Part II: The Solution

It was painfully obvious once I put two and two together.

All this time I've been wondering what to do with my one precious life. All this time I've been wondering how to stand out in a sea of increasing stress and standard trajectories. Finally, I've found my clarity of mind, soul, and body.

As I move into the new year and anticipate starting a new job, I reconsidered my future career paths and realized that I don't have an overwhelming desire to be an administrator or policymaker in the very near future. Though I continue to intend to implement a plan for community schools, I want to approach it by first being a part of the community, in a real and impactful way. While it would be nice to make a six figure salary and wear heavy coats in a leadership position, the more pressing matter is the good, honest, and necessary work of being a teacher. The process of becoming a teacher has already taught me so much and will eventually make me a better policymaker. I know that living the classroom experience will only broaden my understanding of modern education systems in a way that I could not obtain through any of my policy internships or workplaces. Despite my reservations about taking a significant pay cut, the desire to be a highly accomplished person and being a classroom teacher are not mutually exclusive.

I'm finished applying to teaching programs now, and as much as I'm full of hope, I'm also full of apprehension. Though rationally I know I'm well qualified, the imposter syndrome rages in the background amidst pandemic anxiety and financial insecurity. The fear is paralyzing, and for three days, I wasted away, indulging in avoidance mechanisms. When I finally reconciled my fear of the forthcoming unknowns with my confidence in myself, I found the strength to move forward in a powerful way. Cut out the baggage, focus on what's important. Venture boldly, buoyed by a reasonable self assurance. It is still a confusing time (and admittedly, I'm struggling with conveying my ideas through words in this post), but I trust that the fog will lift eventually. In Sacramento, I'm a ship in the harbor. I'm safe here, but I'm not meant to stay here forever. It will always be here for me if I need to come back, but I crave adventure and discovery and constant new experiences. I'm ready to take on the new year. ◊

Part I: The Problem

This blog post was excruciatingly difficult to write. I tried starting over, I tried taking notes, I tried changing the subject first, but ultimately I felt like I couldn't move on with my life until I had this written. Even when I was halfway across the country, hoping that a change in scenery would help me break out of my mental block, I was still stuck. This probably would have been easier as a journal entry, but I felt like this needed to be shared publicly.

The problem was that I had a problem without a solution. Usually, when I write a blog post, putting everything out in front of me makes it easier to come up with a solution. In this case, try as I might, I could only dig myself deeper into the rabbit hole of my problems. On the bright side, the fact that this is written means that I've found the solution, but I'll be saving that for the next post.

The crux of the issue was that without a full time job, I couldn't figure out how to be a person. What do I want? Am I a person, and what does that mean? If it exists, then there must be a definition. If there is a definition, then is it applicable to me? Do I matter enough to have a definition? Everything had been changing so quickly, from "not going anywhere" to "moving a mile a minute." It almost gave me whiplash; I needed a physical and mental massage to work out the knots in my shoulders and in my psyche. I missed the consistency of the before-times, even though it was boring at first. I missed having a purpose and being a part of something bigger than myself. It was easier to have reasonable expectations toward who I could be and what I could accomplish.

After sending out job apps and taking some time to unwind, I took the extra time on my hands to deliberately focus on and reexamine the dysfunction in my life: money, friends, self worth, lack of purpose. I wasn't upset about my joblessness per se, because I knew I was one of the unlucky ones, the ones with the bad timing, who hadn't done anything wrong to be in the place we're in. I was happy to be in a relatively financially stable place, where being sequestered in my apartment alone was not only acceptable, but expected, given the circumstances. Still, it was hard to move forward. I know where and why it all fell apart, I just wasn't sure how to fix it aside from simply continuing to do a good job in life, to deliver successes which can be built upon for more success. It's almost cliche, but the hardest part was just having faith that things would work out and believing in myself.

