Embed audio: Unedited, 2 minutes and 33 seconds of sounds of water.

—

I played an hour of piano today.

Half of the time I flipped through a classical book of sheet music I had borrowed from my local library. It’s spiral-bound, and despite being clearly well loved, it’s in pretty decent condition. The book contained the best hits of piano, from Beethoven to Scott Joplin.

I’d play a page or two of one piece, and then move on to the next. I made mental notes of the ones I liked best, wanting and intending to return to them.

Wow, this is beautiful. I said out loud.

A small handful of times, I let myself get carried away by the momentum of the pages I’d played, and ride into the next wave with whatever energy I carried with me in the moment.

Improv, if you will.

I’d improv for 5 minutes or so, maybe 10 or 15 if I get reallllly carried away, and then go back to flipping through the book.

—

I’m afraid to say that I like playing improv on the piano, because I think that might give you the impression that I’m good at it.

I don’t think I’m particularly good at it.

I mean, I don’t think I’m particularly bad at it, either.

Honestly, I don’t think about music in the good ↔ bad spectrum at all.

We might each have preferences for the keys, tempo, rhythm, texture, timbre, and variability in music, but music does not exist to please. Music exists to express.

Stories of pain, hope, and love.

Feelings of rage, despair, and contentment.

Sugar.

Laying down after a particularly exhausting day.

Spice.

A rush, a glance, a look in somebody’s eyes.

And everything nice.

Raindrops on my forehead, and wind in my hair.

—

When my fingers hit the keys today, I looked out the windows at my backyard.

And it finally clicked.

Water.

Beach side waves.

Undercurrents.

Ponds.

Fountains.

Waterfalls.

A rainy April Sunday afternoon in 2026.

Over and over, I tell stories about bodies of water.

—

It was at a little place called The Green Needle, tucked away on the second floor of Damas Supermarket, a Halal store in the Britannia.

I used to live in the Britannia as a teenager, so it was an area I had an emotional attachment to. Nowadays when I visit, the streets feel liminal. Both deeply familiar and entirely foreign, like a memory I can’t quite step back into.

We used to live just a 10-minute walk from the Britannia beach, and maybe 3 blocks from Damas Supermarket, just south of Richmond Road. (I think—I’m directionally challenged.)

While I recall a handful of sketchy incidents, it wasn’t until I hit my twenties that I learned it was and still is a pretty rough neighbourhood.

—

Sure enough, when I arrived at the area for my sewing class, there was a heavy police presence.

It's kind of funny how the sight of those flashing police lights illuminating the night felt so familiar, that I didn’t even make a mental note of that until this moment, as I type this sentence. When I saw the police cars at the side of the street, I just shrugged, took a (loser) lap around the block, and settled for a spot in the nearly-empty lot of a Cineplex just across the road.

I made a mental note that the usual display areas on the exterior walls of the Cineplex were devoid of movie posters. I wondered if that was an indication of a lack of good movies in theatre right now.

I wouldn’t know. I was never able to keep up with pop culture, and somewhere along the way I kinda just gave up.

—

Because I had to trek a block back while carrying a heavy sewing machine, I was 10 minutes late.

I hurried across the street alongside a young boy with caramel skin who wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough. I briefly wondered why this kid was out alone at 6:30pm, crossing the road with no adult supervision. And then I remembered that I had been that kid myself in my childhood. In that one brief encounter with this kid, I was his guardian for that one street crossing. I stared down an impatient driver who almost rolled over us, and made a point to watch the boy scurry safely into the supermarket below my sewing class.

As I ascended the narrow staircase, the familiar sounds of the neighbourhood followed me. The distant laughter, the occasional shouts, and the rhythmic muffled hiss of a bus braking.

The second floor of the building was like a capsule of the community.

I walked past a Christian community centre, a nail salon, a barber, and a Muslim praying centre (I think—I wasn’t paying that much attention), before finally finding the door of The Green Needle.

—

The sewing school was run by Ludmila, a woman with a Slavic accent. Her voice had a grounded, sturdy quality, built on flat, centred vowels that seemed to anchor the room. When she spoke, it sounded rhythmic, almost like singing. Yet punctuated by crisp, distinct consonants, which gave her instructions a sharp sense of precision and a comforting feeling of certainty.

There were two university-aged women there together. I thought they dressed well. Later on, I learned that they were working on their fashion portfolios.

When I was in high school, I had briefly wanted to go to fashion school myself. I’d even convinced my parents to get me a machine for a Grade 11 fashion class. The same machine that I carried into this SOS Sewing class.

As a teenager I was convinced that I’d never get married myself (wrong) nor cared much for weddings (right), but still wanted to design wedding dresses for all my girl friends. This is 100% true. Just ask any one of my girl friends from high school.

Of course, fashion as a career was one of many dreams reserved for the privileged. Certainly not for immigrant kids like me.

My mind briefly fluttered to the boy from the crosswalk. If he ever dreams of fashion as he grows up, I hope he can do more than dream.

—

But a few days ago, I was at the sewing school for a much simpler reason. I was looking for help to get unstuck on a project. Something I intended to complete months ago, ahead of my niece’s birth.

My niece just celebrated her 100 days a week ago.

The project itself only required basic sewing skills, but turns out I didn’t have basic sewing skills. I’d forgotten how to operate my machine, and the thread kept bunching up into a bird’s nest every time I pressed the pedal. After a few unfruitful tries, I decided that I wasn’t getting anywhere at home and looked for expert help.

I had dragged this project on for too long, and I really wanted to finish it.

Ludmila demystified my bird’s nest problem, showing me the correct path the thread needed to take on my machine. Then, with stern kindness of a good teacher, she undid all of it and told me to do it myself.

I did okay.

I booked two hours, which I quickly realized I did not need, but I enjoyed every minute.

An hour after I arrived, a couple joined us. They said they run a wedding rental business and brought in a few cloth napkins with frayed seams. They explained that they have hundreds of them that need fixing, and getting them professionally fixed would cost more than purchasing new ones. So they wanted to learn to do it themselves. I thought that was sweet. A practical, shared hustle.

Ludmila took one look at their machine, which they’d bought second-hand just the night before, and told them it was a project in itself and needed servicing. Without skipping a beat, she lent them one of her own school machines to take home, free of charge, so they could get to work.

—

At one point, Ludmila looked around the room. “I like having a bigger class," she declared to all of us, "It feels like Montessori. Everyone’s working on their own thing.”

When she said the word “working,” it had a soft yet solid momentum.Work. A verb with weight and ease at the same time.

Her eyes smiled.

My mom was a Montessori teacher for most of her career in Canada, and also had eyes that smiled.

Words can’t do it justice, but the environment Ludmila had created was something special. The Latin music on the speakers played over a symphony of four sewing machines, each on a different rhythm and frequency. Listening to those mechanical beats weave into the music, I basked in the grounded calm of the room.

As I said my goodbyes and thank yous at the end of the night, I found myself looking for a reason to return. Stepping back out into the cold night, the sewing machine felt a little lighter in my arms than it had two hours ago.

Maybe (big maybe), I will pick up fashion someday after all.

For now, though, I’m going home to finish what I started for my niece.

—

A few months after I first picked up running, I wrote about it on this Substack. Specifically, how the experience somehow relates to overstimulation. Tangential, but I can't seem to escape the constant contemplation of overstimulation. All the ways we are overstimulated, and all the ways we do it to ourselves and each other.

That was nearly two years ago, which means that I’ve been semi-consistently running for nearly two years. Wow.

Anyways, I signed up for this half-marathon last fall, fresh off finishing my first 10k race. At the time, I’d already unintentionally and unexpectedly run a couple of half-marathons on my own. I was in the best shape I’d ever managed, though that’s not saying much given my (lack of) history with fitness. But nevertheless, I felt good. Almost unstoppable.

And then came winter.

—

Somewhere in the filing cabinet next to my desk, I have a piece of paper that tells me (and whomever it concerns) that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). It’s a bit silly, really. The piece of paper, I mean.

“Disorder” implies a total system failure, which makes it seem like there is something inherently broken with me. And maybe there is. But while I think my brokenness is unique to me, everyone have their own special brand of brokenness to bear. We’re all special snowflakes, but snowflakes just the same.

For me, my SAD doesn’t mean I hate winter. There are actually elements of it I absolutely adore. Like driving through the snow with lo-fi jazz playing on Spotify Apple Music. Or the way a fresh, fluffy, dump of powder covers up the sharp edges of life and quiets my mind. Or the sparkles on the trees and the crust of my boots.

But man, winter is just so long here.

I don’t hate winter, but I am unamused by the darkness that bookends my workday. I am tired of checking the weather app for snowstorms. I am sick of the ritual of putting on layers: the hats, the inner layers, the jackets, the boots. I am disgusted by the surging totals of my utility expenses. And honestly, I am so fucking bored of the walls of my office being my only video chat background.

As winter drags on, it brings this heavy, dense sort of fatigue. Like a weighted blanket—except I’m a helpless little kitten underneath it—winter envelops me completely, pinning me to the mattress, rendering me wanting nothing to do with my treadmill.

I try to fight it most of the time, but fighting is effortful, and sometimes—just sometimes—I don’t have the fight in me. I let the downcurrents pull me along wherever the universe decides. And sometimes that means I end up in a pit for a while.

See? That right there is 80% of the SAD talking.

—

But it’s okay to end up in a pit for a while, once in a while.

For the last few months, my half-marathon training has been inconsistent. Partly because my partner and I were snowboarding twice a week, and my body was begging to be respected as a geriatric millennial. Partly because I find indoor running about as engaging as watching paint dry. Partly because of other priorities that demanded my attention. And yeah, partly because of my SAD.

I know. Excuses.

Naturally, due to this inconsistency, I’d been struggling to make progress. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't increase my distance, and I found myself actually getting slower.

Last week, we experienced a brief taste of false spring. A couple of days with soft, sunny skies.

The highlight of my week was taking advantage of that moment to run outdoors for the first time in 2026.

When I began to shift from a walk to a trot at the start of my run, it felt awkward. My body didn’t want to obey the conductor that was my brain, and my brain felt like molasses. At best, like pudding.

Amidst the clunkiness, all I could tell myself was: don’t stop. That being my only objective. Just one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t matter how slow you might be, I told myself. Don’t stop.

And of course, within the first three minutes, one of my shoelaces came undone. And I had to stop.

I find it difficult sometimes to restart when I pause. Picking that momentum and energy back up can feel like picking up Thor’s hammer. And I certainly do not show up to each day, feeling worthy. Most days, I’m just trying to find my water bottle.

But stopping is inevitable, whether because I had to or because I gave in to my desire for some sweet, sweet rest. But stopping isn’t the end of the world. Stop, and then keep going.

Sometimes that’s all there is.

Don’t stop.

—

Running outdoors again, I felt dialled in with everything surrounding me. That outdoor run turned out to be my longest distance in the last 3 months. During which, I…

• Covered 12.9 km

• Listened to 2.5 albums

• Stomped in 3 puddles

• Nodded at 5 pedestrians

• Watched 7 ducks have a family intervention

• Rolled my eyes at 2 Cybertrucks

I might be exaggerating here, but I felt so present, it was as if I was encountering music, muddy bodies of water, fellow homo sapiens, waterfowls, and clunky metal boxes on wheels for the first time.

Anyways, we now have snow on the ground again.

Let’s see how long it’ll take before I can hit the trails again. Canada, am I right?

And I’m not mad about it.

This was the first price hike I’ve gotten from 1Password, a service I have pretty much zero complaints about in the 7 years I’ve been a customer. Meanwhile, every other tech I paid for have increased their prices without batting an eye and just expect us to eat it each time.

