At the very start of this year, I came across what felt like a “Hinge unicorn.” I got excited. His profile said he worked at an aerospace company, showed a good variety of photo types, and his responses to the prompts showed personality and thought and just the right amount of worldliness without being insufferable. Incredible. Titillating. Alright, like. Or heart, to be more precise.
Because as many women have said, the bar for dating and men feels like it’s in hell.
I hate how…multipurpose this meme is lately
But I try to be a realistic optimist — yes, I know that’s the hedgiest hedge one’s ever hedged — because otherwise I’d totally bum myself out. (Which I am an expert at. Blame it on high neuroticism, past trauma, what-have-you.) So I got hopeful about this one!
And we matched!
I’ll keep this short. We went on three dates, he wanted to set up a fourth…but there wasn’t one.
There were aspects about his personality that I realized were grating on me, and if that was happening so early on…
I also learned — after asking “cats or dogs?”, what I thought was a generic and innocent icebreaker question — that he was allergic to cats. In fact, his mom was “deathly allergic.” Cats were a nonstarter, a no-go.
Womp womp.
So I said no, thank you, and we moved on with our lives. I wish him well.
Why?
Because besides oh, I don’t know, having an epic romance with a heretofore-still-elusive Mr. Darcy and writing the Next Great American Novel, I had fostering or getting a cat on my 2026 list of wishes and goals.
Well, I can at least say that I’m a proud cat ladynow! I mean, meow!
My handsome little man, modeling his new collar
It took some time and work to get to this point: I started getting regular allergy shots, though not just for my own cat allergy but all the many others I apparently tested positively for. (Yay.) And I started looking at various shelters around my city.
I came across this handsome little guy — now named Wonton — in a newsletter for an animal shelter that I’d signed up to do volunteering and fostering for. He was one of the cats in need of a foster home, and I have a soft spot for black cats because of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Kiki’s Delivery Service, and more. I even wrote about Kiki’s Delivery Service in a blog post years ago.
Kiki’s Delivery Service poster from GKIDS
My schedule had finally lined up with cat availability, so I emailed them immediately. And I’d responded quickly enough to be chosen! Because as heartening as it is that so many people want to help, cats can get claimed quickly, which is frustrating for me… who also wanted to help! And after the two-week initial foster period passed, I knew I couldn’t give him back and adopted him instead.
I don’t know if I’ve ever subscribed to the idea of “divine timing,” but maybe I’m warming up to the idea now.
That is how Wonton — formerly Panther, Nimbus, and Truman (I know) — came into my life. There are a few new line items in my budget now and learning curves on so many fronts, but I’m very lucky to have good friends with cats, who have answered many texts from me recently. (I thank and love you all deeply!)
Of course I’m bummed that I still haven’t found my Mr. Darcy. I’ve had plenty of bad mental health days over it. But I’m proud of myself for not compromising on a long-held dream for someone I was meh about.
‘Cuz let’s just say that recent experiences are fresh-enough reminders of the price of falling into a scarcity mindset around dating prospects. If you know, you know. (And I sincerely wish you didn’t know </3.)
And in between calling off that dating prospect and finding my new little man, I had some more health scares that woke me up. Gotta love the 30s…or really any age, because we’re all just fragile bodies on this precarious earth. And that’s why my life is too precious to be sad about flying solo.
Life is not perfect nor “complete,” and frankly it may never be. But when Wonton paws at my thigh to hop into my lap, I see life for what it could be.
I’m not really sure what this is going to be. But it’s been another year — fifteen now — of my dad not being alive anymore, and I feel like writing about that. For myself so I can look back on it and glimpse my mind at this point in time. And maybe so someone else reading this will feel seen.
I haven’t published anything about this for *checks my archives* three years. It would be embarrassing if I missed a post somehow. Then again: who cares?
Actually, that’s the same question I’ve asked myself in years I both have and haven’t published something about his passing.
Some years, the fact that no one cares about this particular man’s death as much as loved ones and I do, practically speaking, overpowers any desire to memorialize him publicly.
Reasons pile up: Some things should be kept to ourselves. Grief and death make people squirm. Or also, tragedies abound these days. And there’s certainly not swipe-able dopamine in these personal essays. (“Essays?”)
There’s definitely also simply a bit of self-consciousness and therefore self-censoring. Personal essays have noble aims for sure, but by definition they are pieces of self-inquiry that can tip over into self-indulgence.
But they are also self-soothing and self-validating.
And so I keep writing them. And this year I’m putting it out here again, because something in my lizard brain feels like fifteen years calls for it. Round number, ooh.
In reality, every year is significant. Every year feels improbable or at least more bizarre than the one before. How is this reality? Is this the longest-running joke ever? Where are the hidden cameras?
All of that preamble is to remind you and me that there’s no rhyme or reason in grieving, just like there was no rhyme or reason for my dad dying.
That is something I’ve had to learn how to radically accept. Yes, I bitch(ed) and moan(ed) throughout the process. But the alternative was not being able to function anymore, and well, a gal’s 401(k) will not fund itself. I think my dad, whose last words to me ended up being sharing his bank login info over the phone, would agree.
But my mom and I have, hopefully, helped fund a comfortable afterlife for him.
Joss paper we burned back in April for Qingming Festival
Now for the big reveal: this year I am allowing myself…a list. I have tried to fight the impulse, but I have finally radically accepted that I am not unique, and sometimes the simplest format works. Also, I use lists to run every other part of my life, so why not?
Fifteen Learnings in the Fifteen Years Since My Dad Died
Health above all. Health above all. Health above all.
(Stolen from a friend) Don’t let the ones who leave discount the ones who’ve stayed.
It’s a good idea to hope and believe that I have yet to meet even more “favorite people.”
He — not my dad! — wanted me to wear more makeup. I should’ve kicked him to the curb.
What and who I love will change. I have to go with the current, and also remember that the end may not be the end.
It’s fun to buy mementos or souvenirs like concert T-shirts, but my mom was right. Where will everything go eventually?
I’m really scared to suck at something, but it’s the only way to improve.
Reclaiming my brain from the “infinite scroll” that is social media, shopping websites, etc. will be an ongoing challenge.
Strength training has solved so many of my problems.
Repetition, rehearsal, practice. For everything. There is no replacement.
I need to resist the impulse to be everything. I can’t be.
I tend to hang on too long. But it has its benefits sometimes.
Some days, just writing a sentence, plucking a string, walking a block counts.
I really grew with grief, not around it or past it.
I thought I wouldn’t survive that thing or that thing (or that thing), but I did. And I’ll have to keep doing it. I can.
I thought this blog post would be “better,” which is silly. No one’s grading me.
I had so much trouble just picking a title for this post.
And that’s to say nothing about how much I procrastinated before finally sitting down to write about this topic.
Some backstory: I’ve been auditioning for acting roles consistently since I graduated college. I was not a theater major, but I remember being in a play, two staged readings, and a short film. Small moments of thrill and escapism.
So for the most part, acting wasn’t my “thing.” I also felt intimidated by most of the people who made up the theater scene at Harvard. I assumed that most of them were longtime “theater kids,” and college theater was a natural continuation for them and “their” domain. In retrospect, it was probably more so that I was holding myself back than anyone keeping me out — probably.
(What I did actually spend a lot of time on — maybe too much — was dancing. Specifically, with Harvard’s Asian American Dance Troupe. Evidence. Sometimes I think: damn, what would my ancestors think if they could’ve seen us!? Asian kids, studying at a university older than the United States, one originally founded to train very white clergymen. Tangent aside, not only did I find my main college social circle, but I also found a love for performing on a stage, vs on ice, which I’d been dedicated to as a kid.)
Technically, I got into acting before college, thanks to a small modeling competition that was part of a “cultural diversity festival” held in my old school district. I was sixteen, definitely still awkward, and definitely way too committed to an intense side bang hairstyle. Evidence below. No one was more shocked than I was when I won, although I recall an expression of palpable disbelief on one of my fellow models.
Just teen me serving a fierce pigeon-toed stance, no big deal.
Turns out, I was in fact not being punk’d, and my prize was an acting class package at a local modeling and talent agency. If memory serves, it was a quick four-week thing that my dad schlepped me to and from, and just enough to give me a taste of what the “work” of acting was. I remember saying something once in class that the instructor didn’t think was believable, and they called me out on it, to my embarrassment. Somehow, it didn’t turn me off from continuing to explore acting.
Fast-forward to today:
I’ve lost track of how much money I’ve spent on headshots, some stellar and some so, so bad I wish I could’ve gotten my money back.
