I don’t like that. That’s make me feel uncomfortable. You did really well. You really made a different. I think that we can do it a different way. What if we tried ABC?

But naturally, humans don’t want to feel bad about themselves. They are motivated to tell others what they think, but are they ready to receive feedback themselves? Or do we bite our lips and accept the feedback, no matter how biting and painful it is? Can we keep calm?

Or is our skin always so thin that any pin prick pulls our soul into depression?

A friend tagged me in a Facebook post today. The post linked to a news article about a former counselor member in Australia passed away. In the comments, a link to an obituary was posted.

“So sad” nearly all the comments read.

But I was puzzled. I felt guilty that I didn’t know who this person was. I knew the circle of friends from an online message board from the early 2000s, but more than 10 years later, I only kept in touch with a select few. Our screennames, at the time, are now long forgotten traded for our real names. But for those from then, I only knew them by their screennames. We were nearly all in our early 20s, forming our identity and trying to understand ourselves. We filled our lives with blogs like this, telling the world our own truth and forming relationships with others. That message board was one of the many triggers for starting this own blog.

“Who is he?” I texted my friend, located on the opposite coast.

She tried to add color. He was someone active in the message board. I didn’t recognize his photo. He dated someone. Then there was drama. And then stuff. Then years passed. My friend was Facebook friends with him, but as for me, I never made the connection.

But isn’t that the same with any friend that I might have met in a group once more than 10 years ago, like the many student groups that cycled through my life then. Perhaps we had good rapport then. But we never made an impression or impact on each other. So we didn’t choose to keep in touch. And so we slid into our lives, forgetting each other, because our minds could only hold so many people at a time. As our social networks matured so did the people we choose to stay in contact with. And so life would have continued on without remembering each person’s existence.

This is where I would like to say: he touched my life. He made a difference for anybody he met. He made their lives better in an instance.

I wish that I could say that, but I can’t recall a moment of interaction with him.

All I can think is how sad to have passed away at the age of 30. To have all the friends and family grieve for who he was, gone from their lives. To have had such promise in the future, clamped down within a day.

Rest in peace.

Once a long time ago, I awkwardly answered the question of what I wanted to do in my life to a coworker as we walked across the street in San Francisco.

I felt embarrassed sharing it, because it felt so unrefined and unachievable. Worst of it all, it sounded so egotistical, because I don’t know if I had the ability to even do it.

What I said was some version of the following:

To change the world. To get people to think, “You know, I thought about that before.” Not to be in the spotlight of that. It can’t just be product design, but to create something that changes someone’s perspective of the world. Maybe it’s through stories or essays. Maybe it’s visual arts. Something like that. But I don’t want my name attached. I want to be behind the scenes, noticing the change. The grand change.

And I often followed up with how the work of user experience won’t be able to quite achieve that. Because people will never notice that their lives have changed with user experience. It’s just simply better and folds into all the consumer technology. There’s no gratitude. There’s just this slow burn across years of convenience.

So now days after the election, what do I do now? Have I made the right choice? Have I?

I would like to say: I bleed only blue.

What will I say about this election a decade later? That we all survived? That we are better now. That it bought some important topics and groups to the surface? That it changed American politics? That’s the optimistic view.

But then there’s the cynical view. Will I be thinking of the terrorist attacks that happened? The recession that may fall? That the Obama legacy has been all but erased? That Roe vs. Wade is overturned? That we are left in shambles and that America lost its true greatness?

What will happen now? What will we do now?

It could have been worse. Like stranded.

I had decided a long time ago that the worst thing to happen is not have tried at all. So when there’s an opportunity, when the alternative is inaction (due to laziness), the right answer is always to exert all the energy to the time-consuming choice.

So that’s how I ended up waiting for the bus at 6 pm on Broadway in Rochester. Almost 90 minutes earlier, I ran into a nearby credit union, grasping a five-dollar bill. I looked hopefully to the teller, a middle-aged woman that had just spent time chatting with a customer. Thoughts around how I wasn’t a credit union member and how I didn’t want to cause trouble circled around my head. “Can I get singles with the five?” I said with a hopeful smile.

“Of course!” she said and counted out five one-dollar bills.

I grasped it and jubilantly went back to my hotel to drop off my stuff and catch a rest. Then shortly before 6 pm, I waited at the bus stop. The clearly marked one. When the bus arrived, just one minute behind schedule, I pushed the dollar bills into the machine and said thank you to the driver. I had done it. I messaged Chris and told him about my success—I figured out the bus system! And the bus was on its way.