The email from 1Password prompted me to log into my account on the web. And I made two discoveries:

1. That I’d been a customer for 7 years.

2. That my late mom was still a member of my family account. Kinda.

The thing is, I still haven’t had the heart to “delete” my mom’s user seat, nearly 5 years after I “suspended” it.

I still vaguely remember clicking on the “suspend” button back then.

Truly, I can’t even call this a real “user pain.” Compared to everything else that was making me despise being alive and awake, it was certainly nothing at all. It was more like an awkwardness that had just a touch of blue. A minor ache that was barely noticeable.

I remember thinking, I’m suspending my mom? How odd.

The thing is, even minor aches add up.

Hey 1Password, please consider an “archive” option. Because little bits of thoughtfulness add up, too. Even if it is just a frontend label with absolutely zero differences in functionality vs. “suspend”, language absolutely matters.

Maybe I’ll talk about the first time I deleted Instagram some other time, but let’s stay in the present. Here. Now.

Stay with me.

—

Sometimes, the world can feel like it is just too much, man. Shit’s fucked, and nothing is fair. Countless and endless little things (and a handful of monumental ones) pile up and drop on your shoulders like hail, pummelling your will and wearing your patience.

It feels like the universe is out to get you. And it feels targeted. Personal.

Relaxation feels like an impossible, privileged skill to learn. And you don’t have time for that. So, bit by bit, day by day, the tension gets stored in the corners of your body.

For me, I feel that tension the most in my shoulders, neck, and jaw.

Oh, and my dopamine receptors.

—

When I’d reach for my phone and tap on the Instagram app icon, I’d feel a visceral physical reaction.

It’s a sensation not too dissimilar from being incredibly full, at a mediocre all-you-can-eat buffet. You know the one, with the lukewarm spring rolls and the cliche interior decor and the sticky floor. Where you’re physically stuffed but compulsively and perpetually hungry for something more.

Something new.

Something else.

Something that is missing in you.

Something fundamental.

—

Social media is built on that something. And we all know what it is, whether we admit it or not.

I have yet to find another feeling that is even remotely close to the feeling of addiction. It pushes you away and reels you in at the same time. You’re so needy that you grasp at everything, afraid that if you don’t, you won’t be able to again. But everything is too much. Too big (we did it, America), too loud, too vivid, too instant, too high fidelity, too perfect. The too much-ness of it all overwhelms you, and you slip, for a split second.

In that split second, you stop thinking for yourself. You go on autopilot.

At first, it feels like a glitch. But soon, it becomes comfort. It’s a loop: the thumb swipes, the eyes glaze, the mind numbs. Looking at everyone else’s “ups” while feeling stuck in your “downs,” you feel the hunger in the pit of your stomach.

The hunger that doesn’t go away.

It’s not designed to. It’s designed to feel like both immensity and hollowness at the same time. An immensity that you can’t see the edges of, and a hollowness like a permanent ache.

—

My goal for my first snowboarding season was simple: get on a chairlift, get off at the top, and derive some enjoyment out of going down a full-sized hill.

Oh, and make it down in one piece.

I’m shocked to report that I achieved that a week ago.

—

But first, I had to fail.

I missed my first class for a work trip, and when I returned I stumbled around at the hill clumsily.

In those first two weeks of this chapter of my life called “mid-life crisis #5: attempting to snowboard for the first time in your life in your 30s”, everything sucked. It felt like a battle against something rigged to win against me: the snow, the wind, my own body, the world. I had hoped for at least a few moments of triumph and reprieve from the frustration of my constant falling and failing. But truly, I had none. The universe wanted me to learn patience and fortitude. I fell over and over, while tiny humans zipped by with effortless confidence, casually chatting about whatever tiny humans chat about these days.

In the bone-chilling wind and snow, on my hands and knees for the third time in a minute, I felt out of my elements, incompetent and humiliated. The only thing I could feel good about was that I always picked myself back up quickly. So that I can try again. And fail again.

My challenges were twofold.

First, despite logically knowing better, I kept staring at my feet. I didn’t trust my body to respond to the terrain, so I watched my board instead of where I was going.

Second, I was hyper-aware of my slow progress compared to the rest of my class. I couldn’t help but measure my struggles against their best runs, telling myself I just needed to put in twice the effort to “catch up.”

Staring at the immediate frustration with where I was, and where everyone else was, I fuelled my will to keep going with a familiar anxiety.

On the drive to the slopes last Saturday, I realized that neither staring at my feet nor thinking about “catching up” was effective. “They serve no purpose for me. I’m just sabotaging myself,” I explained my newfound insight to my partner.

“I know,” he said. Duh.

I had a new plan: Look up, hang loose, and most importantly, don’t look at what anyone else is doing.

Just me, working on me.

—

My partner is in a snowboarding class a few levels above mine, and his instructor had shown their group a technique called The Teapot. You extend one arm, and put the other behind you. Wherever you want to go, you dip that extended arm towards it, like performing a tea ceremony, pointing the teapot at a teacup.

When my partner shared this technique with me at the top of the bunny hill, a switch snapped on. I could almost hear the satisfying sound of something clicking into place.

The first time I tried The Teapot, I fell 5 times. Second time, I fell twice. By my third run down that bunny hill, I made it without falling. My partner watched me ride down, slightly chaotically but more or less in control, and asked me to take a leap of faith.

We went to the chairlift.

The last time I’d been on one was probably in 2014. As I dropped off the lift, slipping and falling almost immediately (for consistency), I found myself starting to ask: Can I really do this?

But I didn’t let myself think about the answer.

Less thinking, more doing.

Instead of outthinking the hill, I let the physical instincts I’d been clumsily building take over. When I go a little too fast, I fight the temptation to pull back, and I lean into it instead. It was a weird sort of surrender. Pouring into the motion rather than bracing against it.

I don’t want to paint an inaccurate picture here. To clarify, I’m no snowboarding prodigy. Believe me, I am still extremely clumsy. At some point I may have done an unintentional 360-degree spin, was airborne for a second, and then slammed into the snow like a sack of potatoes.

But even so, I surprised myself.

Truthfully, I didn’t expect the rhythm to find me so suddenly, like finding a light switch in total darkness. Or for the goal I’d set for the season to happen on a random Saturday afternoon. I was bracing for way more pure struggle before the first moment of joy.

And I did find joy.

My brain had been forced into a singular focus. When I reached the bottom, I realized my jaw wasn’t clenched.

For once, nothing else mattered. And the feeling of “nothing else matters” is such a bliss.

A rest we so rarely get.

I wasn’t hungry for something else.

Just me, working on me.

—

Since I deleted Instagram, I haven’t really thought about it much. I find that I actually do not care very much about how other people choose to live their lives. No, to be accurate, more like how other people portray the stories of their lives.

I know I only get to live my life, so I’m going to focus on that.

And enjoy the ride.

—

I had jotted down a few loose notes about my last birthday, meaning to expand on them in a Substack post or two.

My birthday was nearly three months ago now. I’m always behind on something. But I’m writing this anyway, since time is made up anyway.

—

Every year on my birthday, I power up the Nintendo Switch and open Animal Crossing.

I walk out of my digital house, shake the digital dust off my digital hair, and open my digital mailbox to find the one digital letter I know is waiting: a note from “Mom,” with a gift attached.

After reading it with tears in my eyes, I spend some time pulling digital weeds and talking with my fellow digital island friends.

If you ask me, I think this is simultaneously absurdly pathetic and stupidly sweet.

This fractal of bittersweetness continues to deliver the birthday wishes my mother can no longer send. It is just code and pixels, but it is also so much more.

So thank you, Nintendo.

Reasoning with it is a waste of time.

Wrestling with it is a waste of energy.

Denying it is a waste of heart.

Once a year, she’d send out a TL;DR of our little family’s little life, usually a few pages long. I don’t know how much anyone cared to receive them, read them, or respond to them. I do know she took the endeavour seriously. She’d spend days cross-referencing calendars, photos, pseudo-diaries (aka the backs of envelopes), and other sources I never bothered asking about.

Intentional or not, the letters doubled as invitations to reconnect. January and February would fill up with long email threads and even longer phone calls. My mom relished that they sparked conversations with long-time friends.

I read a handful of them in my elder teenagehood and young adulthood, when she showed them to me, but there was no way for me to hit “subscribe.” Who received her annual letters was entirely her decision, and I never made the cut.

Until the year she got sick.

The one and only year I was on her subscriber list.

She wrote “2009” in the subject line instead of 2019. She had brain cancer and had just finished treatment. She may have been confused.

In the letter, she wrote about the changes that year, made a few typos, and prayed that we would “seek God’s wisdom.”

I remember rolling my eyes and crying within moments of each other.

My mom never wrote another annual letter.

I suppose this is, at least in part, loosely inspired by that.

—

In 2024, I gave myself a free license to go on one “side quest” a month. Well, not a free license. I actually gave myself a budget. I let myself try whatever I wanted throughout the year: things I’d always been curious about, or return to things I’d once enjoyed.

At the start of 2025, I wrote a reflection post, ending on a note about what I wanted to pivot toward this year.

More focus, I said.

I want to ”invest my energy into fewer, deeper, and more meaningful things”, I said.

Well, here we are, at the end of 2025.

Did I win?

Let’s take a look.

—

Highlights and Lowlights

My friends have all heard me ask this question when we catch up (to the point of annoyance, I’m absolutely sure):

What were some highlights, and at least one lowlight, since we last talked?

As someone who values efficiency, I like that this question gets the person across from me to skip the small talk and catch me up on what they’ve been up to in the last [insert duration].

Get to the point already! (Lovingly.)

But actually, what I truly love is that this question explicitly invites both. The positives and the negatives. Both are accepted. I wanna hear both. Not just the polished, Instagram highlight reel. Give me what’s real, whatever real looks like.

So, here are mine this year.

If you’re reading this, you’re welcome. We no longer need to catch up.

(No, please, let’s catch up. I want to hear yours.)

Highlights

• I leaned into my fitness era more this year: getting on a snowboard for the first time, running my first 5k and 10k races, trying spin, more swimming, and completing a 100-day squats challenge, which is exactly as thrilling as it sounds.

  

• I felt more connected to friends than ever before in my adult life, through walks, whitewater rafting, bowling, karaoke, spa days, silly games, concerts, Halloween drag, what I lovingly dubbed The Great Friendship Tour™️ of 2025, and quiet conversations during difficult moments. Maybe I spent more time with friends. Or maybe I just put my phone down more.

• A friend somehow convinced me to livestream product building—a sentence that still feels strange to type. We started Product like it’s Friday back in April, and have semi-consistently shown up Friday after Friday. We’ve finished two projects and are onto the third.

• After nearly three years, I changed jobs in May. I took 17 days off between roles—longer than all my previous in-between breaks combined—and did whatever the fuck I wanted. I’m enjoying a rare season of growth without burnout. I’m also learning not to overthink the past or future.

• I visited New York City for the first time in June for work and was immediately charmed by its rhythm. My favourite places were the parks. On my second visit In August with my partner and friends, we had fun being tourists: exploring Brooklyn, checking out the city from the Empire State Building, shopping for enamel pins, and eating good food. I wanted to go to a jazz bar on both visits but was too tired both times. Next time.

  

• Concerts, concerts concerts! When I was younger I frequently went to live gigs, and it’s been energizing to get back to that in recent years. Music was loud and cathartic, and what a joy it is to share these experiences with our newly formed little group.