At first, it was easy to see all the things I am not: not in grad school, not a lawyer, not making a six figure salary, not yet notable in my field, but not a failure either. While I didn't have a full time job, I finally had the time to start graphic design freelancing, fulfilling a dream I've had for so long. I contemplated more, about the paradox of happiness vs. success. I considered the top consultants at big firms, corporate lawyers, or the investment bankers that chase high profile high paying jobs, only to burn out and take a step back and realize the simpler things in life are more worth it. The knowledge of these patterns and tendencies — knowing that these things would not bring me happiness — initially led me to choose to pursue purpose in less high profile but ultimately more meaningful and personally rewarding work in the education policy world.

This worked for a while, until I stepped out of the nonprofit world and then tried to get back into it. At this point, I am no longer looking for entry level jobs, but also not quite qualified for mid-level positions (apparently). I hesitated from committing to applying for grad school programs; I knew too many people who had gotten their advanced degrees (sometimes multiple) and were still stuck in non-directorial positions. I thought about law school and I talked to friends and mentors who were lawyers. I knew the career wouldn't make me happy, but maybe it would lead to some upward mobility and a position that would allow me to do some good in the world. The majority of them did not recommend the law school experience, but for every lawyer who tells me not to go to law school, the fact remains: they have a law degree and I do not.

Perhaps my concern was not the money, but the prestige. I was worried that, despite graduating early, I was falling behind. In a moment of weakness, I looked up former high school classmates online. The results were all over the place. A few were consultants (no surprise), a few went to law school, a few were still figuring it out. A high school classmate I never would have considered particularly cerebral was earning her PhD at Harvard Medical School. A good number of high school high achievers disappeared into the impersonal machine of Bay Area tech jobs. Surely then, this must be the way forward: accept that "success" is finding a way to be a part of the big names, and find happiness within that system somehow, right?

Inevitably, this was not an acceptable answer for me. I talked with a friend who had the same issue and was in the same situation, graduating early and feeling like she wasn't living up to conventional expectations of success, despite knowing that they wouldn't make her happy. She envied her hippie friends who were making minimum wage and happy, yet was also jealous of the big earners who could afford to do and buy whatever they wanted. We wanted to be successful without giving in to the conventional definitions of success that we knew would never satisfy us. To live a life worth living, happiness must come first; the advanced degrees and high paying jobs will always be available in the future if interested, but the time of youth will never be recovered. I craved something sweet and poignant to validate the presumed joy of existence and also respect my high achieving nature. I want a life where I can wake up every day and not feel like my entire body and mind is in searing pain from the dissatisfaction of meaningless employment. Deep in my heart, I knew I wanted to be a teacher, but the low salary and lack of respect for the profession did not seem like a measure of success that would validate my accomplishments. 

The challenge was to define a mission and pursue it relentlessly, avoiding the pit of despair in the meantime...

This is Normal

I have found the paradigm shift I needed to finally feel at ease.

This is normal.

Obviously, from a global perspective, these times aren't normal, but what makes this normal is that all of us are going through the same pandemic experience right now.

This perception that I'm not doing enough work, that I have no friends, that I'm falling behind — this isn't unique. I don't know how I didn't realize it before, but everyone feels this way at some point in their life. Being unemployed for a time while I figure things out in my early twenties is normal. Feeling like I don't have enough friends when I've spent two years here is normal (and for the record, I do have friends! More than I thought I do!). Comparing myself to people two, three, four years older than me and not being in the same place as them in life is normal!

My motto growing up was, "Everything will be okay." I had to believe that I would survive my childhood and eventually be able to take care of myself. It served me well and kept me going until I got to a point where I graduated college, established myself in Sacramento, and, indeed, everything was okay. At that point, I began to grow exceedingly anxious. If everything was going to be okay, then why did I not feel okay? The answer seemed so obvious once I realized it. Everything was okay, but my motto was still that everything will be — at an indeterminate time in the future — okay, which clearly jarred with my reality at the time.

