Almost ran off a cliff, fell into the gravity of a time-bending book festival on the Isle of Mull, gorged on the Scottish delight that is blood sausage, witnessed in the love and union of Camille and Gwen, met *the* Highland cattle, shared time and space and laughs and life’s deepest ruminations, and, as always, photographs with friends, old & new alike.
November, 2022.
In February, one day after my 30th birthday, I received a package in the mail. I opened it to find a small wooden box, small but sturdy, with a chunky, lego-like heart magnetically affixed to its detachable lid. Underneath the lid was a digital screen with instructions on how to configure this “love box,” which I would soon come to learn is an ethereal portal to capture love notes, buzzing with energetic anticipation as new messages wait to be opened.
After a *difficult* year having extinguished the last of my spiritual reserves, splitting from a love I thought would last a lifetime, and slowly, helplessly watching myself wither into a vacuous casing of my former self, family and friends rallied to show up for me in ways that I neither felt deserving of, able to reciprocate, nor previously imagined possible. From my hard-ass mom offering her most tender shoulder to cry on and attentive ears to listen as I recited the same frustrated incantations over and over again, to Dean who created boundless space to hold me during grief, lifelessness, and utter despair, continuously brining me back to myself after years of slow decay, to my brothers, who gave me faith in myself, in the life I’m pursuing, and hope for a beautiful future, to my dad, who infused in me the strength, tenderness, and care that we are capable of, to my dearest friends, Lisa, Kasey, Nick, Haley, Tessy, Carolyn, Andrea, Louie, who buoyed me when I was sinking with strong and understanding hearts, an abundance of warmth and laughter, and a feeling of home, to the Dream Maker’s circle, a group of 16 women with whom I explored the depths of my being and reimagined what a thoughtful, unapologetic, “big” existence could be, to new community who has shown me the grace and power of friendship, and of what is possible when we care for each other, even when it isn’t easy or convenient.
So it came as little surprise, but with an ever melting heart, that I received a literal love box at my door for a momentous year—momentous for bringing me to my 30th year, and for seeing me through my darkest hour. What came as a bigger surprise though, was to learn that it had been sent by my dad (after rejecting my mom’s appraisal of it as “just a gimmick” no less)—my dad, an upbeat and supportive but altogether unemotional person, who would prefer to shoot the shit about work and fitness regimens than feelings and sentimental ruminations.
Over the past month, I’ve received dozens of love notes, the overwhelming majority from my mom, who sends me heart littered love notes, uplifting greetings, and empowering mantras, among a myriad of other loving digital mementos. Scattered between these notes have been messages from Anne, Neal, Michael, and, of course, my dad, who, unlike all other authors, sends his notes anonymously, on a black background, bookended by a series of red hearts that fill the borderless screen.
In more recent weeks, the frequency of these notes, in particular from my parents, has waned. This is perhaps because I’ve been traveling but perhaps more realistically, I had thought, because the novelty had worn off. But today, as I frantically hurried to wind down the work day with a frenzy of messages and to-do lists, I heard my little box buzz in urgent commotion. I hastily ripped off the lid, expecting to read a sweet scribble overlaying an endearingly kitschy background, before getting back to work. What I saw instead, I instantly recognized as my dad’s calling card—no author’s name, black background, white text, adorned by red hearts. The message read “Hi Sweetie! I’m listening to a podcast the dream hunter. I realized that through your life, you have been your own dream maker to be where you are! Keep dreaming and dream big! And you are our dream! ❤ ❤ ❤ [ ❤ ad infinitum]”
(Beat)
My relationship with my dad has been far from perfect throughout my life, often times far from intimate, and certainly complicated by life’s messiness, and subject to its mistakes and lessons. Yet, or perhaps for this reason, this message hit me deep in the gut, for its beauty, its simplicity, and its recognition. So many women, myself included, suffer the violence of men in their lives, whether it be at their physical hands, or the more silent cruelty of their thoughtlessness, carelessness, selfishness, ego, inability to express emotion in healthy ways, if at all, and so on. To say that the same has not been true of my dad, albeit in what feels like a far removed past, would be an omission of certain realities, as would saying that it hasn’t complicated my relationship to myself, to men, and to being in partnership with them. And so to read these words is to mend wounds accumulated over years of self-doubt suffered at the hands of indignity after indignity. It is to feel relief and protection from the constant onslaught that the world, including those I’ve most foolishly cherished over myself, would have me believe is my lunacy, my misstep, my deficiency. It is to feel solid ground under my feet, so that I may stand tall in my conviction of character and self, without judgement or reprieve. It is to be nurtured and honored, truly, by the love of a man who means so much to me, after facing the brutality of those about whom I had believed the same.