I watched as fellow customers, likely people who missed the official company shuttle traveled to the far off parking lot. They stumbled out to their car in the darkened parking lot. Then the bus went. I studied all the suburban sprawl—parking lots surrounding chain stores. Everything was out here.

And then I saw my destination approach on the map. About 2 minutes, 1 minute. So I pulled the stop signal. “There’s no place to stop!” the bus driver said. “I am going to St. Mary’s!”

I was about to speak, “Just drop me off anywhere.”

Another woman spoke up first, “But that’s where I was supposed to go.”

“Nope, you just have to wait.”

So the bus passed past my destination. A write-up. And I switched gears and started steaming. The bus rolled down the highway at full speed. No stopping here. Soon I realized that I couldn’t get back. There wouldn’t be time. And I was pissed. A taxi was too much. No such thing as uber and lyft here. The bus returned close to where I had started. I couldn’t mumble a sign of thanks as I stumbled into the night.

I would like to say that the wind howls, the leaves blew, and the pumpkins growls. That has never been the memory of my Halloween childhood memory. What I do remember is dressing up in school. Maybe trick or treating? Maybe.

It wasn’t until my sister and I suddenly were old enough to have a strategy that we went trick or treating in full force. We considered the best neighborhoods—the areas that maximized the chance of getting lots of candy while minimizing the time from door to door. But what about the times before we had that independence? When parents had to bring us to house to house? I don’t remember any of that.

I am in Minnesota for the week (again) and was invited (very kindly) by a coworker and her family. I followed along with her 4 year old and 6 year old, dressed in a cat and vampire respectively. They ran from door to door, shouting trick or treating, and mumbling thank you as they ran away.

“How many did you get?” I asked.

“Lots!”

“What’s the best from the house?”

“I got three once. That’s usually the best. One is the worst. Oh! I got four! No, five!!!!”

When out of sight, her father dumped candy in my bag. And at back at my hotel bag, I sorted through the small pile. Remembering how it used to be. How to organize. How to feel the sweat and tears in each piece.

…I would go viral. Probably.

But it takes the following:

A long time ago, I probably wanted that. Because that’s what I believed was needed to succeed. But over the years, with experience, I realized that building relationships slowly guarantees great results. Because we’re human.

My body is ambitious. You must do this to succeed and move toward your goals. This is what you need to do. This is what you have to do. I move quickly down the street, dodging obstacles and people in the Mission sidewalk. My feet carry me to the bookstore. I know exactly where it will be and once inside, I skirt around a walking customer, the bookshelves, and head directly to the chairs in a circle in the big open airy space.

I say airy, because I know that the room has high vaulted ceilings. But as the movement slows toward the empty seat, my mind takes over. It realizes that the inevitable is arriving. That the challenge of getting to the bookstore has been overcome. Now what?

My mind forces my body to be as inconspicuous as possible. I am harmless! my mind wants to yell at eyes recognizing an unfamiliar face. Don’t judge me. Don’t think of me as any less. Please treat me well.

The night hurtles forward. Critique after critique. Anxiety sets in. Am I good enough? Will my writing be eviscerated? Will I be considered that young writer who never deserved to even try? Will they tear into the line editing and miss the plot story? Is my writing too egomaniacal? Too unrelatable? With an unsympathetic character? Or even worse, a boring story?

My mind starts yelling, Can we leave? It declares feeling faint. A rush of blood to the brain. A feeling of unease. Better to run. Better to hide. Better to never leave the bed, hide under the covers, and settle into safety.

My body wonders if it will have an anxiety attack. It knows that past anxiety attacks haven’t been real. They were contrived, pushed out from stresses. My body feels guilt, because it doesn’t understand what a real panic attack is—the suffocation, the noise, the whine, the feeling of true frailty. Thirty minute passes. Then an hour. Then 90 minutes. The facilitator suddenly declares that there’s time for one more.

My mind wonders if it would be disappointed if I weren’t called upon. Disappointment? But the mind knows that the body would be then be determined to return. The mind knows the body the best. The body believes in efficiency and optimization. You printed 10 copies of your work. That’s 3 pages each. And that’s 33 pages of very nice paper from your laser printer. Your personal laser printer.