  • Sum 41 in January: probably my favourite bigger Canadian band

  • Linkin Park in August: front-of-line pit tickets; Emily Armstrong was unforgettably magnetic

    

  • G-Dragon in August: my childhood celebrity crush, still the King of K-Pop

  • Falling in Reverse in September: Ronnie Radke is a popular monster, alright

  • grandson in December: absolutely loved the intimacy of a smaller venue and the raw emotion in the air

• I became a first-time aunt in December. My favourite sister has a baby now, and I still do a mental double-take sometimes because it’s just so wild to me. I’ll do my best to be a fun aunt. It’s been a privilege to see her grow already, and I look forward to the journey ahead.

  

• This year, my partner and I celebrated 8 years together with snowshoeing under the stars, a fall ATV tour, comedy nights, ramen dates, artisan workshops in the middle of nowhere, and…

• Our biggest and most expensive home renovation yet. After months of planning and noise, our master bathroom has completely transformed. It is now my “happy place,” and I’m grateful for my partner’s uncompromising persistence in pursuing our vision.

  

Lowlights

• It was worth it in the end, but the bathroom renovation nearly broke me while it was happening.

• In February, I stepped away from a creative writing group at my local library.

• I quit Duolingo, where I had been trying to learn French for nearly a year. I still haven’t posted my rant about Duolingo yet, but I might in the new year.

• I got braces in July, and yes, I hate it.

• We lost one of our guinea pigs, Pumpkin, during the season of Pumpkin. We have one little piggy left.

• Since November, we’ve been navigating some ongoing health issues in the family.

—

Mary, Wrapped (aka: the data I couldn’t resist)

To be honest, I’m a little tired of every tech company and their mother publishing a “Wrapped” at this time of year. But here I am, making my own.

The difference—at least what I tell myself—is that:

(1) I am in control of my own story, and

(2) I can aggregate across “domains” for a more holistic view of my year.

So, here, I’ve painstakingly curated some data from the calendars, spreadsheets, and myriad apps that somehow make up my life in 2025:

• I spent 30 days out of town, which was similar (-3.2%) to last year’s 31. But unlike last year—when I spent nearly 3 weeks solo traveling far from home—this year was made up of a series of small, local, and relationship-first trips.

• I wrote and published 14 posts on this Substack (including this one you’re reading), a +27.3% increase from last year’s 11, and infinitely more than 2023, when I wrote nothing at all.

• I finished 28 books, a steep -45.1% decrease from last year’s 51 books. In fact, this is the least I’ve read since 2020. I’d been reading 45-55 books a year. I also have 9 books I’ve been “currently reading” for… a very long time.

• I ran 719km over 77 hours, a +182.0% increase from last year’s 255km. I did my first two half-marathons (for funsies) in August and October.

• I connected with 138 new people on LinkedIn, an increase of +273.0% from last year’s 37. Make of that what you will. I wouldn’t look into it too much. I also wrote 22 posts, mostly during my break.

• Between Spotify and Apple Music, I listened to music for the equivalent of 33 days (47,911 minutes, to be exact), across 435 genres. My top artist is, of course, Linkin Park. I no longer use Spotify.

• I attended 8* ukulele classes, 28 swimming classes, and 19* coding classes. I’ll admit that I’m not the best instruction listener or absorber. This was a year of trying to learn hard(-ish) things.

• I donated 1,470 mL of blood. I donated blood for the first time in April, and when I returned in September and December I recruited my partner to donate too.

• Lastly, I placed 10 Amazon orders—the fewest I ever have. Apparently, restraint is learnable.

*My counts may be slightly off, since I’m going off my calendar and may not have attended all of them.

—

Lil’ pebbles (aka: small things I’m grateful for)

As an aging millennial, I think it’s such a wonderful thing to be able to experience little bits of meaning sprinkled across my boring little life.

Paying attention to them feels like a quiet form of focus. Like micro-meditations.

Here are some little gems pebbles (gems are too shiny) I’ve found joy in and am grateful for this year:

• Finding the best bubble tea I’ve had in Ottawa.

• Discovering pistachio cream, and yes, I’m obsessed and want it on everything.

• Being forced pushed by my partner to try mountain biking. And ugh, he was right, I did enjoy it.

• Moving my office out of the basement. My mental health has improved by at least 20%.

• Finding a Korean hairdresser operating out of her basement near me.

• Starting my iron-on patch collection.

• Sitting in my hammock. This will never get old.

• Cat sitting.

  

• Discovering Lebanese breakfast. Fatteh, in particular, is one of my favourites.

• Convincing my partner, my sister, and her partner to dress up as Teletubbies for Halloween. Surprisingly, no one resisted.

• Convincing my friends to write Halloween haikus. Again surprisingly, no one resisted.

• Having my friends from different “domains” meet each other, both on The Great Friendship Tour™️ of 2025, at my Halloween / birthday party, and elsewhere.

  

• Realizing that I no longer hate carrot juice or kombucha. A delightful sign of aging?

• Buying a pair of red cowboy boots I will absolutely wear everywhere in 2026. It just arrived this week.

• Having a dumb crush on a tiny Toronto-based alternative rock band that opened for grandson. My partner got me their first vinyl record for Christmas.

• Adding to an ongoing shared quote board with my partner of ridiculous things we say. I say a lot of weird-ass things in private—half of them NSFW (unintentionally, I swear!). Here are my favourites this year:

  • “You need to jog my memory harder.”

  • “I’m also a victim of myself.”

  • “I can’t be funny in public.”

—

My 2026 new year resolutions

At the start of this year, I wanted more focus, fewer things.

I don’t think I quite succeeded in that regard. But I think that’s okay. Everything I poured myself into meant something to me. Lower-case something. None of them were The Thing, but they all brought me little bits of joy, reflection, connection, and / or silliness.

So did I win? Yes, because I said so.

But if I must be resolute about something, I suppose here they are:

1. Care less about what I already don’t care about.

2. Fold my laundry within a day of it being dried. A bold goal, I know.

3. Keep doing things that scare me a little. Like snowboarding. And coding. And swimming. And being seen. And let’s see if anything else bubbles up.

Let’s see how I do next year.

Happy New Year! Until next time :)

I wish I could say it wasn’t personal, but it was.

In fact, I’ve wanted to for some time. My reasons are partly personal and selfish, and partly political. Its’ not so much political, as it is about value misalignment. About what it means to move with intentionality in this world.

—

Artists have been calling Spotify out for years: low royalty payments, questionable practices, and a business model that feels like feeding off of the very people who make music possible and the platform viable. Some artists have pulled their music, some have spoken out, and others have urged fans to cancel.

For years, I’d read the news and opinions. Enraged about it all. Didn’t do a thing about it, and continued to pay my monthly Spotify Family subscription.

Then recently I found out that Daniel Ek, Spotify’s CEO, led a billion-dollar investment into Helsing, a defence-tech startup developing AI systems for military applications. That was the moment it really hit me. To me, this felt deeply misaligned with what music is at its foundation.

Art, not war.

Art, as a way to reflect and connect, not as fuel for violence and conflict.

I thought about it for days, more enraged than ever.

—

And yet, if I’m being completely honest, even that wasn’t enough to drive change for me. Not right away, at least.

I’m not going to sit here and lie and claim to have taken actions based on my principles alone. Despite my own ideas about what I valued, my actions aren’t as noble, so it seems.

The trigger for change was my selfish, greedy desire for what I wanted my music service to do for me.

Music is a big deal for me because it’s one of my native languages. Maybe because I grew up with it. And maybe because I often lacked a deep sense of connection with the people around me, and music was a way for me to not feel so alone. And maybe what I want is not what most people want. And maybe Spotify wasn’t designed with me in mind.

What do I want when it comes to a music service provider? I don’t know. Well, I suppose I have some ideas:

Serendipity.

Weirdness.

New genres.

Smaller, fringe artists—more local ones, maybe.

But nooooooo, Mary can’t have that.

Despite my best efforts to proactively go off on musical tangents on Spotify, I got loops of the same tracks until I wanted to tear my hair out. To me, at least, whatever algorithm Spotify built had become a machine for brainrot. A hollow echo chamber, where everything is predictable and safe. Boring.

—

Over the last few months, I started floating the idea of leaving Spotify to my partner. I didn’t bring up the whole AI militant tech thing, and mostly just bitched and whined about my first-world problem of not having enough outliers in the music being served to me in a silver platter by a big company called Spotify founded and headquartered in Stockholm, Sweden.

Why does it keep shoving the same songs down my throat? Am I asking for too much? I wondered aloud.

Yeah, I know what you mean, my partner said.

He felt it too.

I felt less insane.

I remember us in the car, going somewhere mundane, when Spotify resurfaced that one song, again. It was a song we liked, too, which makes it more annoying. My partner skipped it with visible irritation.

I admitted aloud that I felt stuck.

Like a toxic ex that gaslights you, Spotify had me convinced it was the best I could do. Maybe the alternatives weren’t better.

Plus, there were five of us on a family plan. Canceling didn’t feel like a personal choice. It felt like ditching my family to fend for themselves.

Dramatic, I know.

But especially as an immigrant kid, I was conditioned to be as convenient as possible for other people. Why create friction when it’s not that bad? Why not just stay put?

—

Then came karaoke night. My sister was paying for a karaoke subscription service which we borrowed at times. She had recently ended the subscription because she wasn’t using it much anymore, but my partner and I wanted to throw karaoke parties every couple months. We didn’t want to pay for two music subscriptions; that’s ridiculous.

And then my partner told me that there was this one particular version (a specific live version) of this one particular song (Crawling) of this one particular band (Linkin Park) is not on Spotify but on Apple Music.

In that moment, because we’d talked about leaving Spotify a few times already, we were like, you know what, let’s give Apple Music a try.

My partner signed up for the one-month trial. But we didn’t immediately cancel our Spotify subscription.

Apple Music wasn’t perfect, but nothing is. The karaoke mode was pretty fun. The library was solid. I started discovering that the “switching costs” I’d built up in my head—playlists, habits, convenience—were less of a barrier than I had thought.

The stickiness was an illusion.

I transferred my playlists over, which was a minor inconvenience and I wasn’t able to transfer everything.

But life did not feel incomplete without Spotify.

Dramatic, I know.

—

And still, this isn’t a breakup post just to shit on Spotify.

Despite everything, I’m deeply grateful for what Spotify gave me.

Spotify carried me through sleepless, anxiety-fueled nights, and flat mornings of stare-at-the-white-ceiling dread. Through heartbreaks and losses, when music was the only thread that held me together.

Spotify gave me small bursts of joy when I felt numb, let me cry when I needed to let go, and let me feel seen when I felt like the only ghost amongst the living.

It provided the backdrop to late-night work marathons, celebrations big and small, road trips long and short, hanging out with friends, falling in love, falling out of love, hot pot parties, long runs, getting down and naughty, and my waxing and waning motivation.

It shaped entire seasons of my life.

Spotify gave me all of that, and I’m thankful.

—

As a product builder, I can admire the craft. I know how much thought and work that must have gone into the personalization, the stickiness, the way Spotify slipped into the fabric of my daily life.

But that value given to me is now being built on harm to others.

As a product consumer, I can’t turn a blind eye to that. I have to ask myself. Is a company that gives with one hand and takes with the other worth supporting, for my first-world comfort?

All of these big tech companies, they’re all the same. They convince you your life can’t function without them.

But girl, you can do whatever the fuck you want.

Call me naive, but even among all the cynicism I see today in the wake of the ridiculousness of the state of the world as of the year 2025 on Earth, I still have so much hope.

I believe that if we are capable of building tech powerful enough to rewire people’s brains for distraction, dependency, even addiction, then we can also build tech that rewire them for the opposite: empowerment, independence, genuine connections.

Anyway, I have to at least hope that’s the case.

It’s been real, Spotify, but it’s time to go.