Whenever I travel, it’s a habit to pack a small tripod with a phone mount and selfie light, for the off-chance that I have to tape an audition in a hotel room. (This happens comically often, so much so that actors meme or write about it.)
When I toured my current apartment, I scrutinized the layout to see if I could rearrange my not-even-acquired-yet furniture so that I’d have a clean wall for taping slates–industry lingo for quick self-intro clips. Casting typically asks for key details like your name, height, location, and whatever else is relevant for considering you for a project.
I’m with my current agent and informal manager even though I’m not totally satisfied, because while I’ve tried, I haven’t been able to secure new representation. But I’m a realist here: acting is not my main profession; I am no generational talent; and agencies have their pick. (The icing on the cake: I’ve been ignored each of the three or four times I submitted to an agency specializing in Asian talent. Maybe that’s a sign…)
Roles in student films, people’s passion projects, and community theater — all of which I’ve done — have ranged from modest to no-pay. Sometimes my fellow actors and I would also be asked to provide wardrobe choices from our own closets. But the promise of getting good “copy” (AKA footage), the love of a part, or the chance to act in and of itself was what led us there.
Depending on the type of project I was in — and when I was lucky — the production team would share links to copy so that I’d be able to clip out a portion for my demo reel. Other times, I’ve never gotten a reply back to my request for copy, or I had no idea who even to ask. And therefore, no tangible proof of the work I did, aside from me listing the part on my acting resume.
Auditioning can be stressful, and 99.9% of the time, my tape flies off into the ether, and I don’t get the part. I may have thought I could really shine in the role, I connected with the sides (AKA the script snippet for the audition), I felt something…but nada. In other words, pretty much like how applying to non-acting jobs goes too. Ha!
So why have I kept on with “acting” all these years? Especially when honestly a lot of that time for me has been, well… not acting.
Perhaps that’s too harsh, because auditioning is also acting.
But you know what I mean. It’s not Acting with a capital “A.”
To be honest, I don’t have a super eloquent and stirring answer.
Taking a step back, some days I’m not even sure I want to keep auditioning. It’s been tough for me to admit to myself that I’m even leaning in that direction.
But sometimes, I realize I’ve had…fun. And that keeps me going despite feeling “silly” for still doing this.
And once in a while… I see a role or a project description that I get really intrigued by, and the prospect of which gets me through another day of my “normal” corporate job, so I’ll submit my headshot and reel clips for consideration. Oh yeah, that’s another acting reality. Just getting the audition is sometimes a miracle, which is why a lot of actors, acting teachers, and similar will say that just getting to audition is a win.
The thought is always: I may not even get selected to tape, but at least I put myself out there.
Years ago. After auditioning for a sci-fi project, I took a picture of my attempt at an edgy “sci-fi hairstyle”…LOL!
Lately though, I pretty consistently get auditions for mom/mother roles.
I said “lately,” but I think the first time I got an audition for a mom role was sometime around when I was 25 or 26 years old. I was taken aback — “I’m just a girl!” — but then logically, it made sense. Especially looking at some statistics about motherhood.
Now, in my 30’s and not yet a mom in any sense — although I am working on getting a cat — I admit that mom roles trigger me. I see the word “mom” and my mind just seems to black out anything else. Mom mom mom.
It’s very irrational, because acting should be acting. I wouldn’t have the same baggage around — I don’t know — acting as an alien or something.
As someone who’s maybe too in my head and feelings, I did some classic ruminating, AKA what I do best (insert sparkle emoji here), and pinned down my thoughts.
Mom roles give me emotional heartburn because they make me feel my age, and test my ability to pretend to be something I’ve thought a lot about, even agonized over.
Something that I’m ambivalent about becoming. And also something that I thought might’ve happened by now, had I met the right person, had I maybe swiped right instead of left that one time, had I gone to that one speed dating event but didn’t because I was burnt out from dating that month, had I, had I, had I.
Now this so-called emotional heartburn could be alchemized into something useful for acting performances. But generally, it just makes me want to lie down. Are you supposed to do that for actual heartburn? (Hmm, it appears not.)
So what I’ve done to try to embrace these roles and audition opportunities more is to remember that mothers are more than just that part of their identity. I own that it’s a definite issue of mine that I’d even lost sight of that. Moms may work at a profession, have talents, have passions… Yes, I am just looking for an opportunity to link this incredible monologue from 2019’s Little Women film. Although I hope moms aren’t so lonely. That might be for another blog post…
Also another blog post, though not by me: I’m so curious about how male actors auditioning for dad/father roles feel about them. Maybe they don’t have any of the baggage that I do. Not that I’d wish that on anyone.
But I could definitely talk about my feelings around “aging out” of certain age bands of roles.
To quote the great Gloria Gaynor: “At first I was afraid, I was petrified.”
That’s a slight exaggeration, but honestly, the scale of Coachella is immense. Multiple show stages, seemingly endless grass fields, people everywhere. And it demands a lot too, from your energy to money to time.
But that goes for most good things in life, right?
Waiting for Coachella gates to open!
This year I went to my first Coachella, Weekend 1, and I did it solo. Turns out it’s not as uncommon as I’d thought, and in some ways, as long as you’ve got your head on straight, it’s more freeing than having to negotiate the logistics and preferences of a group. On that note, spoiler alert: I wasn’t truly solo the whole weekend! More on that shortly.
So my actual answer to the title question: A bit challenging, but so worth it.
I’ve solo traveled before internationally, but doing Coachella solo did intimidate me at first. Personally, I don’t think it’s a beginner solo excursion. (To me, that’d be like going to the movies alone, which I also love.) What helped me get past being “petrified” was a combo of my passion for the music + research, research, research (ahem, crawling Reddit) + a desire to check off another bucket list item, a.k.a. do more for the plot.
In the spirit of paying it forward, I’ll share my data points and some tips for Coachella, mixing in a few reflections along the way. Buckle up, I went a bit crazy with this one…!
MUSIC
I’ll be honest, I didn’t know much about Coachella’s backstory until I started preparing for my trip this year. This article by NPR gives a great overview of the history of the festival and its relationship with its host and surrounding cities. It’s an annual economic shot in the arm, but not without complications. Nevertheless, it’s become a music mecca.
My relationship with music–both playing it and enjoying it–has waxed and waned over my life. In recent years though, possessing more adult money combined with a growing desire to feel something that’s inverse to my waning enthusiasm for corporate America has resulted in…many concert ticket purchases. Many. I’ve also finally learned that while it’s great to go to shows with a group and vibe together, I have just as good of a time with myself and my interior world, letting the sound, lyrics, and ambience activate my emotions and memories.
Frustratingly, Coachella did not release the detailed timetable until literal days before Weekend 1. But once I got my hands on it, the planner in me got to work. With so many artists in one place, how could I not maximize bang for my buck? I agonized over conflicting performance times (sets), made backup plans and strategies, and clocked in to the grounds each day like it was my job. (This is of course a joke; and my experience was nothing like that of people who actually worked the event.) I ended up seeing around 30 artists over the weekend, which required seeing some sets only in part, although I nearly always managed to be in the crowd when they played my favorite songs. Magic.
The Coachella app has a schedule builder function, but I didn’t want to risk the app not loading due to weak signal issues, which is very real on-site. Instead, I did things the old-ish school way: I kept a note in my phone. This way, I could also note to myself when I needed to leave a set to make the next one, as well as jot down a quick impression of something. For any sets I missed in part or entirely, or just wanted to re-live, I made sure to watch them on the Weekend 2 YouTube livestream (my evidence).
As you can see, I left little to chance!
My personal standouts included the xx (oh, the millennial nostalgia); BIG BANG (oh, the Asian American millennial nostalga); BINI (sunshine personified from The Philippines); Laufey (majestic); Not For Radio (gorgeous yearning and agony); Nine Inch Noize (jaw-dropping); Jack White (EPIC); rusowsky (an entire vibe); and I’m stopping here or else this post will not end!
And OK, I admit it: after witnessing Bieberchella, I am now giving Justin Bieber’s discography another try. I didn’t grow up in love with him, more of a peripheral observer. But he impressed me with how smooth and strong his voice was live.
Perhaps my favorite part of the weekend was hearing artists tell the audience that it was their dream to play Coachella. These moments were super endearing. My dream was just to attend, but I left with newfound inspiration for crafting my life.
EXPENSES
My preface to this section is that Coachella has become an adult Disneyland and is priced accordingly. I also a) have been fortunate with a great job for the past almost 2 years to help fund this trip and b) made some emotional spending choices.
