I’ve been missing this essence of connection this month. I think it’s a mix of self-imposed isolation from the dreary winter weather, a snowstorm, and cancelled plans for several reasons. My dad asked me earnestly once, what do you do when you live by yourself? Having gotten married at the young age of 21, it struck me that he’s never had the experience I have. To be living alone in one of the most coveted cities in the world, supporting myself, I feel blessed.

Feeling comfortable and safe in a space I’ve created for myself feels empowering. I view my apartment as an extension of myself. A place where I wake up every day wanting to feel inspired, cozy, and safe. A place where I want the people I love to feel comfortable and welcomed. It’s decorated with some of my favorite things: a curvy lamp that exudes femininity, a figurine of two girls dancing without a care in the world (an emblem of what I imagine my sister and I to be), and a painting gifted by a dear friend, filled with flowers and stars, that took weeks of collaboration and back and forth. So yes, living alone makes me feel free and independent.

But it can also feel lonely. Your space can reinforce specific habits that are easy to fall into. My comfy couch and TV is where I resort after a tiring day at work. My home office is the first space I pass through on my way to brush my teeth, making it hard to truly maintain a work-life balance. Living alone can easily make you turn inward.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but in February, I found myself spending a lot of time in my apartment, by myself, in a way that didn’t make me feel completely connected. Part of it is because I’m realizing I’m ready to start dating again, but feel discouraged because the apps just aren’t it. Part of it is because I’m entering a new decade with the added pressure of finding the right partner and meeting my goal of having kids. Love is so beautiful, but it also carries a high level of variability and complexity, because humans are complex. Perhaps love's essence is actually simple, and I just haven't encountered the person who makes it feel that way. I find myself facing insecurities I experienced in high school around body image and not feeling enough, and those insecurities make it even harder to feel worthy when you meet a stranger at a bar.

I feel moments of sadness, hopelessness, and disconnection. But in this new decade, for the first time, I’ve accepted how I feel. Maybe it’s because my relationship with fear has become more intimate. I know that however I feel right now will not last forever. I’m slowly letting go of the judgment that comes with not feeling great, and I’ve stopped chasing after always needing to feel “good.” Because that’s just not how life works.

What I’m proud of is starting to unpack my anxieties around work through therapy. Truly digging into and understanding where my belief of not being enough comes from. I have a greater sense of self-awareness when I experience that imposter feeling at work, and to me, that is progress. For the first time, I’m actively choosing to let my career take a back seat. I expressed to my manager that I don’t want to get promoted right now. I want to enjoy refining the craft of building, instead. I’m starting to focus on other parts of my life: creating a path to retire early and meet my financial goals, starting my egg freezing journey, and finding avenues to express myself creatively through singing and prototyping with AI tools just for fun.

I’ve also been experimenting with weaving new habits into my days. Meditating for ten minutes, reading spiritual affirmations, starting each morning with a little reminder that I am enough. Not all of it has stuck, and that’s okay. There’s something valuable in just showing up for yourself, even imperfectly.

Another realization I’ve had this month is the quiet joy of giving. My relationship with money is shifting—away from saving every dime, toward investing in the people, institutions, and experiences that mean something to me. I feel grateful to be in a position where I can do this, even in small ways. Because where I choose to spend my money is a reflection of where I want my energy to go. And I want my energy flowing toward the things that make life feel full. That, to me, feels like a meaningful shift.

As I reflect on this month, there are moments where I feel like I’m not making progress at all. But in reality, I am. So much of how I feel is dictated by the stories I tell myself, where my thoughts quietly override facts and reality. And I want to keep building the self-awareness to catch myself in those moments. Because maybe that’s the real work of this decade: learning to recognize when those stories are old ones, written by a younger version of me. I’m not her anymore.

I’m still figuring out who I am now, and for right now, that feels like enough.

I feel like a woman
with curves and a bold red lip.
I enter a beautiful restaurant,
where the tall ceilings make it feel elevated and airy.
The shaking of fancy cocktails,
served to people dressed in plaid shirts and cashmere sweaters.
I’m one of three people of color in this restaurant.
Sipping a bold and buttery glass of chardonnay
with my faux pearl earrings from Amazon.
Even though I got carded by the bartender,
I feel like a bold, beautiful, sophisticated woman
who will dine until her heart and belly are full,
order anything and everything on the menu
until she is satiated.
I savor every bite
This is freedom.
This is 30.