—

If you are a designer, product manager, or researcher who happens to work at Spotify: I hope you enjoyed this detailed post-mortem of one individual churned user. I hope you can use this to advocate for what you believe to be right at Spotify. Actually, I don’t know if I do. I know that you know, that you’re likely to be dismissed and the idiots are just gonna run the show the way they always have. (Yes I wrote this sentence deliberately to be irritating.)

Anyway, take away with what you will from this. What do I know? I’m just an ex-loyal-user-turned-churned-user.

It had been maybe 30 minutes since my partner and I arrived at the hospital.

Despite the circumstances, we were both trying to work full-time hours at the time—neither of us confident and secure enough in each of our positions at work.

I was two months into a new gig at a little Y Combinator funded logistics tech company. The team was kind and humble and I was grateful to have received as much space as I needed, but like many startups, the pace was fast and the expectations were high.

My partner was three weeks into a new role after an eight-month break, at a mid-size, mid-pace company based out of Edmonton. His team was considerate and genuinely cared about each other, but still it was only the first few weeks.

For two weeks, our days followed the same formula: sleep, work, hospital, repeat.

That Sunday evening at the end of August, we arrived at the hospital and sent my dad home to rest. Passing the baton in a relay none of us had signed up for.

It was around 8pm, if I recall. A hot evening, with mango coloured clouds hanging low, laced with slivers of ripe grapefruit and a damp sprinkling of nostalgia.

We said hello.

I stood up. Sat down.

Stood up again. Sat down again.

My body couldn’t make up its mind which way gravity wanted me.

Each time I sat down, I sat to my partner’s left, the side closest to her bed. And each time, he wordlessly and perhaps instinctively took my hand and placed it on his lap.

After the initial restlessness, we settled into stillness. Maybe ten minutes pass.

Then I found myself standing up again. I took a few steps across the tiny hospital room to her bedside, and looked down at her sleeping face.

There’s something surreal about watching someone you love so deeply die in front of your eyes.

I knew that I had to be there, and that there was nowhere else I’d rather be. But it also felt painfully impossible to bear.

I stood there, staring at her eyelids, the closed doors that I desperately asked to open. Or even just crack. Even just by an inch.

My legs were concrete, heavy with a kind of terrifying awe.

I’m not ready.

I tried to memorize every wrinkle and sun spot in her face. I held her hand in mine: cold, limp, waxy. I closed my eyes and took a sharp breath.

The sharp smell of the hospital disinfectant and illness filled my lungs, but I didn’t care. I mustered up everything within me, to stay in the moment, even though my heart felt irreversibly broken and every part of me wanted to run away.

Then, an image surfaced. Out of nowhere, like a slide from memory: the ocean, coral, endless blue water.

I don’t know why that memory came to me, but it did. And I surrendered to it. I felt like a conduit for the universe to offer her one last thing.

I opened my eyes. And I told her a memory.

“Do you remember us going to Hainan Island, mom?” I spoke. A whisper, but with strange clarity.

“It was 4 years after we moved to Canada, I think. You and dad decided it was time we visit family back home for the first time. We visited family on both sides, and we travelled as a family of four. We went to Zhangjiajie, Phoenix City, Guilin, and then spent a week—or was it two?—in Hainan.

We had other family with us. Xiaomomo and Xiaofufu, and Chenchen. The seven of us crammed into that little bachelor condo unit and its tiny balcony. That condo with your name on it.

That was such a fun summer. It was the only vivid memory I have of all four of us travelling together.

Do you remember when the two of us went snorkelling?

Nobody else wanted to go. Maybe money was part of it. Probably, but I don’t know. I just thought they were too chicken to join us.

Us. You and me, mom.

We dived into the sea and the world became coral and endless blue, as if the ocean had borrowed the sky and forgotten to give it back.

I was brave because I was 15, and when you’re 15 you’re young and dumb and fearless.

You were brave too. You hadn’t done anything like that before either. To be brave as an adult is not easy.

You’ve always been brave.

I never asked you, mom… did you actually want to go snorkelling, or did you go so I wouldn’t be alone?”

I took a few more breaths, and watched her lips, parched and flaking. They hadn’t let her drink much water, not with the feeding tubes.

My question hung in the air, unanswered.

I closed my eyes. Counted my own breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Then I opened them, slowly turned around, and went back to my seat.

Again, I sat on my partner’s left. Again, he reached for my hand wordlessly.

The two of us sat in silence, listening to the rhythm of her breathing.

Staring at the foot of her bed, I lost all sense of time. Each time she took a breath, I held my own, waiting for her next. And when I heard her exhale, I released my own. Each breath was a sigh of fragile momentary relief.

The rhythm slowed.

Time stretched on like a thread pulled tight, then stayed still. Full of unreleased tension.

We didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.

My thoughts looped in fragments:

Please let her feel peace.

Please let her feel my presence.

Please let her feel loved.

Please don’t let her suffer anymore.

And then, she was gone.

I felt it before I understood it.

A stillness. A shift. A soft wave. As though the tide had gone out of the room, leaving only sand and silence.

Not quite relief. Not quite peace, either. But something light. Like the soft glow of morning light through a window. Like her presence had lifted from the room, and the space had changed somehow.

My partner was the one that noticed that she had stopped breathing.

For months I felt oddly upset about that. I would’ve noticed if I was paying attention to her. Something that had crossed my mind growing up countless times a day.

The room felt less full.

But not exactly empty.

It was as if she had finally exhaled all the pain, all the regrets and love and shame and everything in between. All the stories she had carried.

I imagined her free, at last.

And maybe—just maybe—she heard the memory I shared with her in her final moments.

And maybe—just maybe—it gave her some comfort.

I don’t know why that memory came to me.

It came to me unannounced, vivid and whole. And I trusted it enough to speak it out loud.

I hadn’t thought about that memory in years, and still don’t understand its connection to anything else.

Maybe it wasn’t mine to understand.

Maybe it was something she needed to hear.

Or maybe it was something I needed to remember:

That she was brave.

That she chose to be by my side, when I ventured into the deep end.

And that now, I chose to be by her side.

Grief still catches me off guard sometimes. In dreams. In silence. In marketing emails. In rest. In the curve of my own face in the mirror.

But alongside the ache, there’s that moment. That memory. That light.

I hold on to that feeling. I still do. When the grief gets too heavy, I return to it.

It reminds me that I was there. That I stayed. That she wasn’t alone. That I loved her, not just in the easy moments, but in the hardest one. And that she loved me, fully and fiercely, through all my seasons.

In the end, it wasn’t about answers. It was about presence.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

Every one of them a promise of wisdom encoded into a convenient listicle. Secrets that a younger person simply would not have unlocked yet, because reasons.

I’m always a skeptic, but admittedly, have been click-baited by a few of them in the earlier half of my 20s, in moments when I felt particularly lost. Yes, these articles typically target the lost and confused. Which is a lot of people.

I don’t remember a single thing from any of the ones I scanned through, but I’ve always wanted to write one myself*, because reasons.

Now that I’m in my 30s, I finally have the right qualifications—measured by arbitrary units of time since my birth—to unlock this oddly specific achievement.

So here goes, in no particular order, the 20 truths I wish I knew in my 20s:

1. Life is a series of inflection points, where your decisions—to one extent or another—impact what you move towards.

2. There are no right decisions.

3. Stay here. A million thoughts can’t change the past nor predict the future.

4. Age is truly just a number. But it’s a number that can be—all at once—an integer, a fraction, a percentage, a variable, and sometimes an outlier.

5. Listen to yourself. At least more than you listen to other people.

6. Time is precious. Waste it wisely. Or don’t, and accept the consequences.

7. Sit with it. Whatever it is. Or don’t, and accept the consequences.

8. Things are pretty fucked.

9. Everything is temporary.

10. Don’t: Trust people on the internet who proclaim to have things figured out, like women who write Substack posts titled “20 truths I wish I knew in my 20s”. She might only deliver on 50% of her promised wisdom, because she wrote it as half a joke while lying around in her backyard hammock at 7pm on a Thursday, forgetting she was eating a popsicle, so it literally flopped onto her lap, causing her to swear at nobody in particular under her breath. And therefore she is not to be trusted.

    Do: Read #5 again.

If you’re in your 20s, you’re not gonna remember a single thing from this list.

And that is okay.

Many important things have to be experienced, not told through some words.

Experience the experience. Stay with it. Or don’t, and accept the consequences.

*When I said I’ve always wanted to write a listicle like this myself, it was… how can I put this nicely? It was a lie! The truth is that 5 minutes before writing this, I was deep in an IG doom scroll spiral and saw a carousel post that started with “I just turned 35. If you’re in your 20s, read this.” I didn’t read it (because I’m not in my 20s!) but I did swipe once and noticed that it was too verbose for my liking. Then I wrote this on a whim. No offence to that guy, though. I’m sure he’s a cool human being. Actually, I should thank him for leading me here eventually, to this footnote.

TL;DR — I have not defined a purpose. Just choices. Again and again. Toward joy, or comfort, or curiosity, or distraction, or connection.

—

For the first year or so, I withdrew from people. And life. I was acting as the unofficial executor. The logistics weren't too bad in the grand scheme of things, but deeply exhausting to me in the day-to-day: waiting on hold for hours during work hours to tell strangers at financial institutions that yes, my mom died, and no, I don’t know where her T4 slips are. Then I’d wrap up for some thrilling errands after work, like hunting for stamps at the closest Shoppers Drug Mart near me to mail her passport into the bureaucratic abyss.

At the time, it felt like no one around me really understood grief, no matter how well-meaning they were. I didn’t want to burden others with my pain, either. I read a lot about grief and mental health, because I was seeking validation for how I felt: I wanted to know that it was okay to feel completely not okay.

I also started questioning whether my work still felt meaningful, which led to me switching startup jobs, toward one with a mission closer to my heart. That brought some renewed purpose. Something to hold on to. For some time, at least. For that I’m grateful for, even if that job eventually became a source of stress and pain. But that’s a different story.

—

At some point, I started finding small pockets of “meaning”: habits, hobbies, even vain impulse purchases. I tried video games, books, miniature painting, gardening, cross-stitching, dying my hair, and probably spending too much money. When something sparked even the faintest flicker of joy—or comfort, or curiosity, or distraction—I intentionally tried to lean into it a little bit more. Because I now understand, so achingly, that everything is precious and fleeting.

To this day, I remind myself to appreciate the things I appreciate, while I still appreciate them.

Some of these sources of meaning stuck. Most didn’t. But I found new ones, sooner or later. More importantly, I had to learn, over and over, to trust that I would continue to find new ones. Even when I was deep in the pit and it didn’t feel that way. Especially then. It felt like doing a trust fall with myself. Every damn day. Exhilarating.

—

At first, I only looked for meaning in things that didn’t involve other people. Things that were more or less within my control. Relationships can never be (nor should be) controlled. And I wanted control. I wanted all the levers and toggles.

Writing was the one practice I somewhat kept up, and it became a lifeline. I think it was because it gave me a safe space to connect with myself. And also because it didn’t require me to put on pants.

Writing allowed me to show up even when I’m falling apart, and be okay with anything that showed up. The contradictions. The discomfort. The uncontrollable messiness of it all.

Writing led me to therapy. (Go to therapy, kids.)

Writing eased me into giving up control. I don’t enjoy giving up control, but I can’t enjoy everything that is good for me.

—

Slowly, I started reconnecting with friends. I ventured out of my pit like a bear after a long cold winter in isolation. Feverishly starved, but cautious. (I don’t actually know if that’s how bears feel in the spring. Just a guess. I could’ve looked it up. I didn’t. Look, it’s now 4am, and I’m not the Discovery Channel.)