My watch and wristband for the weekend–the color coordination was definitely also planned 🙂
Festival Passes: I bought my Coachella passes last year, May 2025, after feelings of missing out that’d built up over the years finally poured over. Well, I was also treating myself to a lotta splurges post a super painful breakup. My ex told me to love myself, so what better way, right? 😉 And that’s on healing. OK, the numbers. I purchased a package for a general admission (GA) festival pass plus a shuttle pass for $679. There was also a $50 service fee and $15 postage and shipping fee, which racks up to $744 in total. This sounds like a lot, but the amount of music I got to see certainly helped soothe the financial wound.
Accommodations: I paid $1,112.78 for 4 nights in an Airbnb, which was a room in a retired couple’s home. (Four because I opted to arrive Thursday to have a “prep” day before Coachella started Friday.) They rented out 2 other rooms for the weekend. While it could’ve been chaotic and I didn’t love sharing one bathroom, everyone was great about protecting the peace of the place. This was actually one of two Airbnbs I’d reserved, after seeing horror stories of hosts last-minute canceling reservations. About a month out from the festival, I sent a message to double-confirm with the retired couple, then took a leap of faith and canceled the other one I’d booked since its free cancellation deadline was sooner. I lucked out because that one also happened to be farther away from the festival grounds.
My trunk, filled for the ride home. Including a painting the Airbnb host made and gifted me!
Transportation: I live in the Los Angeles area now, just over two hours from the Coachella area, so my transportation costs consisted of the ~$50 I spent on gas getting myself to Indio in my hybrid. Parking was free in the residential neighborhood of my Airbnb. You could also include my Coachella shuttle pass here, which I actually didn’t end up using because I was able to drive and park each day at the festival. I had gotten the pass just in case a year ago, not knowing which Airbnb I’d ultimately end up in.
Food & Beverage: I lost track of my receipts here, but I think I spent about $300 over the weekend. I didn’t buy any alcohol and snuck in some smart snacks like pistachios, so that brought my costs down a tiny bit. On Thursday, my prep day, I had dinner and ice cream at local spots and bought some jugs of water from the local Walmart. Then for all three festival days, I indulged in McDonald’s breakfasts (so bad, I know). Once I was inside the festival grounds? I accepted that I was a captive consumer and that it cost the vendors to make the food and drink stalls possible. With that said, I did cry a bit inside after paying, for example, $14 for an iced mate drink and $28 for a poke bowl. The bowl had a lot of protein, and I included a small tip, but still. Obligatory tip — the other kind: make sure to complete your transaction by hitting the “done” button. Unfortunately, when people have forgotten this step, there have been instances of less scrupulous workers helping themselves to outsized tips.
The famous “spicy pie,” but sadly mine was served lukewarm.
Merchandise: …I am ashamed to divulge that I went a little crazy here. I justified it as “I could die tomorrow / I don’t know if I’ll ever come again.” This is how I ended up with about $600 in merch receipts, spread across some online orders before the festival and on-site purchases. I did end up selling one hoodie that didn’t fit me for a slight discount on Facebook Marketplace. But still, baaad me.
Freebies: Coachella is now also known for the various brand activations and pop-ups both on the grounds and off each year. Some are invite-only for artists and influencers. I didn’t prioritize going to these, but on Sunday I managed to pop into the Barbie and e.l.f. cosmetics tents, where I got to take home a customized keychain (probably worth $1, lol) and two lip balms.
I guess the only other thing to account for is that I took 3 vacation days off from my job for this. But leaving that out, if you’ve been even loosely keeping track of the dollar amount here, yes, it gets to be a lot ($$$$).
ENVIRONMENT & SAFETY
Naturally, my mom was nervous about me–a woman, by myself, in a place I’d never been, sharing an Airbnb with a bunch of other people. In reality, Indio, where the Coachella grounds are, is a quiet desert town when it isn’t playing host to big events. Again, fortunately the other guests in my Airbnb were courteous and quiet after each night, and we always made pleasant conversation whenever we ran into each other.
At the grounds themselves, the greatest risks I faced were probably heatstroke and “Coachella cough” more than anything else. (I’m happy to report I successfully avoided both–more on this in sections below.) Oh, and phone pickpocketing, although again, heeding other people’s warnings and being vigilant ensured I came home with my phone. For everything else, there were clear signage and ample staff available to answer questions and give directions.
I will add that because I was traveling alone, I opted out of alcoholic drinks and other substances. Well, I did take a sip of one new friend’s drink because I trusted them. Other than that, I just didn’t want to risk it. I was also having dry eye issues so didn’t want to do anything to aggravate that. The positive spin on this is that I saved some money, which I blew on Coachella merch (as outlined above). I also just really wanted to experience my “firstchella” with a totally clear head.
HEALTH
Physical Preparation: There are many ways to “do” Coachella, but look, the bottom line is that this is not for those who are weak in spirit! If you’re walking, expect to clock at minimum 20 thousand steps, depending on how many stages you hustle back and forth between each day. (My left big toe was partially numb for nearly a week afterward… I was worried!) You will also be doing this under the desert sun during the day, and then the desert chill at night. If you don’t get around 10 thousand daily steps on average, training to up that number will serve you well. Accessibility-wise though, I do commend Coachella for their planning. Beyond the official guidance, Coachella attendees have also kindly shared amazing tips via social media so that people of varying abilities can enjoy the festival.
Serendipitously matching my electrolyte powdered water!
Daily Supplies: I made a video about some of the key things I’d packed in my daily bag. Health-wise, the keys here were my sunblock, ear plugs (save your ears, music lovers!), electrolyte powder packets, plastic water bottles (no glass or metal allowed at Coachella), and hand sanitizer. I would enter the grounds, fill my water bottle, pour in the electrolytes, and start sipping to set myself up for the day. The hand sanitizer came in clutch when the porta sinks (is that what they’re called?) outside the porta potties ran out of water. I also had eye drops, antihistamines, painkillers, face masks (see my wardrobe section below), and pain relief patches. I kept adding things because I thought “oh, it doesn’t weigh anything,” but it definitely added up. This is where going solo can be a bit of a drag, since with a group you could divide and conquer carrying the essentials.
So thankful I had hand sanitizer for my earring…that I dropped on the floor of a porta potty!!
Daily Recovery: I had a pretty thorough wind-down checklist that I went through after I got back to my Airbnb each night. If I haven’t made it clear already, Coachella is an endurance game, so treat it as such and you’ll be golden. For me, besides the basics like showering and removing all my makeup, I also propped my legs up against the wall to drain them; foam-rolled my legs and butt; did a spa mask; applied my dry eye ointment; and did a nasal rinse with a neti pot. That last tip came from someone on Reddit and was super key. I knew saying goodbye to the highs of Coachella would already be hard. I didn’t want to make it harder by contracting Coachella cough!
WARDROBE
Coachella is a great excuse to buy new outfits, but I limited myself and only caved in to buying a floral headscarf accessory at TJMaxx. Admittedly, I’d already added a lot to my closet last year, so I had plenty of outfit options.
The week before Coachella, I felt briefly pressured to look more like social media influencers after watching their “festival fashion” videos, but I backed off that idea just as quickly. I had to remind myself that festival fashion could be as simple as a T-shirt and shorts all weekend. My outfits ended up somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, and I was pretty happy with them!
My Coachella outfits! My takes on being functional but still fun.
Obviously, the weather forecast was paramount; I came across this intense trend analysis on the Coachella subreddit. Basically, it played out as expected: hot during the day, and chillier and windier when the sun went down. Pack layers if possible! I repurposed a long-sleeve rash guard jacket I’d bought for a prior Hawaii trip and very packable ripstop nylon dance pants (example). The pants in particular were super clutch: I had them folded in my bag during the day and popped them on at night. Some people opt for those warming foil emergency blankets, but the crinkly sounds they make can be uh, divisive.
Whatever you do, don’t forget SPF sun protection all day, and face masksfor when the desert dust kicks up. I saw some people just use scarves or bandannas, and I tried too, but they require frequent adjusting because they move around–not ideal. While N95 masks would probably have been even better, my surgical masks seemed to have been enough.
PEOPLE
Alright, first things first. I’ve been able to put off this confession for this long in this post — now here goes. I’ve gotten deeply heartsick and jealous before at seeing both people I know and don’t know share photos and videos of their group, all smiles, enjoying Coachella together. Actually, my feelings are not even unique to Coachella. I’ve just never been part of a big friend group. (Thankfully, it appears that it’s not uncommon.) It’s part of what’s held me back from going to Coachella sooner, aside from the arguably-more-critical factor of the monetary outlay required. Despite how I’m an only child and how I’ve gotten used to adventuring solo due to being single, different preferences, geographic constraints, or good ol’ schedule conflicts–for some reason I had built up intense self-consciousness and hesitation about doing Coachella solo. “Everyone else has people beside them in their pictures!” Put another way, I had the wrong idea that I “can’t” do it if it’s just going to be me.
