediate aftermath of saying "goodbye" to the career I've known, I was feeling pretty good, but then something triggered a crash and I was brought back to 15 years old again and being told to go to bed instead of expressing an emotion. Every anxiety and insecurity I felt that had built up over the last couple of years ballooned into an uncontrollable mess and by the time I realized I hadn't eaten in 2 days, I knew I had to do something before I drowned.

So I started talking – over coffee, boba, meals that kept getting rescheduled because work had consumed all of my attention. I wrote (a lot) and even sold something (which led to more talking with friends and strangers). On the Fourth of July, I spent nearly 4 hours at brunch and then another 4 hours that night on the phone. I got off of social media – for the most part – and started sleeping earlier. I caught up on podcasts and binge-watched Superstore and read Tan France's book. I made a shit ton of salad.

I came to realize how much my identity had been tied up in my work, and how suddenly lost I felt without it. It didn't matter how burnt out I was; I thrived off of having this routine that took over my life. Without it, who was I?

But in those catch-up sessions that became conversations, I was reminded by somebody how not-alone I was in having any of those feelings. Isn't that why we read personal essays and listen to music and tweet our thoughts into the void of the internet? On some level, we are all anchor-less, searching for a connection that will help us stay grounded the second our ropes are loosened and the wind kicks up.

That metaphor isn't perfect, but neither are feelings and emotions – and I'm OK with that.

There's nothing more uncomfortable about realizing you're a product of a digital age when you run into traces of the person you used to be: through abandoned blogs, Facebook's On This Day reminder, or old chat transcripts tucked away in your email you'd forgotten about – all there, documenting your growth (or, sometimes, lack thereof) online and in public.

This Instagram post is now archived, but I posted it with the caption, "Filing this away for personal reasons."

Throughout high school, I always carried a disposable camera in my backpack. I desperately tried to document everything because I was afraid of forgetting it.

And I was afraid if I forgot those things, that I would somehow lose myself too. Because I didn't exist without those people and those places, those conversations or those moments. Because I wasn't a whole person without someone seeing that I was there.

I'm hoping to get back into a blogging mode soon – bear with me.

2018 has been a challenging year. A deeply personal loss and a deeply personal fight has led to more days than I hoped of not wanting to get out of bed. And now, with half of my time spent between two cities, it's been tougher than I thought it would be to keep on top of all of the non-work-related projects I wanted to accomplish this year.

But what's been helping has been small moments of inspiration, and reminders of what it means to want to create.


One of my favorite musicians is MIKA, and if you've ever heard any of his songs, you know he has an incredibly unique voice and perspective and that comes through in all of his music, from "Grace Kelly" to "Last Party."

Sometimes when I'm in a creative rut, I'll listen to his entire discography, from start to finish, and there's such an incredible arc to it all that reflects his own personal story and his career. You really get a sense from his music that he's revealing bits and pieces of who he is, how he got here, and why he's creating.

For his "Origin of Love" album, he recorded these special tracks for Spotify where he introduced each song and gave a bit of background on how he wrote it and sort of the context of creating it, and it gave me such a deeper appreciation for that album and the story he was telling. Adele does it too with her music, and I think it's such an art to be able to tell a story like that through songs.

There are moments when I'm listening to music like that (the deluxe edition of "No Place in Heaven" is an A+ example of it, and if you've never heard MIKA's music set to a live orchestra, you absolutely must) where I'll get hit with this thought of, "Oh my god, I'm never going to be able to create something as beautiful as that," but the key thing here is that listening to this music makes me want to try – and that's the most inspiring thing about art.

I want to tell you about the last two months — about catching up with old friends; about the things that made me laugh; about the places I went and the people I met and the experiences I had just existing in the present moment.

You would be happy to know that you’re still bringing me together with people, and you would remind me that I should’ve listened to you the past decade to be more patient and to make time to get to know people, rather than just work all the time and shut out the world. You would love hearing about all of the stories being shared.

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.

I want to tell you about 2008.

The first year of college is a rough one. That’s not a revelation. I was struggling with a lot of personal stuff along with adjusting to being full-time away from the familiarity of home. I was vulnerable and there was someone who took advantage of that. He was a loser, but quite good at manipulating me and I got easily tricked. When I tried to speak up, nobody believed me.