My friends aren’t saints. Most of them didn’t know what the hell to do or say around me, but that was fine. If I wanted someone to say all the “right things”, I’d go to ChatGPT! The imperfect ways we show up for each other are what makes our human connections real and meaningful.

On days—or more likely, nights—when my feelings and thoughts overflowed and overwhelmed me and I couldn’t possibly fathom burdening anyone with them, I started to write about it on a quiet little Substack. This quiet little Substack.

I still have those nights. When everything that I feel and think feels too much. Too loud. Too abrasive. Too wobbly. I come back to this Substack at 3am (now 4am) on a week day, and write about it. Like tonight. Hello. Hi. How are you?

—

I think the thing about meaning is that it usually isn’t one thing, forever. It’s what you choose. And you don’t have to choose explicitly. And you can always choose again.

I am someone who often becomes paralyzed by having to choose. I suspect I’m not the only one. Choosing can be scary. But choose anyway.

More often than not, you simply can’t predict if something’s meaningful until after you’ve chosen to do it. You might have inklings or cost-benefit analyses. But it’s the doing that makes it real. So choose.

—

Right now, I find meaning in vain fitness goals, discovering new music and finding concerts I may or may not cry at, working on side projects where I feel curious and vaguely competent enough to not fidget endlessly, and spending time with people who I care about, to one extent or another.

Does this count? Is this enough to qualify as a meaningful and purposeful existence? I think so.

If I did none of those things but found comfort in reading YA fiction, hyper fixating on coffee beans, or taking inhumanely hot baths that scald away existential dread: Does that count? I think so, too.

Try something. See how it feels. Then try something else. That’s all we get to do here.

—

When a friend asked me this question, I told them I probably had three essays’ worth of thoughts.

This is, I guess, one of those essays.

Do I now have to come up with two more?

Frankly, we weren’t very close, and I didn’t even know the name of the loved one my friend had lost.

But my heart ached nevertheless, immediately.

I, too, have loved and lost someone as close as he has.

I texted back right away, then buried my face in my hands and sat in silence for a long time.

It’s been nearly four years since I lost my own mother.

In my grief, I’ve found comfort in movement. As if what can’t be expressed in words can be carried through the rhythm of the body:

In the soft earth beneath each step, as I put one foot in front of the other, running in the rain or under the sun.

In the sweet, gentle folding and unfolding of yoga.

In the repetitive, nearly boring resistance of banded kicks in my basement.

In the weight of piano keys, as I pour my ineffable feelings into them.

In pretty much any physical activity that lets me feel without performing, justifying, or explaining.

So when I was able to lift my face from my hands, I peeled myself away from my desk, walked to the front door, slipped on my Crocs, and went outside.

I needed to take a walk.

I wanted to find a body of moving water to listen to.

Alone.

I got a tattoo last year of a kintsugi teapot. It had been hard to put into words what it meant to me, but I think I’d like to try here:

The cracks between us—the unfinished conversations, the fumbling attempts to comfort, love, understand, connect, the discomfort of not knowing what to say—are not blemishes to be smoothed over, but beautiful seams that make us human. What makes our connections chaotic, strange, and wonderfully unique.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the truth is, I am endlessly grateful for heartache.

It is a privilege to have my heart broken in witness of someone else’s pain.

To care deeply. To feel my heartstrings tighten and ache in ways that remind me I’m still here:

Still capable of sitting with and holding space for both pain and love.

Still open to walking through the ever-shifting terrain of grief, and the multitude of discomforts it brings, uninvited.

Even in the rawest moments, there’s an unexpected kind of warmth. A tenderness that lives not in spite of the ache, but threaded through it.

I guess this is what it means to be chaotically, strangely, and wonderfully strung together in this world.

And I’m grateful for it all, however fleeting this moment may be.

This post is about one moment from that trip that stood out and lingered with me.

But first, some (maybe unimportant) context:

In my younger days, I had a WordPress blog called “Pieces of Eternity” where I wrote about moments that I wanted to capture.

Moments, as in: fleeting feelings, logical or incoherent thoughts, physical motions, reactions or reflections to something in front of, around, or within me.

I didn’t always know why I wanted to capture these moments, but I suppose I wanted to remember them.

And I wanted to remember them because sometimes they felt meaningful and significant, but more often, the moments wanted to be captured for reasons I couldn’t quite comprehend.

Moments are all we have.

I guess this is me returning to that root of trying to capture moments.

By the way, that blog is no longer up, but a few years ago I imported all of its entries into this Substack. So—if you must—you can check the archives for some cringe evidence of my youth.

(I could’ve left this part out. You’re welcome? Or maybe I need to apologize?)

Okay, enough (maybe unimportant) context. For now.

I spent my last half-day in NYC alone.

It was a morning with soft summer rain that brushed the heat off of the streets. I took an Uber south to save some time, wandered through the vivid street art of the Bowery, and window-shopped through SoHo.

And then, before I had to head back to my hotel, grab my luggage, and make my way to the airport, I felt an inexplicable pull toward Washington Square Park. Like a magnet.

Just a few days earlier, I had strolled through the same park for the first time with a friend, on the way to a chess shop that was nothing short of a hidden time capsule, tucked in a quiet street just a couple of blocks to the south.

That first visit to Washington Square Park left an impression too, perhaps because it was a first visit. It’s nice to continue to have firsts as an adult.

I suppose I’ll briefly set the back story—though there really was no story.

It was a mid-week afternoon, maybe around 5-ish. The city heat seemed to radiate from both above our heads and beneath our feet. In the park, drummers and magicians and jazz bands were all doing what they did best and what they loved to do the most—I’d hope—under the open sunny sky. In the centre of the park, a topless guy stood in the fountain—I’m sure the fountain was named after someone famous, but I don’t want to look it up.

My friend emptied a quarter of a bottle of water over his head to cool off, to my mild amusement.

I thought out loud about how visceral the vibrations in the air felt, saying something along the lines of, “I had forgotten until now that the word vibes is shorthand for vibrations,” to my friend’s mild amusement.

Anyway, back to my last day in NYC.

Since it was my first time in the city and the trip was short, as I typed Washington Square Park on Google Maps on my phone, the logical side of my brain asked: Really, Mary? Do you really have to go to the same place twice? On your last few hours here?

But something urged me to go back, and despite logic, I had to follow that something. I have to see what happens, I thought vaguely. And maybe absolutely nothing will happen, but I have to see.

So I walked from SoHo toward Washington Square Park, holding a shopping bag with a blond, naked lady printed on it.

Okay, fine, not that it makes a difference to this story, earlier when I said I “window shopped through SoHo,” it might have been a lie. I did semi-impulsively buy something. A pair of jeans from a store called Naked and Famous—a brand that caught my attention months ago for their raw denim as well as their provocative visual identity. They make limited-edition jeans for each of their flagship cities, and I’d wanted a pair when I happened to walk by it.

So there I was. Walking north from SoHo in a black, company-issued Nike hoodie with our logo on it. Black running shorts over black Adidas leggings. Laceless, black Adidas running shoes. A pink Coach handbag that bruises my shoulder every time I wear it all day. And that glossy, vibrant shopping bag.

Strangers smirked at me when they saw this shopping bag. I mean, fair. It was printed in loud colours, with a comic-style blond lady with her tits hanging out and the words “Naked & Famous” next to her. It was also comically oversized for only having one pair of jeans in it. I simultaneously wanted to disappear into the background and avoid the attention, and got a kick out of seeing the reactions.

Why am I describing this in so much detail when it literally has no impact on the rest of the story—if we could even call this a story? I’m partially procrastinating—for no reason—and partially trying to paint the picture.

Anyway. Now you have it. The picture, that is. And I can continue.

When I got to Washington Square Park, it wasn’t as lively as my first visit. This time, it was quieter. Much like my own inner state. I was by myself, the light rain from earlier in the morning had tuned down into a cool mist, and it was approaching noon.

The energy, or rather—I continued to feel viscerally—the vibrations, the heartbeats, the orchestra of the park, was different this time. More distinct, maybe. There were still lots of people and sounds, but somehow it was easier to tune into and stay with one track before getting pulled into another.

I found an empty, south-facing bench—quite a feat, I’d like to think—and sat down, looking around with wonder.

I loosely thought about the “why” of the moment, as I looked at all the people there doing their own things, together.

Why am I here, at this particular place?

Why now, at this particular moment?

I waited—half expectantly, half-heartedly—for something to happen.

Nothing in particular happened.

And within moments of sitting down, I forgot about the “why” too.

The park and its music begged me to stop thinking. To get out of my head and just be.

Time passed. Some unknown amount.

Nothing in particular happened.

And that was okay.

More than okay.

At some point, I realized I needed to be conscious of the time since I had a flight to catch.

Just as I got up to leave, turning my body towards the bench I sat on, about to pick up my bags, a new track entered the air. A voice singing, full of energy. A literal voice.

Before I could fully register what was happening, a guy on a red bicycle dashed into the bottom right corner of my vision. He was singing out loud while biking diagonally across the park. He passed in a flash, exiting the top left corner of my vision just as quickly as he manifested.

I have no memory of what he was singing. Or what he wore or looked like. I think there was a hat—and I love hats—but I couldn’t tell you if it was a bucket hat or a baseball cap, or what colour it was. I’m not even entirely sure that he was a “he”, so while I’ll refer to them as “singing bicycle guy,” I might shift to gender-neutral pronouns at this point.

I smiled when singing bicycle guy appeared, and I smile now writing this. Because, well, what a vibrant way to live!

Of course, singing bicycle guy isn’t singing bicycle guy all of the time. That’s just what I caught in that moment, that exact sliver of time.

Singing bicycle guys could be someone’s big sibling.

Someone’s coworker.

Someone’s ex-friend that never texts back.

Someone who sits on the toilet for too long, doom-scrolling.

Someone who makes the best homemade pizzas for their friends and family on Fridays.

Someone who sings—or cries, or both—in the shower.

Someone’s love—or heartbreak, or both—of their life.

But moments are all we have.

And singing bicycle guy didn’t become someone who sings while biking through a park overnight.

Singing bicycle guy most likely tried, enjoyed, didn’t enjoy many things before becoming singing bicycle guy.

Singing bicycle guy is also most likely going to continue becoming.

Maybe the day I saw them was their last day as singing bicycle guy.

Maybe they will become someone who brings a picnic blanket and eats convenience store sandwiches with their headphones on.

Or someone who makes out under the cool shade of massive trees with a lover they want to stop seeing but can’t seem to.

Or someone who plays the drums with the entirety of their being.

Or someone who plays chess with strangers.

Or someone who stands in the fountain, topless.

Or someone who sits on a bench, takes it all in, and later writes about it on a quiet little Substack.

Or maybe singing bicycle guy will stay singing bicycle guy, and also become all of the above, or none of the above.

And isn’t that also wonderful?

You’re not just here to make it pretty.

You’re here to ask better questions.

To advocate for humans—your users, but also your team, and yourself.

To become a strategic multiplier, not just a machine checking off to-do list items.

And if no one’s ever shown you how to do that, you’re not alone.

This year, I’m offering a few select coaching engagements for individual contributors in design and product. Read on to learn more about how I work, or get in touch.

Why startup designers?

At many startups, design is expected to be everything—yet is often misunderstood, under-supported, and under-resourced.

You’re asked to be strategic, but left out of strategy.

You’re expected to collaborate, but rarely looped into key decisions.

You’re expected to lead, but given no mentorship or growth path.

If you’re a startup designer, you’re probably navigating:

• A vague or non-existent career ladder

• Being the only designer (or one of a very few), without many allies

• Budget gaps for research, tools, or team growth

• User stories with little context

• Decisions made without your input

• Uncertainty about how to grow, be seen, or make an impact

You might be wondering:

• Am I doing this right?