But as I’ve shared earlier, I now get a lot out of enjoying music by myself, and I was fed up with my self-limiting beliefs. Turns out, getting mad at yourself can be a valid strategy for pushing yourself to live more fully. And the funny thing is, learning to be more vocal about my current obsession with live music has helped me meet new people or strengthen existing connections. This has happened against larger mindset shifts I’ve been cultivating, including appreciating the serendipity of crossing paths with good people now, and not putting any expectations on the future. Maybe this is how most people have always lived, but I’ve personally had to go on a journey of learning to not put pressure on connections. Learning about the benefits of “weak ties” has helped immensely.
So while I planned for Coachella alone, I did end up making new connections. It helps that with Coachella, there’s some degree of influence from rave culture, specifically a philosophy known as Peace Love Unity Respect, a.k.a. PLUR. Earlier I’d stated that doing Coachella solo was not for solo excursion newbies, but with this positive halo from PLUR, you can go far with a smile and not always being hunched over your phone.
And about that: ironically, I didn’t end up actually making new connections in-person, but I did meet up with new Coachella “Reddit friends.” My mom was a bit alarmed about this, but I assured her I had my head on straight and that this was part of festival culture. I forget the exact details of our origin story, but the gist is that one person posted in the Coachella subreddit about creating a chat group. A bunch of people asked to join, including me…and voilà! A large chunk of us “Chucks” — our nickname for ourselves — managed to meet up for a group photo on day 2, a minor miracle.
With my fellow “Chucks”!!
Whether we stay in touch long term or not, when I look at this picture, I’m proud of how I found ways to connect with other people. I’ve been working on this “muscle” since even before my breakup last year and heavily stepped it up afterward. I could have let my self-consciousness about flying solo hold me back from even trying to meet people, but strangely enough, it made me braver!
Another maybe-obvious confession: While I’ve always wished I could be more mysterious and coy, I inevitably fail. I guess the existence of this blog further proves this. But this worked out in my favor at a friend’s birthday party a few weeks before Coachella. I mentioned to another woman there that I was going to Coachella, and we stayed in touch and met up on day 2, spotty cell signal be damned! She had even made me trading cards to mark the occasion of my first Coachella, which I’ve now carefully stored in my memory box. Thank you, N–I’ll treasure these forever!
A final anecdote: I was waiting in line for a photo opp and had asked a guy behind me — or in front? I forget — if he’d be willing to take pictures for me. He agreed, and I got the shots I wanted quickly because by this point in the weekend, I was well-prepared with my poses so that I wouldn’t take up too much of strangers’ time. Well then he gifted me a little leaf clip for my hat! We both had places to get to so we didn’t chat long, but on the incredible off chance he ever sees this, I just want to say thank you again!
You better believe I was babying that leaf clip the rest of the day!
I feel very lucky that I didn’t have any negative encounters, unless you count me joining in with people heckling some line-cutters. Which means, unfortunately for my wallet, I now have more confidence for more solo excursions.
—
So…would I go again? Before finally sitting down to write this blog post, which hopefully helps someone, solo traveling or not, with their planning, I caught up with one of my new friends in LA. She’d been excited for me and my trip before I left and asked how it went. I gave her a summary and cursed my iCloud album for not loading things fast enough. Well, afterwards she chatted about it with one of her friends… and it looks like I may be going with a group next year!
My friend and I have already secured our 2027 passes, though the advance sale was a nail-biter. I’m excited to experience the festival differently next year, but I think my memories of this first time going it alone will always be extra precious to me.
So if you’re thinking about going it alone? You can do it, and I’ll bet you’ll have amazing stories to share!
The famous Coachella balloon chain!
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What I’m reading: The Baddiest Bitch in the Room: A Memoir by Sophia Chang. I’ve been fascinated by her life and career story since learning of her a few years ago. Her memoir has been inspiring, interesting, and surprising. Just what I need as I’m trying to figure out what to do next with my life.
What I’m listening to: Kacey Musgraves’s new album Middle of Nowhere. I grew up in Texas, but I typically shied away from country. It just didn’t feel relatable or welcome to me. But I’ve been putting some of it into my listening rotation now because I’m learning guitar and I’m seeing that the lyrical storytelling can be really rich and clever. I caught the livestream of Kacey’s Weekend 2 set at this year’s Coachella, and I really enjoyed it!
What I’m trying: Really truly learning to work on anything — projects, cleaning, photo organizing — in pieces. A while back I lost this “muscle” and in retrospect lost a lot to perfectionism or straight-up laziness. I don’t want to do that again!
Edited May 10 to add that I had earplugs in my daily bag!
Last month, I had the privilege of checking off another bucket list item: seeing Patagonia. My mom and I saw the side of it in Argentina, which was also the first South American country for both of us, so this trip was a bit of a two-for-one deal. We later enjoyed some city and culture time in Buenos Aires, where Rosalía has declared the sky was born. I crammed some of the highlights into this YouTube short. Pretty sweet!
Not so sweet: me crashing out shortly before the trip after a friend told me she’s pregnant, many months along.
I blame part of my mini depressive episode on premenstrual symptoms, but really, I admit that the news just triggered feelings of being behind in life. She’s about my same age, married, settled, all that. I was even laid off from Google the same month she got hired. The universe has got an insane sense of humor sometimes…
I own that I’m a hypocrite. I like and share those aesthetic, motivational quote posts on Instagram about how life is not a race, there is no such thing as “behind,” you’re on your own path, etc etc. But what can I say? When friends left and right are starting to nest, it’s impossible to not panic at all.
Adding to my feeling like I’m losing my grip on time was the discovery of a prominent new wrinkle under my left eye. It was bound to happen at some point as I’m well out of my 20s, but nevertheless I was deeply miffed that it had to be now. Especially because I’ve generally always had puffiness under my eyes, so to see the opposite happen — a concave-ing — was super jarring. Since then I’ve tried to see the new groove in my face as evidence of living, a souvenir from life. But look, I am going to try to prevent its premature deepening. Because heavens willing, I have many more years later on to let it do its thing.
There’s the wrinkle. Should I name her?
The thing about adulting though is that there seems to be no space to grieve. With my Argentina trip only a few days away, one I felt very grateful to have on my calendar, I focused on completing my packing list. And as the planner and tour guide for this trip, I had to have my “A game” on to guide my mom and me through each step of our itinerary. (Thank you to strangers on YouTube, Reddit, and somanyblogs, who all contributed to my research.)
As much as I’ve tried to steer myself into being a less rigid person, spreadsheets are still my travel soulmates.
And this redirection of my attention proved to be just what I needed to re-center myself. I still grieved about time slipping away, but only in short pauses and gaps… after I’d succeeded in getting us fast-tracked at the airport because our flight was leaving in an hour, after we’d gotten in the right Cabify car (an Uber competitor in Buenos Aires), after we arrived at the right booth to check in for our penguin island tour. Scroll down if you want to skip to the penguin photos — I won’t be offended!
Travel should not be about feeling accomplished, but chalk it up to my “only daughter syndrome” — after checking off each day’s scheduled sights, I was on top of the world. Or at the “end of the world,” which is what the town of Ushuaia markets itself as, being the port city for cruises to Antarctica. That’s where our trip began, although I opted us out of an Antarctica cruise this time. I’m pretty chicken at the end of the day, especially when it comes to the ocean.
But I am brave in other ways. The first time I said something in Spanish, I swear I held my breath as I waited to see if the other person would understand. And when they did? Damn. Obligatory “muchas gracias” to every Spanish teacher I had in my Texas public schools! There is something magical about producing words and having someone else understand what you mean. I think that’s also why I’ve been sharing my writing online for over a decade. I’m courageous or stupid (or both) enough to believe that someone else might find value in what I have to say.
Besides some instances of feeling overcharged for taxis and some surly park staff, we had a pretty magical time in Ushuaia, Buenos Aires, and Iguazú. It’s incredible that after seeing snowcapped mountains to frothing waterfalls to vibrant Buenos Aires, there is still so much more of Argentina we’ve yet to see. I’m lucky to say that this visit gave me the confidence to want to return. Someday!
Among our many great new memories though, a minor one sticks out as something that felt meant for me, a chronic worrier / overthinker / anxious person.