2022 has been the year of the divine. Manifesting my deepest intentions, finding community in women who possess and radiate the undeniably divine, and rebuilding a life that finally feels like my own. I cannot believe in the coincidence that, despite speaking very little with my dad about this journey, he writes about being a dream maker (the literal name of the women’s group with whom I continue to work), and about dreaming “big,” a mantra repeated in this same group. I cannot believe in the coincidence that he writes this to me after months of committing these very ideals to my life—unbeknownst to him— sometimes faltering, but all the more proud. In a year that continues to surprise me, I’m overcome by a deep feeling of awe and alignment, one that’s supported by the big love around me, engulfing me as it pushes me forward.
To more big love in 2022 and beyond,
1/16/21
I’m sitting on the plane to Puerto Rico, on a flight that’s two hours delayed and counting, after a previously delayed flight, a missed connection, a lost evening with wonderful women, a 14 hour day spent lazing around the Newark airport watching the sun drenched halls swell and empty crowds of travelers through buzzing food courts, frantic bathrooms, and frenzied departure gates. I’m moving between feelings of panic and peace. Panic—I’ll have spent 24 hours in a grungy travel stupor during what was supposed to be a journey of ultimate zen and spiritual awakening // where did I go wrong in life to be here, running through Newark airport to catch an already departed flight, on my way to meet a group of strangers // am I gonna have to spend the night in the San Juan airport if there aren’t any cars around when we land // why me next to this guy whose leg has been shaking furiously, dare I say vengefully, sending the bench of conjoined seats into violent reverberation.
And yet at the same time, peace—the miracle of being young and alive (!) and ready for my Linklater moment spent in a sleepy San Juan airport, feeling the texture of life as everyday annoyances dissolve into veils of romantic charm // the magical pursuit and possibility of manifesting the deepest recesses of my soul, some not yet discovered, others buried under years of neglect but ready to re-emerge, even if not yet under the embrace of the warm sun and Atlantic waves but instead next to the whirring engine of an idle plane in the blistering snow // how did I do everything *right* in life to be here, committing to myself, to community, to other women of color, fighting my way back to myself after years of prioritizing an ethos that was not my own // what may look like a plan gone awry is actually just life, pulsing, surging, beating with energy, and how beautiful and freeing to remember that it’s a gift to be lived, to be shared, to be explored, in all of its glory and quotidian, its messiness and imperfection.
So I sit with panic and peace, and remind myself that neither is right, neither is wrong, but both are intertwined in effortless yin and yang. They are feelings, thoughts, beautiful manifestations of our minds, electric current that allow us the miracle of meaning, inviting us to engage, observe, ask, listen. And as I do, I’m able to see what has been and what will come—a year that has brought me to my knees, that will undoubtedly shift between panic and peace, heartbreak and joy, despair and hope. But through it all, may I have the grace to move through this world with patience, kindness, and forgiveness; may I have the fortitude to know myself, nurture her, honor her, and grow into her with clarity. And above all else, may I have the strength and courage to love, love, love, even in the face of darkness.