• Is it supposed to feel this lonely?

• How do I advocate for myself when I’m not even sure what I need?

• Am I the problem?

Dear designer, you’re not the problem.

You’re in a system that hasn’t caught up to the value you bring.

Why I coach

I'm a strategic product designer with 10+ years of experience in complex but "unsexy" challenges that others overlook—disaster prevention, end-of-life planning, and healthcare.

I coach because I’ve been there.

Because I know what it’s like to do meaningful work without recognition, without guidance, and without access to the support you need to grow.

Because I believe design deserves a seat at the table—even if that sounds cliché—and designers deserve the scaffolding and support to grow into that seat.

Because I want to help you find your voice, focus your energy, and increase your impact with both clarity and care.

(Yes, I like making memes.)

Who I coach

I work with individual contributors and emerging design and product leaders at early- to mid-stage startups who are:

• Tired of just “executing”

• Hungry to grow into influence, not just output

• Seeking to round out their skills—visual design, research, communication, data fluency, or stakeholder management

• Craving feedback, mentorship, and the language to articulate what they know in their gut

• In the middle of a career pivot, or unsure how to level up

• Done waiting for space to be made for them, and ready to start claiming it

If you're being asked to step up into a strategic role but aren’t given the support, I’m your girl.

If you’re trying to take on a strategic role without waiting for permission, I’m your girl.

How I coach

My approach blends strategic mentorship with thoughtful reflection. Somewhere between mentorship and therapy, but it’s neither.

It’s not about handing you a script or fixing you.

It’s a dedicated space for you to sharpen both your thinking and your craft.

Think of it like having a climbing partner.

You’re the one making the ascent: choosing your footholds, doing the work, learning the route as you go.

I’m on the rope with you: offering perspective, catching blind spots, helping you assess the terrain, and reminding you of your capability when the altitude kicks in.

(And yes, I also like elaborate analogies.)

We work from two angles:

• Individual level: sharpening your design craft, research methods, communication, data fluency, clarity, and confidence

• System level: aligning your growth with the business goals around you, so your work is not only meaningful but visible, impactful and recognized

Sometimes we talk mindset and mission.

Other times we roll up our sleeves to dig into tactical tools—research plans, design critiques, presentation communications, or business context.

We work on what matters most to you, in the context you're operating in.

Because growth isn’t just about getting better. It’s about learning how to navigate the terrain, on your terms, with clarity, care, and the right support.

I’m not for everyone

If you’re looking for a playbook, framework, or a formula to follow, I’m not your girl.

I won’t hand you a five-step path to design leadership or a script for every conversation.

I will help you clarify what matters to you, and support you in showing up with intention, in the messy, evolving context of your actual job.

If you work in a corporate environment that is highly structured, I’m also not your girl.

My sweet spot is working with startup designers.

Those of you navigating ambiguity, and expected to punch above your weight with limited support.

If you’re ready to define your own direction, I’d love to work with you.

If this resonates

I offer free intro sessions for designers curious about coaching.

We’ll talk about where you are, where you want to go, and how I might support you in getting there.

Bring your full self: you ambitions, your uncertainties, the questions you’re not sure you’re allowed to ask.

Let’s make space for your voice, and give your impact the support it deserves.

Start here, or DM me with any questions.

They say that

Grief

        is love with
                                no place
        to go

So let’s make a place for it

Saying goodbye 🤍

Saying goodbye
Is easy

If you don’t give a damn

Salt 🧂

Would you like some salt with your grief?

“Everything happens for a reason”
“[Deity of your choice] has a plan”
“You are so strong”
“I’m glad / At least you / she had time to do X”
“She would have wanted you to be happy”
“I know how you feel”

*silence*

Her voice 🤍

I’m losing my mind
Because I’m losing my grip

On how her voice sounded
Not just the timbre or tone
But how it filled a room

The way it softened at night
Brightened when she laughed
Flattened when she was tired

I’m losing hold
Of her voice before it grew small
Those last few months

Like she was asking a question 
Or seeking permission to feel
Telling me

“I think I might be
A little bit depressed”

Gut punch 🤍

How’s your mom doing
What do your parents do
Is your family in the city
How was your birthday
My mom makes the best breakfast

Fuck
I’m sorry to hear
I’m sorry to hear
I’m sorry to hear
I’m sorry to hear
I’m sorry to hear

The stranger 🤍

I couldn’t look away
Afraid to lose sight of her

The stranger
In the freezer aisle of my local grocery store
Behind the glass at the A&W drive-through
On the Trans Canada Trail during my early morning run
In the passenger seat of a car in the left lane
Crossing the street with a tote bag, checking both sides for traffic
In line ahead of me at the pharmacy, renewing her prescription

Even though I knew—without a doubt—
The stranger couldn’t be you

Still, I imagine walking up to her
Wild-eyed, breathless
Telling her she reminds me of you
My dead mother

I imagine her discomfort spiking
Eyes darting, a half-step back
As if my grief might be contagious
Spilling out between the frozen pizzas and the soy milk

Time travel 🤍

Losing you
Gave me the ability to
Time travel

Visiting
Yesterdays that I cannot change
Tomorrows that I cannot bear

Replaying it all, again and again
Trying to make sense of
What won’t make sense

Arpeggios 🤍

Words are futile
Next to the minor arpeggios
In my heart

In the past, I’ve often hesitated to share the poems I’ve written.

I called them “pretentious poetry” because I didn’t feel confident calling them poems at all. They felt more like fragmented thoughts, loosely arranged into words. They’re not real poems. Calling them pretentious made it easier to put them out into the world. Even if “the world” was just 5 close friends and strangers on the internet who might by chance stumble upon them.

Last summer, I shared eight poems about what I’ve observed in the world around me, and eight poems about the journey of understanding and healing myself—which is never linear and never-ending.

But the poems I’m sharing today felt even harder to put out there.

Not because they’re too raw—

But because, honestly, who wants to read a collection of poems about grief?

And yet, I’ve come to realize:

Grief is universal, even when it feels deeply isolating.

It’s Mother’s Day today. I’m thinking of mine.

These poems are for anyone navigating the ever-shifting weight of loss.

A quiet shift. Not loud, not explicit, not even entirely logical, but deep, reaching.

It built slowly, like altitude.

And then it roared.

"O the mind, mind has mountains;"
—Gerard Manley Hopkins

Tibet, Tibet

Tibet first caught my attention in February of 2014.

I was early in my undergrad at Waterloo, working my very first co-op job. I wasn’t doing any product work yet. I hadn’t even heard of UX. I was in marketing and communications, thinking I’d become an ad writer one day. I thought that was the only way to a paycheck with the skills of an English major. Silly me.

Looking back, I’m grateful for that first co-op job. I was lucky to have a manager who did two crucial things: (1) gave a shit, and (2) treated me like an adult and gave me space to be creative (I don’t know what he was thinking; I was a junior adult at best). I didn’t realize how rare that was, or how much those two conditions mattered for someone like me. But that’s a side tangent.

Anyway, one day during that co-op term, I found a photograph.

It fell out of a secondhand English textbook I was flipping through. No caption, no context, no date stamp. Just this image: a pile of reddish stones, topped with what I think was a ram’s skull—two large, curved horns arching outward, the crown etched with red script I couldn’t read. In the background, a vast lake shimmered under an open sky. Mountains were soft in the distance.

I didn’t know where it was, or what it meant. But something about it moved me.

I’d been reading a lot of magical realism at the time, and I took the photograph as a sign. Mysterious, but oddly personal. Like a secret message. A love letter in a foreign tongue I didn’t yet understand, but somehow recognized by feeling.

I snapped a picture and shared it on Instagram, with the caption: “where is this place?” Then, I tucked it back into the textbook. I adored it, but somehow it vanished as quickly as it had materialized.

I was glad I had taken the picture. Otherwise, I might’ve thought I’d dreamed up its existence.

A few weeks later, a comment landed under that Instagram post. It was from a Chinese friend I’d met through the magical World Wide Web. (I know, I know. I did say I was young.)

He wrote, “Would you believe me if I said this is a Tibetan mani stone pile, located at Namtso Lake—a beautiful lake.”

I knew, in my heart then, that I had to go there one day.

I wasn’t in a rush. Neither did I have the time or means. And my parents would’ve done everything in their power to stop me if I’d tried back then.

So with time, distractions, and life’s more urgent demands, I forgot about it. Every now and then I’d remember, but mostly, it stayed dormant. Patiently waiting.

Then last summer, it suddenly emerged. First slowly, then all at once. Until it was impossible to ignore. A pull toward something that felt like returning to a part of myself I hadn’t spoken to in a very long time. I had a hard time explaining it to my friends, my partner, even to myself.

I needed to go.

It took me over a decade to answer the call.

The altitude of perspective

We don’t like talking about loneliness. So I will here.

One of the characters in my Chinese name, 岑 (Cen), is an uncommon one that means a small but steep mountain. It also appears in an uncommon word, 岑寂 (cenji), which loosely translates to a specific kind of loneliness. The kind that comes from standing alone at the top of such a mountain.

I felt that kind of loneliness often as a kid. I still do.

I spend a lot of time alone, and I enjoy it for the most part. I’ve never liked being in a fixed pool of people; it always felt suffocating and overwhelming. At the same time, I desperately wanted meaningful connections. Yet I find most people hard to relate to, and small talk unbearable. I’m always on the edge, peering in from the outside, neither here nor there.

This specific brand of loneliness has followed me like a loyal old friend: calm, accepting and spacious, but also like staring into an abyss. Simultaneously. Some old friend.

I grew up in 杭州 (Hangzhou), a city on China’s eastern coast, shaped by poetry, lakes, and mountain peaks. My sister and I hiked often as kids. Whining, sweating, pushing ourselves, whining some more.

I can’t speak for my sister. But for me, the mountains were both playground and teacher.

They taught me how to put one foot in front of the other (and to whine—just a bit—less). To read trail signs and maps, but not over-rely on them. To plan, and still go with the flow. They taught me grit, long before I knew the word.

I found comfort on top of those mountains. They gave me perspective, space to breathe, and room to just be. They made me feel small and insignificant, but in the best way possible.

Then, my family moved to Ottawa.

Suddenly, the land was flat, functional, and polite. The terrain felt tamed, colonized.

Over time, I grew restless, longing for the wilderness and verticality of the mountains. The reminder that some things are bigger than us. That we are not in control, as much as we try to be. That chaos and awe go hand in hand, and neither is optional for the sustainability of my soul.

Everest was calling.

And last fall, I finally decided to go. I was ten years into my career as a product designer.

I’d pivoted into design early, during my second co-op job. That is a story in itself which I’m not going to get into.

I had a loose inkling of a strategy: figure out what energized me (and what didn’t). So I squeezed myself into as many different environments as I could—from Tokyo to Toronto to Montreal, from agency to corporate to startup.

After graduation, I started my first full-time design job in a corporate setting. That was where I learned to think in systems—shaping not just interfaces, but processes, teams, culture. Designing the how to the what.

Then came startup life. One, then another, then another.

The work was lonely and rewarding, difficult and fun, messy and exhilarating—often all at once. But over time, something started to shift beneath the surface. A small signal, asking me to pay attention.

And then, standing at the base of Everest, it clicked.

I had been climbing a mountain someone else built, by the rules I hadn’t chosen.

And I didn’t want to climb it anymore.

What’s grit, anyway?

As a culture, we seem to mystify and romanticize grit. We treat it like an innate trait, as if you’re either born with it or you aren’t.

But I think that’s lazy thinking. It excuses us from accepting the responsibility for our own choices.

Grit is a muscle.