At each viewing platform in Iguazú National Park, there are a few choice spots against the rails for taking your photo with the beautiful waterfalls in the background. While waiting our turn for a spot, I was drinking in the scenery — something I’ve been consciously trying to do more of in my life — when the t-shirt of a woman in a tour group near us caught my eye. I didn’t ask to take a picture of it because in the moment I felt a bit too introverted and tired, so you’ll just have to believe me. Her shirt design read, “I’m so excited for all the good things to come” — spaced out in a slightly whimsical font and with the keywords in varying sizes. Think motivational poster or cute decorative sign in a kitchen (here’s an example on Etsy).
Although at my core I’m a pretty sentimental person — classic Cancer or something — I tend to rely on logic for self-preservation when I’m not in my private space. But I let myself take this sighting as a good omen and even couldn’t help chanting the words to myself for the rest of our trip. I leaned into the serendipity of it all, the fact that had she was there and in my line of sight. Never mind that everyone else could see her shirt too. I let myself get “woo-woo,” as some would say.
I let myself believe that things will work out in my favor, even if it may not be what I’d pictured in the past, even if it may not look like what everyone else has, even if it means the road is a little (or a lot) lonely. I can’t eliminate the sense of despondency that hits once in a while, so I had to give myself something to hold on to for when it comes.
Gracias, Argentina, for letting me see you and leave standing a little taller.
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What I’m reading: Crying in H Mart, a frank and beautiful memoir by Michelle Zauner.
What I’m listening to: “Without You” by Oh Wonder. I’m seeing them in concert soon as part of their album’s 10th anniversary tour, and I am going to be in shambles!
What I’m trying: cocokind Advanced Retinol Gel 0.5% for that undereye wrinkle and my face in general. Seems like it really does help smooth things out a bit.
About this time a year ago, or a little before, I had just stopped texting a man (“man”) my age who I’d matched with on Hinge. Very very unwisely, I had re-downloaded the app very shortly after I was dumped because I was still operating in a scarcity mindset and frankly, just being stupid. I was due to become squarely in my early thirties in a few months, and I was feeling low about being un-partnered, let alone unmarried.
I had so many friends checking in on me and supporting me through a shite time, yet I still found myself susceptible to the dopamine hits from seeing this person reply to my messages. We texted for about three weeks, yet we never took our conversation off the Hinge app. He never asked for my phone number, and vice versa. I thought it was strange, but did I care enough to initiate? No. And thank god.
Because the dopamine streak screeched to a halt one day when I’d checked in with him after he’d gone to a friend’s baby shower. He’d told me about it a day or two before, and I thought it was sweet that he attended. I know, my bar was so, so low. We live and learn!
The first thing he replied with?
Not “the baby was really cute!” Nor “it was great seeing my friend and I’m excited for him.”
He texted: “I had three beers!”
Alright.
I was disappointed — we’d had some semi-substantial conversations over the course of two-ish weeks — before shifting to doubting myself. He’s a red-blooded man: beer is part of his diet! Maybe I was being too judgmental? Thankfully, my friend helped disabuse me of that line of questioning quickly.
I told him I didn’t want to talk anymore, and he asked if it was anything he said. I didn’t feel like explaining any further and unmatched with him. I resumed getting ready to move out of the place I was still sharing with my ex, along with working and trying to hold myself upright every day through intense emotional agony.
This was one of many memories streaming through my mind while I was in Las Vegas last month, first for a work event and then play time. Only this time, instead of cringing at myself in shame, I laughed as I let the thought pass by. Because how funny that a year later, I couldn’t even imagine wasting my time messaging back and forth with a stranger.
Lovely but I hated the intentional aging effect on the mirrors…
I had made this same trip about the same time last year, when I was going through the aforementioned agony. Thus, I didn’t get nearly as much enjoyment out of my time there. I was just trying to ensure my work was delivered and worrying about whether the Facebook Marketplace buyer for my still rather new bed would actually show up in a few days’ time. (They did, allowing me to cancel the junk pickup truck that I’d scheduled as a backup. This Miss Independent didn’t take chances!)
Miss Independent when she had to have a little sad moment in her Vegas hotel room last year.
This year, I was deeply gratified that my mental and emotional states were a night-and-day difference from the fractured, sad little ball of stress that I had been leading up to the trip last year.
How did I do it? I spent the past year healing, journaling, exercising, traveling, shopping, telling good friends and a therapist the same breakup anecdote for the hundredth time, and oh god the biggie–putting myself out there. Going out on dates, going to networking events when I didn’t feel like it, going for the unmute button to say something during a work meeting, going to the gym again because man, muscle mass loss waits for no one! And oh yeah, the mental health benefits are through the roof.
Gym time to prevent menty b time.
Although not every day was a “success,” what did happen was that my confidence grew again. Not just in terms of dating, no, but in general. It’s an incredible feeling.
And so when there was a not-entirely-unexpected final mad dash on various fronts before this year’s work event, I felt sanguine in spite of it. As I did for so many moments over the past year, I reminded myself that I have been through a circus before, and I’ve found my way out of the tent. It can happen again.
Things ended up going pretty smoothly, thought it generated plenty of inside jokes for the organizing team. Because I guess with a gathering of hundreds of people, you’re inevitably bound to hear the damndest complaints.
After I wrapped up work, my mom’s flight thankfully got in on time despite the windy week in Vegas, and we were able to start checking off everything on the weekend itinerary I’d put together. I took her to see Cirque du Soleil’s impeccable “O” show for her first time and my second. We ate like queens. (Going back to groceries and my mediocre home cooking was…rough.) She even went to a nightclub with me! I have the coolest mom.
Cirque du Soleil: the only circus I wouldn’t mind never leaving!
Nothing, just this insane slice of Kardinalschnitte cake at Spago.
Joy. Peace. Confidence. Last year, these were abstract concepts in my head. I’ve lived through other personal disasters that make a romantic breakup seem silly and pale in comparison — I’m sure life has more challenges in store — but that doesn’t change the fact that it still hurt like a B.
I knew I would get through it. Well, and the fact of the matter was… I did not have a choice. Not in a doom-and-gloom sense, but in a “I really do want to be happy again, so this is what it’s gonna take” sense. So as long as I was alive and conscious, I knew I just had to put one foot in front of the other.
What I hadn’t expected was getting to more than “okay.” That part has been the happy, humbling surprise.
So anyway yes, this post is self-congratulatory, full stop. I am deeply proud of being a woman who had her own job and money (and still does, though I always assume a layoff is coming now), who had the fortitude to say “f it, we ball,” who had the belief that I could steer my story right again.
Before I close, although I never got to this point myself, I want to say that if you’re going through something difficult and contemplating self-harm or suicide — please remember that help is available. You matter.
Alright, if you made it to this point, thanks for reading my blabbering. I hope this Year of the Horse is good to you!
The Milan-Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics are coming up next month, and as recently as six months ago, I thought I wouldn’t care.
Famous last words.
At parties or other social settings, if I happen to share the personal fun fact that I was a figure skater for 15+ years, people do that nice thing where they look impressed and then presume I was really good.
I have learned to not downplay my accomplishments. But while I enjoyed some moments of fleeting beauty and triumph, a Michelle Kwan I most decidedly was not.
This piece of writing is about falling in love with something at a young age, experiencing how a long-term relationship with such a thing evolves, and learning to be open to what the future holds. Fair warning, this piece also became much longer than I’d planned for. A prior version of the title? “Every four years, figure skating makes me feel something.”
For one thing, I started any real training way too late — at around 9 years old — and showed no signs of being a prodigy. My parents knew before I would admit it, but sweet souls they were, they never forced me to stop skating. They helped me set the DVR to tape figure skating competitions the rare times they were broadcast on TV, somehow scraped together money for all the expenses that come with skating, and generally supported me in the ways they could. They saw that I loved it, and that was enough. Best Parents award. Luckily, when I hit my teens I was then able to help teach skating classes and work in the rink’s shop, sharing some of the burden for funding my passion and making some pocket money too.
My first attempt at ice skating lessons, around 5 years old. I apparently fell hard once and gave up shortly afterward LOL.
So if I wasn’t ever an Olympic competitive hopeful, what did I do as a figure skater?
Once you get to a certain stage in skating, you need private lessons to meaningfully advance, and I started those in middle school, but mainly to help me work on my U.S. Figure Skating Association test attempts. Similar to martial arts belt systems, the USFSA testing ladder features standardized moves and techniques that skaters need to demonstrate mastery of in order to move on to the next level. For context, most competitive singles skaters (singles meaning they compete as individuals in either women’s or men’s events) who train seriously as kids pass the required singles tests well before they graduate high school. Me? I got through about half of them by that time, due to a combination of not being able to practice as much as some other skaters could, susceptibility to performance jitters, and just not having natural talent.