Presently, the world has been turned upside-down and things are not okay again. But excitingly, things do not need to be okay to be normal. It sounds bleak, but truly, the only way to not lose one's mind is to accept that life, in whatever condition it may be, is normal. The alternative is to wonder if perhaps the experience of not-normal is solely a personal phenomenon, in which case one would be insane, or driven insane by wondering. Quite honestly, things have not been okay for a very long time. Yet, accepting that this is normal is the first step to figuring out what to fix so that normal is better. Believing the present is not normal externalizes the circumstances. Accepting the present as normal is accepting one's own experiences to exist within it and have agency in it. ◊

Twenty-three and Me

Without a doubt, 2020 has been a most disappointing year so far, the furthest from living up to my expectations for it. What should have been an experience of reaching new heights in my career, social life, and personal health has instead become one of unemployment (I exaggerate, I'm freelancing now), isolation, and misery. This time last year, I was in a hotel suite after a most perfect day at Disneyland. Today, I am alone at home, desperately wishing to be close to those who love me.

I arrive in my mid-twenties in the midst of a pandemic, the world locked down in quarantine (or it should be if everyone follows the rules). Clearly, everything is different now. The goals I had set for myself require adjustment. The unsustainable habits and beliefs I have grown into must be re-examined. Again and again and again I muse about my identity. I am forced to assume that this is the meaning of life, to build and improve and rebuild one's identity endlessly.

All things considered, I'm not doing so badly. I am in no danger of losing my apartment, I am finding work in graphic and web design, and I talk to my friends fairly regularly. Yet why do I still feel like I am scrambling to cling to a foundation of security that is inches away from dissolving into the void? What paradigm shift must I undertake to finally feel at ease?

My anxieties at conflict with each other are the fear of meeting new people and the fear of being alone. When my life structure aligned with other people's structures in high school and college, this was not as much of an issue. I was at once easily immersed in relationships where commonalities were high and the barriers of entry were not. It was easy to meet new people and it was easy to not be alone. Now, as an adult, and especially in quarantine, it is beyond difficult to meet new people and all too easy to be alone. Physical isolation is less of an issue as the psychological torment of wondering if anyone cares about me — would anyone notice at all if I died? I hadn't realized this would be as much of an issue for me as it is, but I'm really starting to question — am I as truly as comfortable with myself as I thought I was?

Whether I want to or not, the time has come to make peace with myself and the decisions that brought me here. It is difficult, to be weaned off the closeness of childhood, still desperate to latch on to the warmth of other people. I thought I had flown the nest when I moved out on my own; while I may have physically done so, emotionally and mentally I still have a ways to go. I suppose this is all part of growing up: having so much distance and building the maturity it takes to accept it. I don't know how much longer this lockdown will last, but while it lasts, I might as well accept that loneliness is an inevitable part of life. Even when I was in D.C., I was still around other people more than I realized. I can't be certain that this will be the only time in my life that I am on my own, so if I want to survive it, I'm going to have to figure out how. ◊

The Life of an Indoor Cat

I have two cats. Alli, my little tuxedo, is an adventure cat. Every morning, she yells at me to feed her, and then yells at me to open the door so she can go outside and roam. Most days, I leave my door open for some air, and also to give Larry, my old orange boy, a chance to go outside. But he never does. Instead, he flops down on the couch and snoozes the day away. Sometimes, I worry about him. Why doesn't he go outside? Is he depressed? How can I get him to exercise more? Silly cat, surely the world is full of wonderful things, why don't you go out to explore?

As much as I worry about his happiness, I know that he only does what he prefers. If he needs food, he comes to me to ask. If I brush him too much, he'll swipe at me. If he wants to go outside, he'll take a jaunt in the yard. He's a good boy, my Larry, and at the end of the day when I lie down on the couch, he'll jump up next to me and snuggle. If he could talk, I'm sure he'd think the same of me. Silly human, surely the world is full of wonderful things, why don't you go out to explore?

