Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

In 2010, it was a person. In 2011, it was an idea. In 2012, it was a symbol represented by a person. In 2013, I let go fear. In 2014, I let go of humility (or the desire to appear humble). In 2015, I let go of perfection.

This year, I let go expectations. Much like my one word, I realized that disappointment came with expectations.

I could only appreciate things as they are. As they truly are. And most of all, to accept them.

What had always surprised me the most about my book was the fact that most people don’t think like me. They don’t enjoy food the way I do. They don’t savor the stories of people who make the food. Nor do the stories elevate the food for them as it does for me.

Sometimes I find myself looking through my own writing—the struggle of finding an interpreter during the protests in Istanbul or the uneasy overnight in a dairy farm, I think in a dazed moment, “How did this writer really know what I like and love?”

Then I remember, “Oh it’s me.”

I wrote for myself, of course. Whether or not I have this streak of self-centeredness and narcissism, it surprised me that others don’t have the same mindset. And it’s disappointing to pitch my book to people at book festivals, at bookstores, at ice cream shops, and to find that the interest wavers.

And what’s more is that so many people suggest do this or do that, but have they stood with me in those precarious moments? When I was at a festival, pushing, but not pushing too hard my book? When I look at a passerby who loves the concept, but the comments are only “Wow, that’s so amazing!”

There’s a hesitation in all of that. Good enough, but not good enough. That’s the trouble of writing sometimes. To write for yourself, but realizing that you can’t. Not always. Not until you find that others will truly feel like you.

Will you enjoy this as much as I did?

Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

In 2010, I said everything. In 2015, I said fear.

This year, it’s just sitting down and doing it. This year, I did nearly 3 rounds of forcing myself to complete writing. First, there was that ridiculous idea of #the100dayproject on the worst platform for my kind of self-expression: instagram, which I did 100 days of plotting. Then I did 30 days of Writing. Then for the third year in a row and the fourth year, I did nanowrimo, this time writing about multiple relationships to a dead woman. For the latter, I really thought that it was impossible to finish due all the significant events happening during November. But I always finish, so I finished.

I was pleased with the results by pushing myself through it. This year, I spent 160 days writing. And there probably was more when I was editing my work. Although much of the writing produced probably didn’t result in greatness I still felt that some really did.

If I hadn’t: I couldn’t have touched the nuances of a CEO in Silicon Valley. Nor would I have instantly explored the toughness of a woman on the brink of stepping off a cliff. Or encapsulating the fragile relationship of a divorced, bitter mother with a young curious son.

And so what can I do with the other 205 days? My hired developmental editor suggested setting an award for completion. But maybe it’s letting the inspiration come all the time. And most importantly, letting the horrible first draft arrive. Then I write the better draft.

Sit my butt down and write.

I recounted the most impactful entertainment pieces for me in 2014. Then I did it for all of 2015. Now 2016.

Movies I Saw

TV Shows I Watched

Books I Read

Ways to Pass the Time

Technology

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.