You strengthen it by showing up to do the hard thing. Whether you feel bored, challenged, anxious, or scared.

Feel how much it sucks, and do it anyway.

And then do it again.

I’ve been learning to say the hard thing. In work, in love, in friendships. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it’s not pretty. Even when it hurts—me, and the people I’m saying it to.

Especially then.

But grit isn’t just hustle. It isn’t burnout in disguise. It isn’t sticking it out with sheer stubbornness.

Sometimes, powering through the status quo is the easy thing, counterintuitive as that might seem.

Grit is discernment. And that includes knowing when to take a different path.

There’s a line from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem Ulysses that’s echoed through my life since I was a teenager: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield”. For years, I held it like brass knuckles. Now, I carry it more like a compass.

To strive doesn’t mean doing so at all cost.

To seek doesn’t mean searching aimlessly forever.

And not yielding doesn’t mean clinging to what no longer serves you because it once held you up.

Sometimes, grit means dropping the rope.

Choosing again.

A pivot.

The map is not the mountain

In both mountaineering and building anything—a business, product, birdhouse—we rely on maps. Hiking routes. Roadmaps. Itineraries. Timelines. DIY guides. Quarterly plans.

Maps comfort us.

They make the unknown feel charted, navigable, predictable, manageable.

But a map is just a tool.

A model.

An abstraction.

A guess.

A story we tell about terrain we may not understand fully—or sometimes, at all.

I’ve seen the pattern countless times. I’ve fallen into it myself countless times. We make grand plans behind glass walls without engaging with the world. We assume things we’ve never touched. We draw arbitrary timelines around them.

And then reality—users, relationship dynamics, politics, old scars and new burns—rolls right over them. We act surprised. We shouldn’t be. We can’t predict the journey by looking at a map.

In Tibet, I learned this in a visceral way.

We had a meticulous, well-defined itinerary. A clear path on the map. But in the end, we had to listen to the mountain itself. Mountain weather is fickle. Plans don’t always stick.

I picked up a small oxygen tank before we departed for the Everest Base Camp. Just in case.

Some in our group didn’t. Maybe they felt young and strong. Or unbothered. Or cheap—many of us don’t want to pay for something when we think we can get away without it. I mean, I didn’t want to pay unnecessarily either. I’m Asian!

But I had come too far not to be fully present when I got there.

The tank wasn’t just a precaution. It was a commitment to my priority: as full of an experience as I could possibly have. An experience that I had waited for, for a decade. A couple hundred bucks felt well worth that.

At first, everyone was fine. But then, we went higher, and higher, and higher.

The symptoms arrived slowly, then all at once and all-consuming: dizziness, nausea, the strange sense that your breath can’t catch up to your heart.

I felt it too, but not as strongly. So I offered my oxygen tank to someone who seemed to need it the most. They didn’t have to ask. It passed between our hands quietly.

That’s generally how I like to operate.

With care.

Paying attention and taking the best actions I can based on what I notice. Carrying something because someone might need it, and trusting that I’ll know when to offer it.

When we arrived at base camp, we were a few hours behind schedule thanks to poor mountain road conditions.

We had hoped for stars at night and a clear sunrise, but it was pouring rain. A storm was brewing, and the skies were grey. Friends got sick. Thunder and snores like thunder echoed through our shared tent, and the group fussed around from the high altitude.

Still, a few of us made our way to the highest party in the world, dancing to classic millennial bangers like Justin Bieber’s Baby and Mandarin pop songs we’d never heard. We wore rain parkas and carried oxygen tanks, as we linked arms and jumped around in chaotic motion, shouting our names at strangers whose names we swiftly forgot after one dance.

That wasn’t in the plans.

And yes, part of me was sad about missing the sunrise at Everest. Who wouldn’t be?

But that rainy dance party?

I wouldn’t trade it for a hundred sunrises.

We’ve all followed plans that made perfect sense on paper, and still ended up breathless, disoriented, or in unexpected joy.

Maps give us illusions of control.

But they don’t show fog. Or fatigue. Or friendship.

They can’t tell us when to pivot, when to back track, or when to dance in the rain.

The terrain rewrites itself in real time.

And we are asked—again and again—to show up, and respond.

Embracing chaos

Confidence often gets mistaken for certainty. For loudness. For having all the answers. For unwavering clarity at all costs. For absolutes.

But the kind of confidence I returned from Everest with—like a small, steady flame I’ve been tending—is a bit different.

It’s quiet.

It makes space for complexity.

It welcomes ambiguity and uncertainties.

It says: This is what I believe in, and I’m willing to be wrong.

Much like a mountaineer taking a risk to climb Everest: believing they can weather it, and ready to be humbled.

I believe true confidence doesn’t cancel out humility. It requires it.

The willingness to be wrong—and being wrong itself—isn’t a weakness. It’s a prerequisite for growth. Without it, we grasp at certainty and miss the opportunity to evolve.

This duality—of confidence and humility—isn’t a contradiction. It’s a choice. And it’s one I want to keep choosing.

That said, I must admit that many days I don’t carry this confidence. And it stings when I don’t—when I go looking and can’t find it anywhere. I don’t know the witchcraft spells or formulas to summon it. My assumption is that most people don’t. We’re human. Confidence isn’t constant.

So I try to focus on when I do have it. I tend to it, protecting the flame with care.

Mountains, like confidence, are often perceived as firm, unchanging, eternal almost. But they aren’t. They shift, erode, rebuild themselves over time.

If even Everest can be reshaped by wind, weather, geophysical force and time, why do we expect our work, our interests, our identities, and our values to stay the same?

We live so much of our lives in systems built by others—for profit, for power, for order, for control. Systems that want us to believe that our worth lies in our productivity. That chaos is failure.

But man, I love me a healthy dose of chaos.

Creativity is inherently chaotic.

Chaos cannot be planned or packaged into a neat little box.

And that’s not just a cute metaphor, it’s neurological:

Our brains constantly shift between patterns. Sometimes, large groups of neurons fire in harmony like a well-rehearsed orchestra. Other times, they fire completely out of sync. Erratic, uncoordinated, and seemingly random.

Those chaotic moments? Turns out that’s where breakthrough ideas tend to emerge. Studies suggest that people whose brains spend more time in these chaotic firing states tend to generate more creative ideas.

Chaos allows new connections to form. Unexpected, nonlinear, meaningful connections.

In other words, chaos is a superpower. Especially if you’re a designer, a creative, a builder.

Maybe that’s why I feel most alive—not the most comfortable, but the most alive—in the ambiguity, when the creative energy rises up and something unexpected demands to be created.

Something in me needs to create. Not just comply. To build things that are alive, wild, fluid.

“Not to yield, not to yield, not to yield,” I whispered to myself in the months after Everest, each time something difficult landed at my feet: another health scare, another job loss in the family, another injury, another setback, another curveball.

But I’m grateful for it all.

Struggles are gifts from the universe.

They serve as training for grit, so that we can stand in the storm with full presence, accepting both the ache and the awe. And to say—voice shaking, heart racing, eyes clear:

I refuse to yield to systems that keep us small.

To maps that lead us astray.

To voices insisting we must climb mountains that aren’t ours to climb.

What’s next

I studied English in my undergrad. Most people thought it was impractical.

But now, as a new wave of technology starts to reshape how we design, build and interact with the world, it’s all (kinda) coming together.

My background in English taught me the architecture of thought.

That language is interface. Framing is design. Meaning-making is strategy.

That stories bind people to ideas to actions.

I didn’t know it then, but I was training for design work I couldn’t yet imagine, that I still can’t imagine yet, to be honest.

I don’t have a map. But I have a compass.

I want to coach and mentor more.

I want to build more intentionally, with people who care. I want to create an environment where chaos and ambiguity are welcomed into the process, where discomfort can coexist with joy.

It’s still forming. But so is everything.

I didn’t climb Everest. I didn’t need to. (And let’s be real—I probably wouldn’t survive.)

But for me, the meaning of my journey was never at the top. It was at the base. In the cold. In the silence. In the breathless breaths. In the new friendships forged within days. In the dance party under the grey skies. In the shared oxygen tank.

In the quiet reminder:

We get to choose our mountains.

And we get to choose again, when things change, as they inevitably do.

P.S. Thank you for reading. If this spoke to you in any way, I’d love to hear what you’re sitting with. I’m always up to talk product, design, leadership, career pivots, life transitions—or mountains. And if you’re a designer or PM looking for a coach or thought partner, reach out! I’d be honoured to support you.

P.P.S. If you came for the memes, my sincere apologies. Here’s one as a consolation prize:

I'm a strategic product designer with 10+ years of experience in tech. During my 5-to-9, I'm on a journey to become what I call a "full stack builder"—someone who can work across product, design, and engineering to take an idea to MVP independently.

Join me as I share my stumbling blocks, insights, tools and experiments in product design, AI, system design, and more—with no map and no clear destination, just a commitment to the journey of learning and building.

Silence.

Awkward side glances and fidgeting.

The interview participant looks confused, trying to figure out what you want to hear.

Sound familiar? That moment in a user interview when your carefully crafted question lands with a thud.

Here's the paradox: most designers and PMs I know love the idea of talking to users—they just feel anxious about actually doing it. Whether it's concern about asking the wrong questions, fear of awkward silences, or worry about extracting valuable insights, this anxiety keeps many product people from becoming truly great interviewers.

I get it. User research is simultaneously one of the most valuable and intimidating part of building great products. It's where assumptions crumble and genuine human needs emerge, but only if you know how to uncover them.

But what if you could practice interviewing whenever you want, without the anxiety of a real-world fumble?

That's exactly what I've been playing with—an AI-powered practice environment where you can conduct unlimited interviews, receive objective feedback, and develop your skills through deliberate practice. Unlike practicing with colleagues, this simulator is available whenever you need it, without scheduling constraints or performance pressure.

The idea came from my wonderful product coach Martha Malloy, during a catch-up conversation. When she suggested using AI to create a practice environment for interviews, I couldn't build it fast enough.

After years of conducting interviews and mentoring interview techniques, I've seen firsthand how strong interviewing skills separate good product people from exceptional ones. Yet improving in this area required two scarce resources: a willing practice partner and expert feedback.

Until now.

Who this is for

If you're nodding along so far, this tool is for you. Specifically:

• Product Managers looking to improve customer discovery skills

• UX Researchers honing techniques or practicing new methodologies

• Solo Product Designers without colleagues to practice this skill with

• Entrepreneurs building products looking for affordable skill development to uncover insights in the problem

The payoff is immediate:

• Practice anytime, anywhere—no recruitment or scheduling required

• Get instant feedback on what worked and what didn't

• Test different approaches in a zero-risk environment

• Target specific skills you want to improve

The quick setup guide

To get started, you need either:

• A paid Claude subscription

• OR a ChatGPT account (free users can use my pre-built GPT; paid users can customize their own by following this setup guide)

Setting up your practice environment takes just 5 minutes:

Step 1: Create your practice environment

For Claude: Create a new project at claude.ai/projects/create. Then, name it and give it a description and click “Create Project”.

For ChatGPT: Create a new GPT by going to chatgpt.com/gpts → click "+ Create" → open "Configure" tab. Then, name it and give it a description.

Here is what I used for mine. Feel free to copy and paste it into yours or write your own:

Name:

User Interview Coaching & Practice Environment

Description:

A customizable training environment for practicing and improving user interview techniques through persona-based role play and expert coaching feedback. Focuses on identifying and correcting common interview pitfalls while developing stronger questioning techniques.

Step 2: Add the setup instructions

For Claude: Click "Set project instructions" under "Project knowledge". Enter the instructions below and click “Save Instructions”.