The days are innumerable and indistinguishable from one another. This is the life of a cat, who has no weekend or workday. This is the life I live now too, and I look to Larry to understand how to cope. Perhaps I prefer it, like he does, but there's still a sense of restlessness. I tolerate myself the most when I keep busy, working diligently and staying on top of my chores and social life. And yet, if life is an experience of learning myself, this self, with nothing to do all day and no real pressures of survival is a version of myself I must learn to love and be okay with as well. I don't know if Larry is depressed or has a capacity for joy. But I do know that he eats when he is hungry, drinks water when he feels inclined to, moves from sun to shade to sun as is comfortable, and deliberately seeks to be near me. Perhaps I, too, can learn to listen to my body, eat what I please, drink when I thirst, place myself in invigorating environments, and be close to the people who want me. This is the life of an indoor cat, and I could learn to love myself in it as much as I love Larry. ◊

Ingrid Goes West

I started this post a year ago (5/5/2019!) after settling down for a day to watch Ingrid Goes West. I don't even know how this movie had crossed my mind, but it seemed familiar as it stars Aubrey Plaza, in a role very different than that of her Parks and Rec character, and Elizabeth Olsen, who I love in the Marvel movies. I'm not here to offer a critique or synopsis of the movie, though I do recommend it. I might have to rewatch it to figure out what I meant by some of the commentary I wrote a year ago. For example, "Quite frankly, I'm very tired despite not doing anything or going anywhere all day, and I'm dreading the thought of hitting "Publish" on a post that I know is sub-par, writing quality-wise." This much is still true, except now we are in the middle of a coronavirus induced stay-at-home order. Times change, but apparently a lot of things in my life stay the same. Unedited text from last year's draft will be italicized for context.

What I do want to do is explore some thoughts re: the key message of the film as a critique of social media, particularly Instagram. I vaguely remember using Instagram a long long time ago, and even then, barely engaging. But even without Instagram, I see startling similarities in my life to Ingrid's, in that the inability to connect in real life leads to a crippling dependence on my phone. This of course is a key driver to the plot of the movie, but what separates Ingrid and me is the film's key message: the condemnation of the influencers and influences.

There are no heroes in the story. Ingrid, determined to find the joy she sees splashed across her Insta feed, psychotically copies the life of Taylor, her muse, but when Ingrid is exposed for her fraud, she realizes that Taylor's life is just as superficially constructed. Authenticity is a sham! Unexpectedly, her disillusioned suicide attempt brings her the online attention and validation she had hoped to gain by copying Taylor's lifestyle. The film ends abruptly — Ingrid's desire for influence is fulfilled, but not the bigger question of dependence on social media.

Such is the way of the social media profile. To craft a persona, to build an identity — who cares if none of it is really how it is all the time. That aspirational highlight reel designed to inspire jealousy and sell a product; it's easy to get caught up. After all, who doesn't wish their life were picture perfect?

I've restarted using Instagram in an effort to stay connected to friends during the COVID-19 quarantine. In a way, the lockdown has been good for my social anxiety, since I don't find myself mired in FOMO and guilt over not being as social as I think I should be. Everyone else is presumably doing the same thing I am, which is staying at home doing nothing. I've also found myself with more time on my hands than I really know what to do with. The job I was supposed to start at the beginning of April didn't work out because of corona-times, among other reasons. I'm not too anxious about this either, since a lot of people are also now unemployed due to the crisis. As far as joblessness goes, this is actually one of the best times to be unemployed.

But this extra time has forced me once again to reflect on who I am and what I want. The brief foray into consulting was clearly a wrong move. Though the two month gap on my resume feels awkward, I'm glad I had that experience sooner than later. I can't imagine going into consulting and hating it at a later point in my career. I feel reassured that education policy advocacy is the right field for me at this time, but the opportunities are so limited for where I want to be. I'm not an entry level applicant anymore, but I'm nowhere near experienced enough to be an independent advocate or high level director. Maybe I should take a step back and consider grad school more seriously for this year. Maybe I should consider going into teaching (a whole other mess unto itself).

