When it comes to writing, the hardest thing to do is start. And so I haven’t really written for the last year, even skipping my yearly finance post. Thoughts have bounced around my head in the car, in the shower, at the movies, at bars, at work, everywhere. I’ve taken notes and prepared screenshots, but they never quite make it to the page. Personal writing doesn’t come as easy as it once did. I’m slower than I used to be (and I have less time, a bad combo), not to mention I’m oppressively self-critical and trash most everything I start. So although I usually don’t make any big resolutions, I’ve set an intention this new year to rediscover some long-lost hobbies and find new sources of happiness: I need to do things I enjoy even if I’m not immediately good at them. This is hard for me. Just a few weeks ago while attempting to make a grilled cheese sandwich, I started to lose it when the fancy Gouda wouldn’t melt. I regularly handle more difficult situations, but stubborn cheese? Too much. In the same vein, I’m filled with self-loathing if I can’t run a 9-minute mile even if I haven’t run in six months and I’m livid if I can’t draw something even if my pencil case has been gathering dust for a year. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s how my mind works. My hope is to be a little kinder to myself and allow imperfect work to hit the world, starting with this post.

December 2019 at the start of existential crisis

I went home for the first time in about six years this Christmas. Home, in the sense that it’s where I grew up and where most of my childhood artifacts remain, but a somewhat foreign place to me now. In retrospect, the trip couldn’t have been more ill-timed, coinciding not just with the end of the year but also the end of the decade to create a perfect storm of self-reflection. My mom set aside all the papers and art she had saved over the years and asked me to look through them. It was fun to see who I was through writings and art all the way back to Kindergarten. But reading through all the old papers, standardized test results, and teacher’s notes, I wondered if the actualized version of me has measured up to the potential other people saw in me when I was younger. Was I not driven or disciplined enough to become the best version of me? Had I blown a winning hand at life? And would life be easier today if I had done something different? By a lot of metrics, I’ve done just fine—better than fine even—but we’re often our own worst critic, and I’m yelling at myself that I could’ve done better.

The context I should share is that I’m exhausted from a tough year. A lot of great things happened: my girlfriend moved back from Boston after a year away; I traveled with friends to some magical places (Palm Springs, Seattle, DC, Mexico, San Jose, Austin, San Antonio, Louisville); and my company hit some big milestones. But my tank feels empty and I know there are many more miles to go.

I have no inspirational conclusion; I still feel in the midst of an existential moment. But I am glad I’m here and creating something, even if it’s not perfect, in 2020.