My name is called, and I clear my throat. I apologize that I have only 10 copies, but that anxiety is not a big deal—two others did the same thing. I worry that my voice is not loud enough as I read, but what’s the point? I am reading and they have the pages in front of them.

Then the critique comes. And then it’s over. It’s over. But then there’s that awkward moment after it finishes. I whisper my thanks and dart out into the night, breathing the cool air, tapping on my phone to an app that I can control. Pokemon, where are you? Let me capture you. Let me evolve you. Let me be your trainer. Because you allow me to know you best.

In 8th grade English class, we were given the assignment to make a moment from a novel come alive. So I took advantage of the family video camera, harnessed my sister and my dad, and basic directing skills to re-enact a scene. Of course though, the toughest moment was giving the presenting as I stood in front of class.

“Speak louder” was always the dreaded directive from the teacher.

I would turn pink, trying my best to increase my volume. But I never quite achieved it. A combination of shyness and social anxiety kept me incredibly mute despite my creativity and desire to…express myself. I had no problem creating the presentation materials, no issues in creating exactly what I wanted to say, and most of all, not a single weary moment as I walked in front of the class. In fact, every single time, I was always excited.

But standing in front with all the eyes on me suddenly on me, I panicked and yearned to be back in my seat. And so it went for years. A call to be in front, to be seen, to be in the center of attention while crippled with the practicality of it all—the skills of performance and the connection to the audience.

There was once I used to wish that people didn’t listen, didn’t watch…while at the same time, I wanted them to listen and watch.

During high school, I opted out of giving a presentation for my final project. Instead, I walked up and said in a shy voice, “I made a video.” As I played it, I slumped at the podium, embarrassed about what I had created. My teacher told me, “No, look up, it’s your work.”

“We don’t have many t-shirts left,” the younger woman said. “Just large.”

I wanted to leave the table, but Chris had guided me there. I wanted an easy exit, yet I wanted to be respectful and polite. So I decided to continue the small talk across the table littered with t-shirts for sale, pamphlets for the course, and brochures for something that I absolutely did not want to do. “Why do you think that you only have large t-shirts left?” I said, not expecting a complete answer.

The younger woman immediately interjected, perhaps her words trying to fill the words. “I think that it’s because most people like tight t-shirts. So that’s why we have larges left.”

I stared back at her, surprised. I thought about how my own inventory for marketing. About how I misestimated, constantly misestimated. I ordered too many XLs and Ls. I was overburdened with them. A thought crossed my mind that their clientele was not large-sized and I wondered if her response was intended to be politically correct. She didn’t want to mention that large clients never came their way. “Tight t-shirts,” I mumbled and finally decided to play along. “Well I have that same problem.”

The conversation halted, and I stared back at them, prodding them to speak. After all, we were at the Museum of Awkwardness. “So what brings you here?” the older woman said.

“Because I embrace awkwardness all my life,” I said and outlined all the various moments. “Sometimes I enjoy the uncomfortable. It pushes me beyond my comfort zone to understand the world better.”

“Isn’t this the place?” the older woman said.

“What do you do?” the younger woman said.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you spend your time?”

I hesitated, mentally flipping through pages of my usual responses. I hated boring people. I hated explaining concepts that people didn’t understand. I wanted to tell something quite fitting for the situation and the words just tumbled out. “I think,” I said. “That’s what I do. I look to understand why.”

I read their faces and knew that wasn’t quite the answer. It never was quite the right answer as they were trying to size me. “What do you do other than that?”

I relented and said, “You mean to generate income?”

She nodded.

“I also think,” I said. “I ask why as a designer and researcher.”

Silence descended as I stared back. Beat. I felt a desire to depart. I wanted to sleep. I wanted the extra snacks from the table. I wanted to sit in the car on the way home. I wanted to be in my bed. I took the cue. “Well, thank you for your time,” I said.

“Will we see you at the Wednesday event?” the older woman said with a wide smile.

I returned her gaze with a wide smile. “Probably not,” I said and their smiles dimmed. “I am, after all, embracing the awkward truth. It’s not for me.”

Outside, emboldened by the fearlessness around awkwardness, I called out a man who was awkwardly riding a bike with another bike in his arms as he moved down the sidewalk. “Sir, excuse me, do you need help with your bike? I can carry it for you. Looks like you need help, because the seat just fell off.”

The man laughed, trying to get away.

“Also looks like the bike may not belong to you, sir. But I’ll help you. I’ll help you.”