Space I take up

I’ve been thinking about spaces a lot lately.
How people occupy them.
Who moves through them.
What story it tells about a specific moment in time.
Every place I’ve been to in Maine,
I’m one of the few people of color.
This is unusual for me, coming from New York City.
Many POC I’ve met here will smile or say hi.
Maybe it’s our way of acknowledging our own.
Apparently, Maine is the whitest state in America,
with 90% of people identifying as white,
rooted in limited immigration compared to other coastal hubs.
Everyone is so nice here,
friendly, warm.
But I am aware that I am different.
But I take up space, unapologetically.
Because I belong here, too.

What do I believe?

I believe that curiosity trumps fast thinking.
It unravels ignorance and opens doors we didn’t know existed.
I believe that everything is impermanent.
Abiding by this truth
makes heartache less sharp
and shows that suffering, like waves, eventually recedes.
I believe kindness and empathy can solve a lot of problems.
They cost nothing,
yet they’re not always easy to give.
Rest is a luxury my hardworking immigrant ancestors rarely knew.
Yet achievers like me treat it like a sin.
I believe adventure keeps our inner child alive.
It allows us to experience the expansiveness of what life has to offer
and proves we’re still capable of wonder.

The warm months taught me to notice how I feel in someone’s presence. There’s a particular kind of calm that exists with certain people—steady and reliable. I used to think this was too much to ask for. Now I understand it’s not only possible but essential. The alternative — that constant edge of anxiety, isn’t normal.

My body carried me through Brooklyn’s unforgiving asphalt streets. I’ve found profound meaning in pushing my physical limits. What looks just like running actually requires strategy and demands unwavering consistency. Running has taught me the value of discipline—the ability to breathe deeply and center myself even under the scorching sun, to pay attention to every sensation coursing through my body.

Through months of job searching—fifty-plus interviews that left my eyes too dry to focus on screens—my body showed up. It ran the miles I asked of it. It sat through endless video calls. It recovered when I finally gave it the care it deserved. I’m learning gratitude for this vessel that carries me through everything.

Who shows up during times of darkness reveals your true people. The friends who text to check in, the family members who sit with you in the mess without trying to fix anything—these connections matter more than all the surface-level relationships combined. Community isn’t who you party with; it’s who stays when the party ends.

Suffering, I’ve come to accept, weaves itself through life as naturally as joy does. Neither state is permanent. Neither defines us entirely. Both teach us something if we let them.

Monetizing a hobby drains the joy from what you once loved. Raw creativity becomes calculated content strategy, with honest expression buried under the pressure of views and engagement metrics. Some things deserve to exist purely for the pleasure they bring us.

This isn’t a plea for sympathy or a highlight reel disguised as vulnerability. It’s simply this: every season teaches us something if we’re paying attention. The lessons come wrapped in both triumph and difficulty. What we do with those teachings—whether we integrate them or ignore them, whether we grow or stay stuck—that choice remains entirely our own.

Summer’s ending now, but its lessons follow me forward.

Trekking Day 2

My body is sore, my feet are cramped, my right hand is swollen, and my stomach is not feeling well.

8 hours of walking with the mountain greeting us with its glory. My hand swelled from multiple bites—an allergic reaction that earned me a Gorkha beer as consolation. I used the beer to lessen the swelling, although my trekking group of jovial Basque comrades encouraged me to drink it at 7 am in the morning.

During the steepest climb of our 8-hour journey, Tatiana and I look at each other and ask why we chose to sign up for this strenuous 10-day hike instead of chilling by the beach with a cocktail.

When you're in one of the most remote parts of a place, the only thing you care about is survival and, of course, the views. It's one step after the next. You are sweating from all parts of your body. The sun is smiling, big and bright. Walk, break, walk, hydrate. Walk, catch your breath. Walk, talk to the person next to you. Walk—you're on the edge of a landslide zone. Your body and trekking poles are your only weapons. Who knows what Mother Nature decides to do? Walk, drink again.