I felt myself disappearing. I quit my job. I wasn’t eating or sleeping. I was failing my classes (I still have the GPA record to prove it), and I discovered easy ways to get alcohol and other things that either kept me wired or knocked me out.

One night, it was particularly bad. I got back to my room where I had left my laptop on, signed into AIM (because that’s what we did back then to make sure we didn’t miss people’s messages), and Alan was messaging me — probably about an essay or something for HumCore we were supposed to read. By this point, we were friends and we talked about dorm drama, but nowhere was it written we were close enough for me to call him about this. But I did, and told him I was tired and couldn’t do it anymore and I wanted to disappear completely.

In minutes, he showed up outside my dorm. We went for a walk. We listened to music and he made me laugh. We went back to his dorm and watched videos and talked more.

He gave me a place to go that night and opened his door every night I needed a place.

When I think back to that, I always felt guilty for being a burden. Our old exchanges on Facebook are proof of that, the ones that happened during the time we fought because we were jealous the other person seemed to be getting closer to other friends. But he told me since that he needed the friendship as much as I did. The journey our lives went on was proof of it, and everything we had gone through — all the advice and more — we needed each other, even if I still sometimes feel like I asked too much of him.

I’ve been reminding myself to breathe lately. It feels like my shoulder has been disconnected and I’m just walking around lopsided right now. It’ll probably feel that way for a long time, and it’ll definitely feel that way when birthdays come and go or memories pass by.

I wanted to tell you about that moment because I’m not who I was 10 years ago. I grew up, graduated with honors and as my commencement speaker, and moved across the country in pursuit of a dream. I attribute so much of that to Alan and no amount of words I write or say can ever really capture the depth of what our friendship meant. And whatever happens next in life, I know I’ll always try to live in a way that honors that.

And I hope I made a difference for him too. In between the life moments — the academic achievements and professional ones and, of course, the meeting of his real soulmate and watching their love story — there will always be a part of me that knows we did well and that our 18-year-old selves would be so fucking proud.


A couple years ago, we were Skyping and he was asking me for advice about a tough decision, and I was sick and trying to be helpful. I didn’t think I was making much sense, but he told me I should write a book someday for when he needed advice but didn’t want to bother me when I was busy running the world. I rolled my eyes, popped a cough drop, and he asked me what the wrapper said.

“What?” I asked.

“Halls wrappers are like fortune cookies!” he said (he would know that).

I looked. It does have sayings on it, by the way, for when you need a pep talk while you’re sick.

“‘You’ve survived tougher,’” I read.

He wrote that on my Facebook wall as a reminder and attributed it to Halls.

This blog, now, has been where I've processed the most as I've grown older: joy, pain, heartbreak, love.

Loss.

These words are not perfect. I've been writing, and re-writing, this. I've hovered on the "publish" button until falling asleep from pure exhaustion. If you're reading this now, it's because I need to take another step forward in processing what happened.

There's no guidebook for a moment like this, when someone who was so very much present suddenly becomes the past. Last week, I booked a train ticket. We made plans to see A Wrinkle in Time on opening weekend. I put his birthday present in my Amazon shopping cart so I wouldn't forget to order it when I got back from my Lunar New Year trip home.

"Must be fate," he wrote as we planned out the visit. (There was an hourglass emoji in there too.)

That was our last exchange. I keep looking at it, waiting for the follow up.

Finals week, freshman year. We went to the library just to take this photo.

We called each other "Other Half." At one point during an all-nighter essay-writing session over AIM, he deliriously wrote "O.T." instead of "O.H.," and then he called me "O.T." ever since. We were absolute opposites, but we found the moments that made us click so well. I was jealous of how quickly and easily he made friends. He would remind me to tell him if he was being too impulsive. Scroll back through our Facebook chats or the AIM conversations that were archived in my Gmail, and you'll find long rambling messages about everything and nothing all at once. If we fought, it was usually over something stupid, and we always made up by reminding each other that we'd have nobody else to watch Greek with if we weren't talking.