Thankfully, there are things outside of work that I have had time to explore to expand my personal interests. I started an apartment garden in a planter on the second floor walkway outside my door. My room is filled with ferns and plants. I've been painting again, starting with portraits of all of my friends' cats. If I can get around to it, I want to clean up, fix, and ride my bike more. And of course, I'm getting back into blogging. These things are genuine expressions of my identity that I'm growing into, not just the travel and polaroids with friends memorialized on my Instagram.

Moreover, I want to be clear that this blog should not be taken as a means of influence either. I've had a friend recommend that I could do thinkpieces and discuss my ideas if I want more people to read this blog, but that's not the point. This blog is not about finding myself. This blog is about making myself. I am a brand new person, free to be and believe and do and love and explore whatever I like. I am neither trying to influence anyone or be influenced by anyone. My life is an open book that few people will ever find or read. The purpose of this blog is to express my thoughts in conversation with myself, a digital diary to capture my exact state of mind at a point in time, and to dull the aching grind of the process of living a bit. This blog reaffirms my internal validation, that I myself am enough, with or without being seen by other people, for better or for worse. I can be meaningful, without feeling like I need to be more than I am. ◊

#obsessed: My Love — Until The Ribbon Breaks

It's been a while. Hello blog, my old friend.

Somehow, I'm still only one year older since my last post. It feels like it's been a lifetime, as I've changed my name, graduated, traveled to Greece, moved to Sacramento, finished my last internship, got a job, traveled to Chicago, lived with an old lady with Alzheimer's, moved into my own apartment, and finally seemingly achieved all I ever wanted and hoped to be by this point in my life.

Yet still, somehow, I'm not happy.

Of course, it's a process. It takes time to get to know people and make friends and get used to my new situation. It's only been just over a year. I finally have time to figure out what I want to do — an overabundance, if anything. I haven't learned to slow down yet, I'm still the instant gratification type, looking for the next big thing in my life to achieve. I'm eager to be at that place where everything is exciting, but I'm too scared to start doing the things that would make it exciting. Of course, there's also the issue of money and transportation, but even the things that wouldn't require additional investment still terrify me sometimes. Every Thursday, I drag myself to free yoga at the library, rain or shine, in the hopes that my regular presence can inspire some like minded person to reach out. It's a first step, and it's easier to hope that someone talks to me, but eventually I'm going to have to own up to the fact that I could be doing more. A therapist would certainly help, but all the ones I've contacted so far either don't take my insurance or aren't available for new patients. I think I've finally reached a tipping point in my solitude that without any new external input or outlets soon, I might break down.

That's definitely not something fun to think about, and it's not a realization I would have made without blogging. A conscious flow of words, with or without an audience, has yet again brought a small amount of comfort to this introvert in her lonesome. Hello blog. Hello myself. ◊

Growing Pains

The start of a new month is coming up soon; this one especially is an important new beginning. Today is the last day of September, the first full month of the semester, and this is a benchmark point for how I'm doing, settling in and going about this semester. This past week was particularly brutal — all the glamour, and the trauma, and the f*cking melodrama — but now that it's over, I feel like I can take a deep breath and release all the anxiety in my chest, the burden on my shoulders, and the noise in my head.

I'm currently extremely satisfied by how I'm managing my academics, my extracurricular commitments, my health, and my aesthetic. I'm still working on squeezing a social life in, but even though it could be more robust, it's mostly sufficient. In doing so, I need to reassess where I'm putting my time and effort, and only continue putting my time and effort into places that I feel good about it going toward. If I don't feel good about it, it's time to let go. I will choose to be with the people that choose me, however painful it may be to outgrow the people I love.