And now, what we all came here for, a photo dump of the last few months, of people I love and people who have held me up (notably including myself!)—new and long-lasting and ever growing, including Tessy, Haley, Andrea, Carolyn, and Louie who aren’t pictured but ever present! Must remember to take more photos 🙂
This is the first Thanksgiving that I’ve spent alone, as in, completely alone. The circumstances for this are complicated (ok not that complicated), but aren’t depressing nor worth explaining. Also, not really the point of this short blurb of a post. The point, actually, is this: though this Thanksgiving was spent alone, uncelebrated, I have so much to celebrate, so much gratitude for the people in my life, who give me meaning and hope, laughter and warmth, who make this really weird, random chaos of existence make sense. And so maybe there was no turkey or cranberry sauce, stuffing or pumpkin pie this year, but there was a turkey bundt cake (in the likeness of, not made with or flavored as, though I would’ve enjoyed that too) that a most precious bb had left on my doorstep. There were messages exchanged with said precious bb and a few most dear friends. There was a face-time call with DD, who’s in Washington DC with our Aunt Anna and Uncle Mike, with my dad, who had just gotten home from a Thanksgiving lunch before heading to the hospital for a long, sleepless night of work, and with my mom Stephen Dean and Melinda who were in the thick of a multi-hour car ride from Southern California to slightly less Southern California and delayed by monsoon-like downpour on the 5. And then there was me, walking through the deserted Palo Alto streets that on any other day are bustling with techies and students and families and long-time Palo Altians who are probably sick of us all. Me, washing dishes and tidying my frigid, messy apartment. Me, fighting my way through Thanksgiving day crowds to stock up on, contrary to everyone else, groceries for everything but Thanksgiving.
And though these events were disjointed across towns and states and countries, I’m moved beyond words, thankful beyond comprehension, for all of these people I’m so lucky to share in these moments with! Though I may have been alone, though I may have only eaten eggs and english muffins today (sacrilegious, I know), I’ve celebrated a million times over, and am absolutely full full full <3.
Found out last week that my little big brother, Deedz, is gonna come live with me this summer while doing an internship out here in the Bay! In anxious anticipation for his arrival–for what will be frolicking in the sun, binge eating cookies by the bucket, conversations about girls and boys and art and tech, bellowing laughs that fill my tiny (but less tiny than the last) apartment’s walls, and an infinity of other Gao-like traditions–I’m posting a few overdue pictures from my latest trip to NY this past spring; pictures that bookend the passing of spring and usher in an always-welcome summer, that serve as witness to Dean and my trip to visit Deedz in his Brooklyn enclave.
Pictured are an incomplete but nonetheless full assortment of things and people and places visited during these few days–old and dear friends, my brother’s ridiculously well-adorned grad student apartment, and, of course, the endless insta furnishings, for your insta pics, at the insta office. How meta.
A few random details about the trip, for posterity:
I just visited my parents, on an epic 36 hour trip to Texas. Epic, for how many conversations, how many laughs, how many nibbles, how many hugs and kisses and laying-in-laps were exchanged in such a short time! 15 cups of tea, 4 meals, 2 walks, 2 runs, 1.5 movies, 1 bike ride, 1 joy ride in my dad’s “GT-R”—according to him, a “once in a lifetime opportunity,” at which my mom scoffed and sighed, somewhat playfully, before eventually obliging by piling into the driver’s seat.
But what is really once in a lifetime, the occasion really worth cherishing, is spending time with my parents. And witnessing, feeling how our relationships change with time, how they ebb and flow, like watching the sun shimmer and float on the breathing ocean surface—so beautiful it’s hard not to stare and smile. Picking up with conversations we’ve had thousands of times, yet each time somehow new and not quite like the last. Sharing thoughts we’ve shared before, but hearing them differently now with time and new experience; sharing thoughts we haven’t shared before, and smiling because there’s still so much to learn about this person! This person I’ve known and loved my whole life, this person who is home, comfort, and familiarity, but changes and evolves just the same as myself.
It’s 4:38 am. I’m in the Abilene airport. I’m tired, but so, so happy.
I walk into my Palo Alto apartment, not many hours from when I left it Saturday morning. It feels like I’ve been gone on an expedition to the stars and back, but the physical evidence brings me back to earth: the same flowers I had bought earlier in the week greet me when I walk in the door, smiling as if they’ve been waiting.