You finally arrive at your destination. You don't know what to do first: embrace the big beautiful mountain in front of you, or be a responsible adult and take a shower and prepare for the next day?

Dinner is at 8. Everyone is huddled in the dining room at 7, enjoying putting their feet up, not wearing sweaty socks or hiking boots— clean, fully showered. Rest—it never felt so good.

Maybe the whole point is about the process: the one-step-after-the-next attitude; the slight tension or pressure you feel to keep up with the group, but you're brave enough to listen to your own body; learning to rest without guilt because you're hyper-aware of the sensations in your body. Because death doesn't scare you, but avoiding it doesn't hurt either; the stories exchanged while doing it; the willingness to keep going; the personalities you get to observe from the micro-decisions people make.

The feeling of being so small and irrelevant; of seeing how simple the lives of villagers are, and questioning the complexity of your own life— whether it's of your own creation or one of the places and people you surround yourself with.

Who knows—I'm tired. It's 8:43 pm, and it's time for bed.

Trekking Day 3

I woke up with my right eye swollen,
but I also woke up to a clear blue sky,
birds chirping,
the mountain smiling,
the smell of fresh chapati warming,
the powerful waterfall flowing in the distant background —
nature’s equilibrium.

Trekking Day 4

One step at a time.
Don't look too far ahead, otherwise fear will consume you.
It might destroy you.
Pace yourself.
Listen to your body.
Rest when needed.
Steady wins the race.
Take deep breaths, even when your lungs are pressing against your chest, even when the climb is meters high.
These are the lessons I've learned today— lessons that are saliently true in life.

It's raining outside, and I just came back from a heart-to-heart with my aunt.
We met Pengma, the owner of Mustang Cafe.
She makes the best apple pies.
The cook of this lodge is listening to a Tibetan song and humming to it while she cooks up a meal for 18.
We met Purman, a Gorkha soldier who has been living here for a year.
He pointed us to Pengma's cafe.
He mentioned that a grandma we passed by only speaks the local Tibetan dialect.

We are surrounded by these big magical mountains.
In between them are bright lush green grasslands in Samagaun.
Yaks and naks that nourish the fertile land from where the vegetables are grown for our daal bhat.

Today's been a lovely day— one that's made me grateful for nature's gifts, one that's made me grateful for hot showers, my strong body, my fearless mind.

Breakfast Order

I found this in my notes and thought it was a fun memory to share. With a group of 12+ trekkers and a tour guide who never quite learned how to take our orders, every day someone was responsible for collecting everyone's food order and relaying them to the lodge staff. It typically ended up being me or my aunt, Pratis, who could communicate in Nepali. Taking everyone's orders was usually a nightmare, as my aunt and I were terrified we'd mess up someone’s order. Looking back, it's a fond and funny memory.

5

Tibetan bread with omelet
Black coffee

11

Ginger tea (cup)
Apple porridge

11

Masala tea
Apple porridge
Milk tea
Fried egg

4

Champa porridge
Chapati with honey
Black coffee
Hot chocolate

Some transitions are intentional, by choice, and others are not. I've had many in both categories. In the next few paragraphs, I'll attempt to unpack the transitions that transformed me in ways I never expected.

Chapter I

My earliest recollection of a transformative transition was my move to America. My parents, in search of a better life abroad due to the political unrest in Nepal, landed in the suburbs of Fairfax, Virginia. I still remember that rainy day when we arrived at our townhouse—the same townhouse that my dad had tirelessly spent months furnishing through multiple trips to Walmart and HomeGoods with help from his classmate from Nepal. The raindrops traced lazy paths down the windows, blurring the unfamiliar landscape outside.

I remember feeling a mix of emotions: eager, scared, and confused. On our last trip to America, we visited Disneyland. This was nothing like Disneyland. When the rain settled, I remember the silence pressing in like a heavy blanket. I wasn't used to this quiet, compared to the vibrant chaos of Kathmandu, where car horns created their own symphony and groups of women chatting while walking to the grocery store provided a constant background soundtrack.