Leading up to each December, I asked my parents to sign me up to perform in my local rink’s Nutcracker on Ice shows, and I also competed as an individual occasionally in local competitions. But despite wanting to imitate the glorious solo performances and careers of Michelle Kwan, Sasha Cohen, Patrick Chan, and countless other stars I idolized, I found greater joy in training and competing with my local Theatre on Ice (TOI) team. I was on it from middle school through much of high school. I was even a co-captain for two years — not quite “peaking in high school” level, but close. Each year, our coaches choreographed a story-based program (what casual skating fans may call a routine) and dreamed up costumes, props, and even on-ice sets that our incredible team parents fabricated using the fees each skater’s family paid, along with a healthy dose of creativity. We’d travel to compete at nationals each year. TOI is also the reason why I can say I’ve been to Ohio, because well, candidly there was never and has not been another reason for me to check that state off my list.
So think of TOI as Disney On Ice, but scrappier and scored. You might be scratching your head now, but yes, you read all this correctly. I can’t find a good official history on it, but I believe TOI began in Europe. (Checks out, doesn’t it?) It eventually made its way to the U.S., including my local rink in Texas. Figure skating is not typically thought of as a team sport, but besides TOI, I should mention that there is also the longer-running discipline of synchronized skating. Looking back now, I was so lucky to have my TOI experience. Because without it, I’m not sure I would’ve kept skating throughout my school years.
Getting serious about skating and engaging in my self-imposed flexibility training, with my first pair of own skates in the background.
The truth is that figure skating, and specifically training as an individual skater, was lonely for me much of the time, despite having friends at the rink. The feeling would get exacerbated when I would see friends improving faster than I did. Or when some friends shifted to skate in the mornings before school, while I was staunchly an afternoon skater. Asking my parents, who worked restaurant jobs and got home after 10 P.M. in the evenings, to take me to the rink before school was impossible. And to be honest? I didn’t have the ability to get up that early anyway. And eventually, some friends left skating altogether in high school, while I remained stubbornly attached to the sport. This was despite often wondering why the elite level skaters at my rink were so clique-y and didn’t want to be my friends, and why I wasn’t having as much fun anymore. High school me had fallen for sunk-cost fallacy, but didn’t know what that was yet. I had spent so many years on and around the ice. How could I leave it behind? Wasn’t it what made me me?
And so I filtered the colleges I applied to based on where I could still skate. One of those was Harvard. Somehow, I got in. Story for another time.
Sit spin wearing my Harvard University Figure Skating Club jacket! I unfortunately don’t recall the photographer’s name 🙁
In my freshman and sophomore years, I taught lessons for Harvard’s recreational sports program to help make up what financial aid didn’t cover, but I ended up stopping any skating training of my own. This was deeply ironic given that A) I’d made figure skating my identity and personality (which hopefully we’ve established by now that this is not best practice); and B) that I ended up in Boston, home to the Skating Club of Boston, one of the most storied figure skating clubs in the U.S. with its many champions. Part of the reason why was so simple that it’s almost silly: Boston is effingcold, or wicked cold, as the local slang goes. And yes, reader, that was enough of a deterrent for me to seek other hobbies. So I ended up finding a new home in a student dance troupe, which kept me both active and social. But really, it came back to feeling lonely. The idea that college should be about meeting new people helped me finally override my tendency to continue something simply because I felt like it was what had made me special, and because it was what I’d always done. And the bewildering, heartbreaking, but also maybe totally normal thing is…it wasn’t even that hard to let go. And from there, my connection with figure skating waned.
Fast forward to about six years post college, around 2021 or so, I did restart training because I resurrected my goal of completing at least one of the USFSA testing ladders. I chose to work towards completing the “Skating Skills” (formerly called “Moves in the Field“) ladder, since I had three of the eight tests left. Each Skating Skills level test consists of set patterns of skills for generating power, turning, and generally maneuvering around the ice. Or to be frank about it, everything that’s not the jumps and spins that most people know figure skating for. And to be really frank about it, at 30 years old, re-training Skating Skills felt more achievable than working on jumps, potentially literally busting my butt, and maxing out my insurance deductible.
The thumbnail from my YouTube vlog about training for my last test!
I don’t want to overwhelm with technical detail, but to be truthful I will share (like I did in my vlog) that I eventually ended up revising or — ahem, truthfully — downgrading my goal to pass the last Skating Skills test on the adult (21+ years) track, rather than the standard track. This essentially meant that they judged me against a slightly more forgiving scale. And in late spring of 2024, after 2 attempts on the standard track, I finally passed on my third attempt on the adult track!
Objectively, this moment was nowhere close in magnitude of course, but let me just say: passing the test was my Olympic gold medal moment. It doesn’t matter that I’d ended up sending in a filmed test for this third attempt, since there wasn’t a live testing session that worked with my schedule. It doesn’t matter that I got my result via email, while I was probably doing something mundane like working or chores. The satisfaction of having stuck to my goal and making it happen — through moving cities (thanks, return to office), finding a new coach, getting up early to take the subway to the rink, hanging onto a relationship that was probably doomed from the start — didn’t light me up like fireworks, but instead coursed through me like magma. That kind of satisfaction reminded me that yes, I can be that bitch if I wanted to. And so it was worth every penny I spent on ice time, coaching fees, and the like.
As a kid, I envied the other kids who’d completed the testing ladder and got to wear a snazzy jacket from US Figure Skating with the words “GOLD MEDALIST” emblazoned across the back. And finally, at 31 years old, I had earned mine. How often do I wear it now? Honestly…not a lot.
My beloved, well-earned GOLD MEDALIST jacket! …which is currently in my mom’s house a few states away from me.
Because shortly after receiving my jacket, I went through a painful heartbreak. And for a while last year, the emotional aftershocks of the severed connection had me questioning nearly everything about myself. Do I still like myself? What is still me, not them? What did I really like, versus “like because I’ve always liked it?” Who did I want to be now?
I still don’t necessarily have all the answers to these questions. But now, in letting myself get caught up in all the marketing and hype being drum up before the Milano-Cortina Winter Olympics, I know I still love figure skating.
I scroll the r/figureskating subreddit to catch up on news about how other countries and skating federations selected their Winter Olympic teams, and any other tidbits users post about the skating world in general. Consuming figure skating on social media has been such an interesting change from how I got any info about the sport growing up, which was via TV broadcasts, library books, or US Figure Skating’s SKATING magazine for members.
I cheer hard for Amber Glenn of Team USA who, at 26 years old, has set a record for being the oldest U.S. women’s skater to qualify for the Olympics since 1928. Like many sports, figure skating heavily favors the young. I’m also a little biased since Amber is from Dallas, Texas, and I also grew up in the state. But I also cheer hard for any skater’s dreams coming true, regardless of nationality.
I can’t wait to be glued to my laptop and phone when the Olympics competition starts, with shock and tears — both the good and bad kinds — guaranteed to come. I sob a little whenever there’s an interstitial video package or interview about the sacrifices a skater’s family has made for their training, when coaches bear hug their skaters in the kiss and cry, when skaters fist-pump after a clean skate, when skaters overcome immeasurable grief to give the performance of a lifetime, when when when when when.
Seeing the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang – dream come true!
Over twenty years — two-thirds of my life — have passed since I first started skating seriously, and although I mourned for a long time about what was and also about what never was, I’ve finally found peace with my history with the sport.
Now, I’m remaining open-minded and curious about how my relationship with it may continue to evolve. Yes, my friends know they can expect my unsolicited opinions about every Olympics development for the next month or so. Yes, I’m curious if I’ll find myself lacing up my skates again and braving the cold hardness of the ice. Yes, if I ever have kids, I know I’d want to be the one to at least introduce them to it.
Figure skating, in the grand scheme of things, is such a rarefied, arbitrary, and costly activity. I felt silly about fifteen dozen times while drafting this piece. Yet as with so much else, writing about it is my way to honor my experiences.
Because thanks to my skating journey, I’ve learned how to practice, persevere, and perform under pressure. And I like to think that it’s even taught me a little about love. After all, love is many things, and it’s also never wasted.
Blowing off steam after one of my test practice sessions 🙂
We’re getting close to the end of the year, and inevitably most of us will start taking a look back at 2025 to see how we did on various fronts. Then, we’ll look ahead at 2026 — plotting, hoping, wishing, maybe even vision board-ing.