I take these photos around noon, 2/18/19, in a state of delirious calm. I make a salad, cook some vegetables, make some hot chocolate, pull things from the shelves, unpack groceries I just returned from getting. And turn to see this chaotic spread of beautiful mess and clutter. A beautiful mess that feels like home, because it’s sunflower oil left over from the holidays with my family, eden soy—my preferred brand of soy milk because Marilyn convinced me of this years ago—apple cider vinegar that I yelled at her for buying too much of, Kirkland brand Himalayan pink salt and tellicherry black pepper that our whole family has gotten into the habit of buying en masse, the same, but new greenpan pan we’ve used at home for years, a wonky cutting board Marilyn sent me from Williams Sonoma, a felted wool trivet Stephen and Melinda got each of us for Christmas. The sun’s beaming in through the windows, and I feel so good, as I look onto this beautiful mess of my home.
AHHHH!!!
Being a millennial is really weird.
Before you go on, you should know this post has been adapted from a literal diary entry I was writing i.e. unfitted, not-so-sexy-stream-of-consciousness style; but then again, aren’t all my blog posts? 😉 TL;DR: it is a summary of (some of) the things I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been doing, reflections on where I am and where I’m going.
Now that that’s out of the way, where was I? Ah yes: being a millennial is really weird.
I guess not necessarily being a millennial, per se, but being at the point in my life where I’m starting to get some things together, but at the same time if not by virtue of that “progress” I’ve become estranged from the things that have defined me, that mean so much to me, that are, well, me? How can that be? How can it be that I am both progressing but also regressing, improving but degenerating, confused out of my goddamn mind about who I am, who I’m working towards becoming, and figuring out whether these are linear paths that become intractable with time and motion.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just tired.
I just got back to Palo Alto after what was a restorative and joyful two weeks with my family in Northern California (even further north than this godforsaken town). Dang, I don’t mean that, really. But I do! Ah here comes the crazy. I’m laying in bed–correction, on my mat on the floor that has served as my bed for the past 9 months. In my $2400/month apartment, one of 5 in an old converted Palo Alto house that has no (perceptible) heat and is, according to my downstairs neighbor who is as trustworthy a source of local gossip as any, infested with roof rats. Maybe goes without saying that I’m deflated (to say the very least) to be here again after such a nice break with my favorite people. But! in an unexpected plot twist, weirdly reassured that I’ll feel differently soon enough–that work will bring a welcome if not somewhat unexpectedly energetic sense of fulfillment, eroding the memory of my current despair and emotional lethargy. In short: feeling the feels, feeling like I should write something down. It is, after all, the start of new year.
Photo break: said Palo Alto apartment, in the near present
Let’s back up a bit. I’m 26, soon(ish) to be 27. I work at Facebook. I live in Palo Alto, CA. Prior to that I was living at home in Michigan, working towards a degree that came at the onset of a quarter life crisis. This was, if not utterly clear from previous blog posts dated circa 2014, induced by what was one of the most discombobulating years of my life living in New York City, where I was working at a photography studio on the Upper West Side (special s/o to Steve Friedman who owned the studio, became a great friend, taught me so much about New York, exposed me to all the great NY things, etc.). But, cutting right down to the gnarly chase, during this 2014 year I spiraled into a deep situational if not melodramatic depression characterized by an inconsolable post-college disillusionment—what to do with my life? where did all my friends go? why don’t they teach you that money is real? and that you need it to pay rent and buy food?!! yadda yadda yadda—I sought out to make a career change. In retrospect, it’s amazing where and what I’ve stumbled on given that at that particular juncture I knew just as much where I was going and how I was going to get there as I did where I wanted to be going in the first place, which is to say zero none at all I didn’t. I just knew that I was so completely desperate for an escape that was 180 degrees from where I was at, but beyond that was shooting in the dark praying that one, just one stray arrow would stick.