This was the kind of silence that made you confront a new reality. My parents expressed so much excitement when we entered our house, my dad's voice echoing in the empty rooms as he showed us a machine in the kitchen that washed dishes on its own. Close to dinner time, we rolled out a burgundy Tibetan carpet my mom had brought from home—a piece of Nepal that had traveled thousands of miles with us. It was strangely comforting, huddling up on that familiar weaving, our knees touching as we slurped ramen from our bowls, the steam warming our faces in our new American home.

Now, as an adult, I realize the strength my parents showed in that moment. Despite the uncertainties of a new life ahead, they held it together for us. They didn't show fear—only excitement and stories of all the opportunities that lay ahead.

Before I went to bed that first night, I remember staring at the ceiling in our new room, feeling so scared of what was to come. Making new friends felt like learning to speak an entirely new language. Navigating a new school seemed like walking through a maze blindfolded. Understanding the cultural norms of a place that felt so foreign to me was like trying to decode secret messages everyone else seemed to understand instinctively.

But what I know for sure is that this experience—as a 12-year-old Nepali kid who moved to America—taught me that during times of uncertainty, coming back to something familiar and stable got me through the hard days.

For me, that was my family. Coming home after a rough day at school, where I was tirelessly trying to fit in—my mom's homemade curry and the smell of cumin and coriander brought me comfort. Speaking our mother tongue felt like slipping into comfortable pajamas after wearing clothes that never quite fit right. It was a safe space where I could be my complete self.

During times of uncertainty, finding things that make you feel grounded can be an immense source of strength. Strength to navigate whatever lies ahead.

Chapter II

My second most memorable transition came in my twenties with my move to San Francisco. A bright-eyed college grad who had never ventured to the West Coast, I was excited and equally terrified.

My parents offered to come help me move, but I didn't want to bother them. I told them reassuringly that I could figure this out, my voice more confident than I felt. On my flight to San Francisco, I had prepared an organized spreadsheet with all the apartments I was going to visit that day. When I landed and contacted these places, only one out of the six apartments I had planned to visit was actually available. Feeling defeated, I begrudgingly called the last apartment on my list. A friend from college picked me up and drove me there. One week later, I moved into this very apartment and grew to befriend my landlord, who looked out for me.

Many things went wrong in the following few weeks. My mattress got delayed, and I found myself sleeping on a tiny bath mat I had bought from Ross. I was tirelessly calling the Student Loans department, navigating their phone maze of automated voices and hold music that played the same thirty-second loop until I could recite it from memory.

Looking back, this life transition taught me two key lessons: not to underestimate the kindness of people and believing I could figure things out.

The friend who picked me up from the airport—we had exchanged a few conversations in college but weren't super close. Despite this, he offered to help and even drove me to my first In-N-Out experience, where I watched him expertly navigate the "secret menu" like he was speaking a local dialect I hadn't learned yet. His kindness made me feel hopeful about a future that was completely uncertain (and so did the delicious burger). Thank you, Anthony, for being a friend to a girl completely lost and confused in a new city.

Another lesson I learned is that transitions can force you to unlock characteristics about yourself you didn't know existed, like discovering rooms in a house you thought you knew completely. I didn't have a choice but to figure things out myself. I somehow assembled my first piece of furniture with nothing but poorly translated instructions and sheer determination. I figured out how to set up my student loans after hours of phone calls with the Department of Education. I found a way to make friends by showing up to work events and downloading Bumble BFF.

It made me realize that I am independent and a natural problem solver—that I could find a way through almost anything, even if the solution looked nothing like what I had originally planned. These characteristics of leaning on my community and building resilience are things I will carry forward through all the ups and downs in life. For that, I am grateful.

Chapter III

Now I find myself in another life transition—one not made by choice, as I experience my second layoff. Every transition has felt different, and I expected to approach this layoff thinking it would be the same as the last. But I find myself facing a completely different reality.

During my first layoff, I wanted the safety net of a stable 9-5 job. This time around, I'm open to the idea of entrepreneurship. I'm starting to question the glamour of living in New York City, where my apartment costs more than some people's mortgages. The idea of living at home, experimenting with ideas, and making lunch and dinner for my parents sounds more appealing than the relentless hustle I once thought defined success.