I will go ahead and say that in the grand scheme of things — some intense emotional wreckage aside — I could pay my bills and travel, so my year was more than okay. At the same time, I’ve been having to tell the part of myself that always wants to overachieve, wants more, wants the best… to just shut up.
Because she can make me incredibly, deeply miserable. She is liable to compare me with the people in her personal circle and people she doesn’t even know personally — yay, social media — and point out all the things I lack.
“Look, this is what you don’t have yet!” “Thanks…”
Oh man, can she be such a bitch. Envy is known as a deadly sin for a reason.
When that part of me offers the slightest opening during her tantrums — why can’t you have what they have, what are you not doing enough of, how did you get here — I remind her about some moments from this past year. Fair warning: here we verge on stream-of-consciousness.
Enduring cohabitating for a month and a half with an ex-partner post painful breakup, digging into the Lady M cake that a bestie DoorDash-ed me on Valentine’s Day while I lived with said ex, moving multiple times, helping my mom buy a home to call her own after living with relatives for years, traipsing through Paris with another bestie a.k.a. the best tour guide, choosing to live alone for the first time and all the adjustments that requires, holding down a job and shrinking my ambitions from getting a raise to just not getting laid off in this economy, getting to the “oh, I’m so glad it happened” stage after the breakup, enduring speed dating events, receiving distressing health news and immediately taking action, making great new friends in a city that does not make it easy to do so, crying about then feeling relieved about being single approximately fifteen times in a single day, losing out on a big job after clearing all the interviews, finally finishing writing a short story I’ve struggled with for over a year but unsure if I can get it published anywhere…
When I cleared out of the place I used to live in with my ex. I never ended up needing to provide this picture to the property managers or whatever, but just for my own records in case.
The old adage is true: Paris is always a good idea. First-timer and I spoke some passable French…until I admitted needing to switch to English halfway through conversations LOL
And that grasping part of me always asks, “But where are we headed?” Marriage, baby, dream job, artistic breakthrough, Barbie Dreamhouse?
At this point, I become stumped. I want to say that someday we’re going to have a “the dots will connect looking backwards” moment per Steve Jobs, but I can’t promise that.
Right after I got rejected from a job I wanted
So this year I’ve really had to learn to sit with that part of me that wants an answer. I’ve learned to wait for the kicking and screaming subside until we both realize that those were just manifestations of grief and maybe also fear.
Grief from feeling like I wasn’t enough for what I (think I) want. Fear that I may be behind.
Lying on the floor of my Las Vegas hotel room for work because post-breakup emotions, as it turns out, cannot be turned offat will!!
This is where well-meaning people in my life will say, “everyone has their own timeline.” And this is where — despite everything I want to say back — I’ve learned to just nod and not bother debating with them, because I understand their intent was to try to make me feel better. But being thirty-something and a woman especially, would it kill the timeline to hurry up a bit?
Writers, particularly novel and screenwriters, often struggle with the “messy middle” of creating their works. The initial burst of excitement gives way to the inevitable slog of having to figure things out so that they can create the conclusion and effect they want. Is the story of my life in fact in a “messy middle” right now? There’s definitely a sense of unsettledness, if not outright messiness.
A writing session. Also my bleached and dyed hair was on its final legs here lmao.
There’s a plethora of advice out there for getting through this stage, ranging from taking a break from the page to seeking out inspiration to revisiting what’s already there and seeing if there’s a different thread to tug on. In a sense, I’m trying all of it.
Maybe that’s the test, the challenge, the call, what have you — to be okay with muddling through, being surprised, staying open. Always trying.Staying grateful for each time I get to say “so good to hear from you!”, each bag of groceries I take home, each morning I get to wake up. And understanding that settledness itself might be a myth. I always felt I knew this from a logical standpoint, but to be actually living it? Man. (Note that I said a messy middle up there, not the messy middle… because in life, you can bet there’s probably not just one, woohoo!)
My expression through much of this year; interpret as you will. My apologies to the taxidermied raccoon.
In any case, I think this may be the year I finally assemble a vision board and see what that exercise does for me.
If I don’t post again before 2026, I wish you a happy season of celebrating, and may the best be yet to come to you and yours.
Taken by an incredibly kind new girlfriend of mine!! Thank you, N 🙂
Earlier this spring, I skipped my ten-year college reunion, and my regret about that has put me in a reflective mood. This year also marks ten years since I’ve been in the workforce. Since I rewatched Kiki’s Delivery service to feel braver about striking out on my own. I don’t like to think about my work life too much since like for most people, it takes up so many of my waking hours already. But I’ve conceded that some reflection is inevitable and necessary, and sharing it may be even helpful to others.
In the past decade – wow, that sounds too serious – I’ve been promoted once, freelanced for a year, got laid off, gone fully remote. That freelance part sounds mysterious and interesting, but let me dispel that now, because really what I did was spend a year trying to write a publishable novel and worked as a tutor to pay my bills. I did pay my bills. But the novel remains in my proverbial sock drawer, AKA a folder on my laptop that I can neither bring myself to delete nor open ever again. Nevertheless, I was proud of myself for having set myself up financially to be able to take that risk. Although I didn’t crank out a bestseller that time, I developed more grit, and I realized I still loved writing anyway, even though learning new ways to get my work out there is arduous. Maybe I didn’t have to take such a costly route to get to that declaration, but as Frank sang, “that’s life.”
At Google’s headquarters a few days before I started my job
I’ve also worked at two of the most recognizable brands in the world: Google and Disney. (I was also laid off from Google, last year. Story for another time.) I’ve been around some of the most brilliant people out there, and I learned a lot, including that brands and titles are not worthy of respect by default.Prestige often implies enviable character or quality, but it’s not infallible.
This seems like a no-brainer, but I had to live it to learn it.
I have a complicated relationship with prestige. On the one hand, as a first-generation college graduate and only daughter of immigrants, it would be unrealistic and dishonest to say that prestige doesn’t matter to me. It absolutely does. Acquiring marks of prestige grants me credibility in spaces that would be quick to dismiss me otherwise. I wish it wasn’t this way, but here we are.
Having been in prestigious spaces though, I’ve witnessed or even been on the receiving end of asshole-y behavior by superiors to me in title, tenure, etc. (I’ve been in therapy for different tough stretches in life, and I’m trying this thing where I don’t label people but their behavior, when applicable. I think it’s helping?) I wouldn’t say I’ve ever worked for truly bad bosses though. How I know: I remember connecting over brunch with someone who worked at a Hollywood talent agency at the time, and they found it amusing that my big news to share that week was that a Disney leader had thrown an F bomb in an email. To them, that was child’s play. To me, I was sad to understand the implication that they had been subject to worse. It’s not a competition I ever want to win.
Leaving a late night of work on the Disney lot, circa 2016
Don’t get me wrong, for most of my working life I’ve had a healthy relationship with my jobs and got along well with my leaders, who I’ve learned from and who have also looked to me for guidance. (Hello, impostor syndrome…) It’s a low-key privilege to wake up and not be ruled by anxiety. I’m in a good place right now too, and so it’s puzzling that lately, I keep thinking back to an incident when I deeply felt a loss of respect for a leader. Or maybe it isn’t puzzling, and the explanation is that because I feel safer and stronger, I can reflect on a vulnerable time without it getting to me as much. Yeah, let’s go with that.
The setup: I’d been on my new team at Google for about half a year, jazzed about working for an Asian American leader. Especially since the leadership potential of Asians and Asian Americans is often discounted. We are in a Google event space for our annual all-team event. We’re coming up on a transition point in our agenda, but something’s gone wrong with the laptop that’s presenting the slides. Without clear direction, the crowd starts to scatter, some folks headed for the bathroom or to chat with colleagues.
The moment: I rush up to the podium at the front of the room and get to fixing the tech issue. From the back of the room, my boss becomes flustered and then takes the microphone and starts heading up toward the podium as well. When they get to me, before they address the crowd I hear from under their breath: “You guys need to do better.” Emphasis on the last two words, more bite behind them.
The after: OK, harsh, I’m trying here. I think this, but I don’t say it. I’m not well-rested because I slept poorly, my usual before big events. My team has been working on this for months, coordinating virtually for an in-person event no less. I had just moved to San Francisco for “return to office” mandates. I’m stressed and I just want to cry, but I don’t. That’s not what girlbosses do, or something. Anyway, we regain control of the crowd, and we move on with the day. My memory is fuzzy at this point. But I do remember that after the main events conclude, I drive to our social event and park in the garage nearby. And I have myself a full-on crying jag. I think I also phone a friend. But then I head to the social event. I make small talk. Yeah, woo, we did it! I sit across from the boss I’m fuming at.