There's really no certainty at this stage in life — everything is temporary, ever-changing. College is a time of development, transitions, and growth. As long as I have integrity in my character, being genuine and intentional in my actions, constantly striving for introspection and self improvement, I can be confident that everything will be okay. I'm not sure if there's any certainty ever, but I'm learning that a good thing doesn't have to last forever. ◊

Green Beans

My friend Wei-Wei was making green beans the other day, and we talked about how green beans are so good, so wholesome, any way you cook them. I hadn't had any in a while, so our conversation inspired me to get some. As I was meal prepping the chicken, potatoes, and green beans, I was struck by a sudden wave of nostalgia in the middle of preparing the beans. It wasn't quite uncomfortable, but I was slightly shaken by the intensity of the feeling. For what only feels like a split second, I am six years old, sitting on a little wooden stool on the backyard deck, the sun on my shoulders and on the worn, musty wood, making everything smell warm. The AC unit is humming behind me, a slight breeze occasionally rustles the leaves on the vine canopy beneath the balcony. I'm with my mom, and we're snapping green beans, pinching off the ends and then snap! snap! snap! breaking the beans down into small, same-sized segments. Sometimes we talk, about school, about summer; sometimes it's silent. When we're done, my mom takes the strainer full of beans inside to cook, and I sprint down three stairs, out the gate with the bell, and look for roly-polies while I wait for the food to be ready. Soon, the fragrant smells of green beans cooked with pork wafts out of the kitchen, and I run back in without being called. A spatula of sticky rice in a bowl, the green beans and pork and all the juices on top, running into the rice, first to shove into my mouth with complete disregard of etiquette, and then to savor. I always ask to leave some for the next day; I still maintain that leftover green beans and pork tastes even better as the flavors have had more time to sink in.

Then it's back to my task. I finish prepping the green beans, and it's time to cook. I don't have pork, so I make a mental note to myself to pick up some bacon the next time I decide to cook green beans. I inexpertly tend to three large skillets, the struggle of trying not to burn anything burying those memories as quickly as they were unearthed. The food turns out okay, but it's a shame I didn't have pork.

Later that night, I remembered it was also the day of my little sister's birthday, and even though I called her, I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I struggled to figure out how old she was, mistaking her birth year for that of my little brother at first. I felt terrible, but sometimes I forget I have a family. It's been over two years since I've lived with them, a tenth of my life. The one thing that is more or less a constant structural support in most people's lives does not exist in my personal landscape. Usually, hearing my parents' voice is a source of anxiety, and is something I happily do without. Most of the time, I don't feel like I'm missing something. But sometimes, there are little moments, like when I'm snapping green beans, that I think about what could have been, what I had before, but not anymore. ◊

Knowing My Limits (Update)

An addition to last night's rather frantic post:

As they say, hindsight is 20/20. I believe the cause of feeling like I was "hitting the wall" was a mild hypoglycemic crash. For context, in the absence of professional medical evaluation, I was probably hyperglycemic for most my life eating so much sugar and chocolate. It might not have been diabetes but I had all the symptoms: hunger and fatigue, drinking water all the time but still being thirsty and having to go to the bathroom frequently, dry skin, and vision problems. I've had these concerns for a number of years but they remained unaddressed because my parents were somewhat neglectful regarding my medical issues. I'd bring up concerns and they'd be dismissed, and I wasn't encouraged to bring up my concerns to the doctor at regular checkups. Now that I'm responsible for my own health, I'm determined to take care of things properly.

So, suddenly, I've decided to take action. In changing my lifestyle so abruptly, the healthy eating and exercising intensity caused a hypoglycemic crash, as my body couldn't adjust to the lack of sugar. All I could feel was frustration when I couldn't figure out why, but now that I've recovered and I think about it, it all makes sense. It wasn't that I was mentally incapable of writing, it was a physical issue, not something I could address through discipline and willpower alone.

I might not be able to fully control how and when my depression and anxiety manifests but there are things I can control, like my diet, exercise, and sugar intake. I used to not bother, but now I have the autonomy to make decisions about my life, and these are things that will be important to me. I now know to make these changes gradually and to be forgiving to myself when I'm not able to adjust instantaneously, but eventually I will be at a comfortable balance. Until then, I'll have to be careful and do what I need to to keep myself functioning. ◊