I also fell in love and then fell out of love. It's radically shifted my perception about love, dating, and relationships.

This time around, I find myself questioning, tinkering, learning—like a scientist in a lab where every experiment teaches me something new about who I'm becoming.

While there are many unanswered questions floating around, the two biggest lessons I've learned from this transition are the importance of discipline and self-belief.

My focus on self-discipline comes from my belief that time is finite and my desire to make the most of it. For me, discipline and following through on things I say I will do is the biggest form of self-respect. It's a promise that I will show up for myself despite the world quite literally burning around me. When there is so much chaos swirling in your life, self-discipline becomes an anchor—a way to ground myself and work towards my goals even when the path forward isn't clear.

Self-belief is another characteristic I've gotten to examine during this phase of transition. When a formal structure like work is stripped away from you—when you don't have managers sending encouraging messages or coworkers validating your ideas in conference rooms—what happens? You are left alone with your thoughts, forced to find that validation within yourself.

It's about cultivating a belief that you can weather whatever comes next: that grueling interview where your palms sweat and your voice shakes, that rejection email that lands in your inbox like a punch to the gut, and whatever else life decides to throw at you. Self-belief becomes your internal compass when all the external signposts have been removed, pointing you toward who you're meant to become.

Looking Ahead

These three transitions—from Nepal to America, from college to San Francisco, and from my second layoff to whatever comes next—I see a thread that connects them all. Each time I thought I knew who I was, life stripped away the familiar and forced me to rebuild from scratch. Each time I felt completely unprepared, yet somehow I found a way through.

The 12-year-old girl from Nepal, eating ramen with her family, had no idea she would one day be strong enough to move across the country alone. The college graduate sleeping on a bath mat in San Francisco couldn't imagine she would ever feel confident asking for help or assembling furniture without instructions. And the woman experiencing her second layoff in New York is still discovering what she's capable of becoming.

What I've learned is that transitions aren't just about moving from one place to another, or one job to another. They're about shedding old versions of yourself and trusting that something better will emerge from the uncertainty. Embracing an abundance mentality and viewing everything that "happens to you" as an opportunity to rebuild, re-examine, and restart.

They teach you that home isn't just a place—it's the people who love you unconditionally and the parts of yourself that remain constant even when everything else changes. They show you that strength isn't the absence of fear, but showing up despite being terrified. And they prove, again and again, that you are more resilient than you ever imagined.

Every ending is also a beginning. The story isn't over—it's just turning to a new chapter, and you get to write what happens next.

I am so proud of you.

You have been through so much.

You held me together even when I deprived you.

You didn’t give up on me, even when I didn’t treat you well.

You survived, even when I felt scared.

Dear body,

Thank you.

Thank you for staying calm when I was scared.

For unleashing your strength during my darkest days.

Dear body,

I commit to nurturing you.

To protect you.

To be kind to you.

Because you only deserve the best and nothing else.

Dear body,

I am home with you.

I love you.

A random man on the street tells you “God bless you, everything will be ok” when he sees tears streaming down your face as you walk aimlessly through Manhattan Ave.

Your younger sister’s tears mixing with yours when she hears how you’ve been treated.

Your best friends running in the rain with you. One of them buys a brand new pair of shoes, even when he hasn’t run in a while.

Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked after a 5-mile run.

A mother’s love, checking in on you every day.

A best friend’s love, comforting and validating your feelings.

Getting rid of a big roach by yourself without anyone’s help.

A new friend’s support and Friday morning pick-me-up.

A dear friend checking in on you and offering to go to the beach with you.

Your own resilience and courage to lean into the full weight of your emotions: grief, sadness, self-blame, loss.

A flower you planted together with someone you love, and how it finally bloomed the very day he no longer is in your life.

Maybe the universe was trying to tell you something.

What is shame? Shame is the deep-seated belief that you're not enough.

Brené Brown explains in her work that the difference between shame and guilt is crucial:

• Shame: I made a mistake. I am stupid.

• Guilt: I made a mistake. I am sorry.

The difference between the two is that guilt takes accountability without inherently attaching your actions to your identity. Shame, on the other hand, does exactly that—it makes your mistakes define who you are.

My shame is the root cause of my self-criticism and suffering.