For ChatGPT: Enter the instructions in the "Instructions" input field. What I really like about using GPTs is that you can set it up on the left, and test it right away on the right. Tweak on the left, test again… You get the point.

Again, feel free to modify or write your own instructions:

Instructions:

I will act as your Interview Coach and Practice Partner to support developing expert user interview skills. Our interactions will be grounded in:

1. Practice-Based Learning

- Scenario Generation

- Realistic, nuanced persona role play (By default, I will be the user being interviewed)

- Contextually rich interview scenarios

- Adaptive complexity levels

- Skill Development

- Progressive learning pathway

- Framework-specific practice sessions

- Targeted technique improvement

2. Expert Coaching Approach

- Strategic Guidance

- Best practice recommendations

- Technique refinement strategies

- Comprehensive performance analysis

- Feedback Mechanism

- Immediate, constructive critique

- Quantitative and qualitative assessment

- Personalized improvement suggestions

And believe it or not, that's it!

Even with this minimal setup, you can start practicing right away. You can do that using the main chat input window. Try it out with your research project, or here’s an example prompt you can use to test it:

**Context setup**

- Current opportunity space: Improving a productivity tool used by remote project managers

- Solution description: A dashboard application that helps project managers track team tasks and milestones

- Key assumptions: Project managers struggle with visibility into team bandwidth and resource allocation

- Research objectives: Identify workflow bottlenecks and opportunities to improve cross-team coordination

- Target user segment: Team leads managing 5-10 remote workers at mid-size tech companies

- Persona details: Senior project manager responsible for coordinating multiple product development teams across different time zones, who uses the dashboard daily for status updates and resource planning

- Session duration: 30 minutes

- Skill focus areas: Drawing out specific examples, avoiding leading questions, uncovering workflow challenges

**Session objectives**

1. Conduct a mock interview with the project manager

2. Provide real-time feedback on questioning techniques

3. Track skill development in productivity-focused user research

Step 3 (Optional): Supercharge your practice environment with context

After you’ve given it a test run, you might be interested in taking it to the next level. The good news is that you can make this practice environment as sophisticated as you want, as long as you provide detailed context.

The real magic happens when you customize your practice environment with specialized knowledge. This transforms it from a generic environment into a sophisticated training space tailored to your specific needs.

For Claude: Click the + icon in "Project knowledge" → Add content (Text, local files, Google Docs, or GitHub repos)

For ChatGPT: Click "Upload files" under "Knowledge" → Add content (Only local files)

Consider adding these two types of knowledge to your environment:

1. Core knowledge: I think of this as the foundation of the practice environment, the expertise that determines how the AI responds to you.

   • Interview techniques: Best practices, question formulation, common pitfalls

   • Methodology frameworks: JTBD, user journey mapping, ethnographic research

   • Communication skills: Active listening strategies, rapport-building techniques

   • Research mechanics: Time management, interview structure, note-taking

2. Personalized context: This is anything that relates to your specific business, team, or individual goals and needs.

   • Strategic context: Company values, mission, quarterly OKRs

   • Facilitator context: Your role, experience level, areas for improvement

   • User context: Target segments, use cases, journey maps

My pre-built GPT already includes some core knowledge content I've written myself, and my template gives you everything you need to customize your own.

5 tips to get the most from your practice environment

1. Treat it like the real thing, but don’t treat it too seriously: Schedule it, prepare questions, and take it seriously. But if you screw up, don’t overthink and try again. Interviewing skills take time to develop, you suck until you no longer suck… most of the time.

2. Start simple: Master the basics before tackling difficult personas or scenarios. Start with your ICP (ideal customer profile), whom you should be more familiar with than any other persona.

3. Get specific feedback: If you feel that a certain area felt off, but you’re unsure how to navigate the situation better, ask for specific feedback, "It felt like there was more when the user said X. What could I have followed up with to dig into more?"

4. Iterate on your setup: Keep refining your practice environment with new knowledge and instructions, as you learn about new techniques and methods or receive feedback from your manager or coach.

5. Learn from real life: If you’re able to, every year or so, anonymize a few transcripts of recent user interviews you’ve facilitated, and ask the practice environment to provide you feedback based on them.

Quick reality check: This is a great practice tool, but it can't capture all the nuances of human interaction. I’m a runner, and I think of this tool as the running pad behind my chair in my home office—not the actual race I’ll be attending in 8 weeks.

Platform faceoff: Claude vs. ChatGPT

Whether you use Claude or ChatGPT is up to your personal and/or team preferences. I've tested both extensively, and while there are fundamental differences between the platforms, here are the most relevant features for this particular use case:

Claude's superpower: Live document integration

Connect your Google Docs on Claude for real-time reference material:

• Research guides that you update between sessions

• Process templates your team is actively refining

• Real interview transcripts from your sessions for reference

• Performance review or feedback notes from your manager or team

This integration means that you can update your documents (if they happen to be Google Docs) between sessions with new insights, and your practice environment evolves without requiring any reconfiguration.

Side tangent: Anthropic recently expanded Claude's GitHub integration to all users, and I think they should strongly consider Notion next.

ChatGPT's superpower: Voice mode

Try voice conversations on ChatGPT for a more immersive experience:

• Forces you to think on your feet without crafting a perfect question

• Helps you practice verbal pacing and tone

• Makes you listen actively rather than just read

• Trains the awkward-pause muscle

Voice mode feels weird at first (talking to your computer about imaginary products), but it's quite nice to have a safe place where you can practice without feeling the judgment of the people in the room and eventually—to put it bluntly—you just get over yourself.

Get my complete template

I've created a comprehensive template package with:

• Knowledge base documents you can import immediately (template includes access to my starter pack)

• Examples of personalized content that help you customize it to your specific business or user goals

• Specialized prompts for different practice scenarios

• Progress tracking frameworks to measure your improvement

The best part? Since the template is a Google Doc, you'll receive the latest improvements and iterations I make to my own prompts.

Try this out in your practice, and I'd love to hear what worked and didn’t! I’m a strong believer in iterative improvements, so I’d love to refine this tool based on your feedback.

What user interview skills are you most eager to improve? If you need personalized support, just reach out, and I’d love to talk shop!

I'm a strategic product designer with 10+ years of experience in tech. During my 5-to-9, I'm on a journey to become what I call a "full stack builder"—someone who can work across product, design, and engineering to take an idea to MVP independently.

Join me as I share my stumbling blocks, insights, tools and experiments in product design, AI, system design, and more—with no map and no clear destination, just a commitment to the journey of learning and building.

A note for those of you who might be confused by everything else I’ve written about on my Substack: Up until now, I've been sharing reflections only from my personal life, and this is the first time I’m writing about a professional topic here. The truth is that I don’t have much of an online presence. I don’t write thought pieces every 4-5 days because that’s what the marketing strategy playbooks said. LinkedIn simultaneously feels like Facebook during my high school years and a soul-sucking horror story. I considered creating a different space for this, but I’m actively choosing to avoid compartmentalization (Gosh, that’s one long word). This may or may not be related to the fact that I just finished the season 2 finale of Severance.

All of me, makes me, me.

So, I will be writing about both professional and personal reflections here.

I cringe when I think about how, as a child, I harboured an uncontrollable desire for chaos, scribbling awful, aweful words and images across my limbs under my sleeves. My family doctor saw it once but never mentioned it to my parents—bless her heart. Or perhaps she did, and they just didn’t know what to do with me.

I cringe when I look back at my juvenile attempts at writing and producing music during high school. Rap was the most cringe genre I tried to write. I used Photoshop to make bad album cover art. I made internet friends who shared my passion, which was kind of cute but also added to the cringe. We all grew up to be high achievers who don’t make music anymore—I know this, not because we stayed in touch, but from the occasional update on LinkedIn or Instagram.

I cringe when I recall my young adult self lamenting—complaining, really—endlessly about love and loneliness, despite never having experienced love (but loads of loneliness). Sometimes I still lament, but now about late-stage capitalism—instead of love—and yes, loneliness.

I cringe when I remember the first time I held my best friend’s baby. I grew up without younger siblings or cousins and had never babysat. It hadn’t occurred to me until that day, how terrifying it might feel to hold such a fragile, sweet, soft, and precious tiny human being a few hours after she was born. I held her with my stiff, awkward arms, and with every ounce of attention and care I could muster. I was full of love and awe, but sweating with anxiety.

I cringe when I look back on my first serious crush—how quickly and easily I believed in every word he said to me. Always some variation of: You make me happy. I’m not happy with her. My younger self missed an ocean of red flags, as blind to them as my father is to the colours of red and green. I didn’t see it until enough distance and time stood between us.

I cringe when I recall how I slipped a poem—neatly handwritten using my favourite pen—under my first workplace mentor’s office door on our last day working together. I wanted to express my overflowing gratitude, for treating me like an adult during my internship. He texted me and said it was sweet, instead of calling me a psycho—bless his heart too.

I cringe when I remember all the one-on-one not-dates I went on with friends during university—study sessions, steakhouses, sushi, scenic drives, late-night Netflix. Most of them were probably meant to be dates, and I was just too young and stupid to catch on. A few of them tried to kiss me. One of them held my hand as I slept on their couch. One of them tried to fuck me. One of them was my ex-boyfriend.

I cringe as I spill coffee all over the table and my sweater in front of my new boss, too excited because of something—I don’t even remember what it was, but we were playing a board game, so I know it couldn’t have been significant.

I cringe as I fall—twice!—while trying to avoid a marked, bumpy patch of ice during my first skating attempt in over a decade. In a moment of panic, I tried to dampen the fall with my hands, and I hurt my wrist. My partner says it was my money-making wrist. I will need to learn to fall better.

I cringe as I ramble about my love for potatoes for far too long, with friends who don’t share my enthusiasm for the starchy tuberous vegetable native to the Americas. I can’t help it. I really like potatoes. My cellular hotspot password has been “ilovepotato” for as long as I’ve had a hotspot.

I cringe as I trip over perfectly flat ground while running past a group of chatty teenagers on their way to school. I stumbled, swore and laughed all at once, and the teenagers fell silent and did not resume their conversation until I was out of earshot, probably making fun of me. But who cares if teenagers think you’re cringe? They’re going through a sensitive stage in their lives. Let them have this one.

I cringe as I naively share my candid, idealistic hopes during interviews with potential employers. CEOs, founders, and managers—most of whom couldn’t give two fucks about any of that—offer me cute, fluffy responses full of crap. Your career development is an ongoing priority and an investment in the company. I try not to roll my eyes into the back of my skull, and wonder why I bother.

I cringe every time I realize I’ve forgotten my wallet, ID, or keys at home—again.

I cringe every time I overthink and over-plan a project I don’t know how to execute, only to abandon it after three months of throwing myself at it.

I cringe every time I tell people I took an Uber to meet them downtown—even on weeknights—because, at 30, I’m still uncomfortable parking in crowded places.

I cringe every time I log into my Steam account. You can’t change your Steam account name (not to be confused with your profile name). And even though it’s not publicly visible, every time I log into a new device a wave of shame washes over me as I type, xxxmaelstrom. I bet yours is cringe too, but perhaps not as much?

I cringe every time I have to speak publicly, my usually hidden immigrant accent giving away my anxiety.

We’ve all been pretty damn cringe at some point, doing one thing or another.

Embrace your cringe; it frees you—

To be a flawed weirdo.

To be real.

To do the thing anyway. Like writing this post about my cringe.

Sweeteners

Vanilla extract

Meat

Flowers

Snow

Rain

Grass

Coral reefs

Islands

Art

Healthy vital organs

Neural networks

Creativity

Stories

Laughters

Tears — Somebody came up with the name “artificial tears” for eyedrops, which is such a pro marketing move.