The after-after: I take a few days to digest and sort out my feelings. In our next team meeting, which doesn’t include the boss, I bring up what happened to my manager. She is regretful about it, but she also says that she got snapped at, too, when they were still at the back of the room. No “I’ll speak with them about this.” I feel a bit invalidated. My disappointment grows, but I nod, accepting that bringing up the incident was enough bravery for the day. I move on, but never forget the lack of apology from the leader themselves. We do get a small monetary bonus for putting on a good event, as well as a quick thank-you from the boss sometime after, during a routine meeting.
The dissection: I could say that my fatigue won over that day and triggered my breakdown. Because on the surface, that remark isn’t so “bad.” Sure, I do always want to do better. At everything. It’s how I’ve gotten to where I am in life. So why did I take such offense, why was I so indignant that I cried? Why couldn’t I have just laughed and brushed it off? Because it’s fine for them to snap in the moment. We all do it at some point. But the lack of apology was deafening. It felt like they thought they didn’t say anything wrong, or that their tone wasn’t off to anyone but me. Then there came a second-order anger over feeling like I was too sensitive, which seemed like more insult to injury. I stewed over all this for maybe a month, considering bringing it up with them directly. I decided not to; I still have mixed feelings about that.
Look, anyone can make mistakes. I’ve made who-knows-how-many gaffes, slip-ups, significant errors. (I once fell asleep in a meeting with Disney executives. Not my brightest moment.) What I expect is for everyone to own their mistake and apologize, no matter their standing.
I don’t wish this experience on anyone, but I have a weird gratitude for it because it helped me identify my most important value for selecting leaders and workplaces — integrity. And also, after the disappointment I felt, what surprised me was that it then gave way to so much relief. It’s exhausting to lift people onto a pedestal.
Believe it or not, this is actually all a funny memory to me now. Not oh-god-I’m-snorting laughter, duh. Funny as in warranting a chuckle with friends who have also seen shit, sipping a nice cocktail with elderflower liquor in it. (St-Germain, let’s talk.) So often, women especially are painted as too “emotional,” when it’s often unfair or at least incredibly one-sided. And if I can be a little impish, I have to say, as a piece of feedback itself, it was not specific and therefore not very effective. 🙂
Now I haven’t let this or similar experiences turn me jaded. It just reminded me that I need to be more clear-eyed and realistic. That leaders are people, and people have all kinds of days. And although I strongly believe in ending toxic cycles, look… this experience did give me one more thing to channel when I put on “Fighter” at karaoke.
I may not make Christina proud with my decidedly un-superhuman singing abilities, but I think I could at least say to the twenty-two-year-old me — “You’ll be okay, kid. You’ll keep going.”
I’m in my early 30s and rent my own apartment in Los Angeles.
That is a sentence I never thought I’d write, mainly because while I’ve never had a concrete, Pinterest-boarded vision for my life, I also never pictured being single at this age.
I cock my head at myself sometimes, wondering how I got here. It wasn’t like I never tried dating. God knows I did, and things just didn’t work out for the long term. Most recently? All I can say is, dear reader — if you applied for a rental unit with a then-unemployed romantic partner, moved in with said partner but who then dumped you four months later and didn’t move himself out immediately, so you chose to be the one to move out instead? You are allowed to be mad. Be. Mad! And then confront yourself, and realize the universe did you a favor, because you probably were in the wrong place anyway and should’ve called it off yourself.
But I swear, I’ve done my therapy and leaning on family and friends and uh, notching five-figure credit card bills. (When in Paris, y’all…) I’m doing great, all things considered, accounting for the general state of the world. Once in a while, a blip of a sliver of a memory does flash through my mind while I’m doing something mundane like washing dishes, which is annoying but also understandable when I consider that I often did dishes with my ex-partner.
OK! Enough about the ex! That was the policy I set for myself a few months back when I’d gotten through the worst of the post-breakup sads and lows. Just as exposure therapy works with gradual, well, exposure, so does quitting, blocking, deleting, erasing, etc.
Truly, I pat myself on the back for moving past devastation and getting back up again. (Granted, it may have been because I have been through worse.) But I am also extremely thankful for the support of loved ones. I can’t tell you how many friends provided a listening ear when I asked, treated me to meals or snacks, or just did something to help build me up again.
She’s not the plushest, but dang is she pretty.
And now I am back in a city I feel crazy for liking and enjoying sometimes. There have been so many good moments and so many growth moments that have healed and humbled me. I bought and assembled a new pink sofa, perfectly serviceable even if not the plushest, while also thrifting for other furnishings and kitchen items off Facebook Marketplace. I’ve learned how to make simple, healthy(ish?) food for myself, often using my lunch breaks to both eat my lunch and prep for future meals — a one-person assembly line. I go to any events I’m interested in, as long as they work with my schedule and budget. I’ve reconnected with good friends and made new friends, something that used to feel “impossible” at this age. And just a small flex here that Angelenos will understand: I once found free street parking in downtown LA on a Friday night! I know! Now, Koreatown is another discussion entirely…
But the biggest joy has been training myself to self-soothe and cultivate inner peace, even when conditions are not ideal. In that sense I would also call it the “toughest joy.” It’s been a combo of day-in, day-out:
Checking in with myself and taking stock: I’ve got agendas, journals, sticky notes, you name it — it’s bad when too much stuff lingers in my brain.
Intentionally designing my life: The thing I’m still working on grasping is that effective design often means taking something away, rather than adding.
Seeking and acting upon good advice: For one thing, it turns out that getting some natural light and movement first thing in the morning really is a game-changer…circadian rhythms and all that!
So to whomever is out there in the deepest and rawest stages of pain after a relationship rupture, be it romantic or platonic… I want you to know that it will not be that way forever. Really, the memes are true: you just get over it on a random Tuesday. But if you first have to get through the phase of screenshotting a crap ton of blog posts and strangers’ comments in breakup subreddits, as well as going down a YouTube rabbit hole — I don’t blame you. But watch the volume; it should go down over time. And balance it out with other therapeutic outlets. Here’s evidence of my phase that I’m also deleting soon because a) I’m over the bullshit I went through and can laugh about it instead; and b) more importantly, I’m stubborn and do not want to pay for more iCloud storage:
Yeah, I was struggling. Check that tab count at the very top…!
Sometimes, I admit there’s a flip side to my freedom. Yes, there is the usual groaning about going to singles happy hours or speed dating events, and the occasional sourness that shoots through me when I see engagement or wedding content. But what I didn’t anticipate was how hard I would hit a mental wall some days. I didn’t have a name for it until I was scrolling Reddit and reminded of decision fatigue, specifically a comment on that page by an “mdengineer4.”
(I won’t digress here into how this neurological phenomenon can be exploited by bad actors, sneaky marketing, our own tendencies towards procrastination and letting inertia take over. Just know that it happens.)
Living on my own means I am responsible for everything. Cooking, cleaning, organizing, decorating, scheduling appointments, getting to said appointments, self-soothing as mentioned above, and so on. I sometimes wish I had a team member. Moving back in with my mom doesn’t sound too bad. But then I remember that it is a privilege to be on my solo journey right now. I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t feel that I needed it.
And what if that does turn out to be forever? I haven’t worked out all my thoughts on this possibility, but it does intimidate me. I won’t lie to you and say something like “I wouldn’t mind, bring it on!” But I will say that with each day, I feel more confident in my ability to handle that possibility. That’s pretty neat.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not some paragon of efficiency. I’ve lost literal hours to doom-scrolling and online window or actual shopping when I told myself I’d use the time to start working on a novel again. I’ve fixated on why someone gifted me flowers when I’d moved in to a condo rental with my ex-partner, but nothing when I secured my own place this year. (Honestly, it’s not that deep, but try telling that to me on a bad day.) This is why conscious check-ins with myself are so critical.
When I pause to do these, part of my process involves — you guessed it — a gratitude practice.
So since I almost crashed out this week, let me do one…now:
I have a lot more on my wish list, from things to do and places to see to projects I want to realize. Right now, I have the privilege of getting to call the shots for all of my time outside of work. I am so grateful for that. I need to remember that I am now the youngest I’ve ever been, that I can do so many things, that incredibly, impossibly, I have a room of my own.
Oh yeah, you know I have just been chomping at the bit to work in that Virginia Woolf reference. And yes, everyone should read her essay. It’s what I think back to when I need to re-find what I call the “JOBOMO” — joy of being on my own.
No matter what’s next, I have gotten to know and learn from this feeling. What a gift.