Photo break: 2014 in NY, at the time
So, for the sake of getting back to the more immediate point, suffice it to say: that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been working. I’ve been trying to “figure it out.” I’ve been doing everything to distance myself from the things and places that made me so unwell. And in some ways, it really worked. I’m no longer questioning my existence in the same ways (those ways being: should I?). I’m certainly no longer fantasizing about how wicked and satisfying it would be but also terrifying-to-be-entertaining-the-thought of jumping out my window to bring reprieve to the mind-numbing predictability of Saturday brunchers happily, if not foolishly, enjoying their insta-worthy patio brunch. On the contrary, now I am one of those brunchers. That’s gotta be progress, no? Sarcasm aside, I’m no longer sad beyond belief or bitter beyond reason. Yet still, I worry that somewhere between being that morbid 22-year-old and being this salad-eating, fitness-fiend, altogether balanced 26-year-old, I’ve lost part of my soul. And before you say it’s not healthy to “fetishize sadness”, as I was somewhat understandably told recently, hear me out.
Am I missing part of my soul because I’ve become too complacent? Complacent with the choices I’ve made and the impact I have on the world, with my general “I’ll get to that later” attitude about so many values that I Morally. Ethically. Spiritually. Believe in. Hold dear. ? Complacent with the same unhealthy psychology that afflicted me 5 years ago, just now justified by a bigger paycheck? Yes, I no longer have fantasies about jumping out of the window, but my god did that experience force me to learn about myself and identify what, past all the bullshit, is important to me. That year, I discovered these things about myself:
And to date these remain the most steadfast, most real things that I know about myself. It is undeniably a great thing that I am in a better headspace now than I was then, in 2014, when I started to discover these things more fully for myself. But what have I sacrificed to get here, to stay here? Have I been moving closer towards my values, or have I just been thrashing aimlessly, making a whole lotta noise? In some ways, I’m more fulfilled than I have ever been, but in others I’m still spiritually starving—starving for family, for community, for culture art people energy, for growth towards the reality that external validation does not make life meaningful, having a good job does not make life meaningful, making money does not make life meaningful, updating your Instagram does not make life meaningful.
Being a good friend makes life meaningful. Being a good sister, daughter, partner, niece, granddaughter makes life meaningful. Being curious about and engaged in the world and in people makes life meaningful. Being good to and patient with yourself makes life meaningful. Having values and standing up for them, even when they are unpopular or make you unpopular is what makes life meaningful. *correction: apply “imperfectly trying to” to all of the above
So ok I say I love my job. I’m happy. But I’m also not happy? I’m “spiritually starving?” Ugg, stop it already. But, well, erm, what I can say is 2018 was a really great year, in part for these reasons:
But at the same time, 2018 was not so cool for the flip side of same exact reasons:
So here we are, lists drawn out, feelings splattered all over all of our brain canisters. And as is promised of any good cathartic journaling, I’m starting to finally see what I’ve been meaning to say but unable to understand…until…now ?, which is this: I guess life–living with joy, integrity, purpose, and meaning–is not about scoring the perfect line-up of actions (or in my case over-corrections) that make you rich, successful, envied, attractive. Maybe it’s about identifying the attitudes and psychology that bring you suffering and heartache, and building up the defenses to counter them, whether they be negative self-talk, unrealistic and arbitrary societal expectation, de-prioritization of your own true self to accommodate someone else’s definition of you (someone who doesn’t care about you no less!), etc. Maybe it’s about practicing how to honor yourself and trusting your will and strength to unlearn all of the shitty things society teaches us about what it is to be worthwhile, what it is to be kind and conscientious, what it is to be worthy of love—your own and from others. Maybe, even if we’re not desperately depressed, we have to force ourselves to stop and ask the Really Hard Questions that make us better, that align us closer to our values, that pick us up and put us not on the path of least resistance, but of greatest heart and conviction. 2018 was the culmination of (years of!) lots of self-reflection, lots of over-correction, lots of work, and I’m so grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given, the things I’ve experienced; I try to and do reflect on that with positivity, not just criticism and negativity. But I also don’t want that to dictate my whole sense of self—my sense of purpose, value, direction, worth, and personhood. I don’t want to think I’ve become everything I could hope to be or that eurka! I’ve made it and am happy as an unthinking clam just because according to society I should be. I am hoping that this new year may be full of conversation—with myself, with family, with friends, with unacquainted but welcome company—conversation that, little by little, makes me more human, makes me more me.
And on that note, finally, goodnight. Thank you to anyone who made it through this blogpost lol. I love you too.
The Grown Up Kids 