At work, when I don't accomplish a goal, I tell myself that I am not smart enough. I overcompensate by working harder, creating the illusion that effort alone will fix things. In reality, it's the story I tell myself that is the root of the suffering.

When I prioritize my mental health, I tell myself I'm being selfish. I am overreacting. I am not strong enough. I blame myself for everything.

Shame also becomes a coping mechanism—a way to find answers in the midst of uncertainty, even when those answers are destructive.

So where does shame come from?

It stems from many sources, including cultural expectations and behaviors normalized during childhood.

I've struggled with body image issues my whole life. It started when I moved to America. Being skinny became a way to feel accepted in a society and community that felt completely foreign. I associated not being skinny with being less worthy, less accepted by others.

This pattern extended to relationships—pleading to stay with someone because their leaving would mean I am unlovable.

I don't have all the answers yet.

What I do know is this: the very act of naming my shame strips it of its power. Each moment I choose curiosity over criticism, I chip away at patterns decades in the making. Each time I catch myself in the old story and gently redirect, I am not just surviving—I am rewiring.

This is not about perfection. It's about practice. Practice in extending the same compassion to myself that I would offer a dear friend. Practice in remembering that my worth is not contingent on my achievements, my appearance, or anyone else's approval.

I am planting seeds—not just of growth and understanding, but of radical self-acceptance.

Heartbreak, rejection, loss—some of this comes from default settings, the stories you tell yourself.

If you're like me, that means self-criticism, self-blame.

I should have seen the signs earlier.

I could have been stronger.

I could have valued my mental health without feeling guilty.

When you don't trust yourself, you look externally. Hoping to find solace in the words of people you trust. A glimpse of validation from the people you love.

Sometimes you get it, sometimes you don't.

Sometimes, the most black-and-white thing can be perceived as grey. Especially when it comes to the matter of love. Because of your self-perception. Because of the deep, unconditional love you have for someone.

Is that called losing yourself? Maybe.

Some things are easy to make meaning of. You see an orange pillow and you say, "This is orange."

But some things are not. Especially when it comes to the matter of love.

It surprises you. It makes you do crazy things.

Maybe love is blind.

Sometimes processing takes a while. Denial, self-blame, looking back and saying maybe I could have done something differently.

You write, you spend time alone, you lean on the people you love. Your perception is against all of their advice.

The orange pillow doesn't always look orange when you see it from a place of love. There is a clear black and white, but you're having a hard time seeing it.

It will come to you one day.

Be patient, be kind, and remember: your mental and physical health is the top priority.

You are not being selfish.

You are brave and resilient, learning to see clearly through the fog of love and loss.

Traveling as a Teacher

Every year of my twenties, I've traveled—everything from a two-month trip to Southeast Asia to volunteering in a remote school in Nepal to exploring small, quaint towns in Sicily. Why has traveling been such a big part of my life? I have a genuine curiosity and love for learning about different cultures through food, language, and understanding how other people live lives unlike mine.

Traveling has made me examine and question my own beliefs. It has taught me to be open—open to different cultures, mindsets, and ways of living. It has taught me how to navigate the world independently, as I solo traveled quite often in my twenties. It has given me the space to look at my life from the outside in—something I think we should do often. I hope to continue my curiosity and love of learning through more travels in this next decade.

Relationship with Work

My self-worth is closely tied to work—something that has pushed me to excel but also led to burnout and compromised my health and relationships with the people I love. As a bright-eyed post-grad in my first three years in San Francisco, I mainly recall the intense grind and the hustle. Cramped up in my tiny room, building slide decks, taking long shuttle rides to South Bay where I'd be typing away on my laptop, and carefully strategizing paying off my student loans.

I have no regrets about working as hard as I did, as I know that hard work is embedded in who I am, and I've accepted that. In this next decade, I hope to live my life in a more balanced way. My health isn't what it was when I was 21, and I want to find meaningful ways to work hard while still prioritizing my well-being.

Nurturing My Tribe

When I scrolled through my pictures, I witnessed many fun memories with people in my tribe: my immediate family in the US, my loved ones back home in Nepal, and my dear friends. Some friends I've outgrown; others I've kept in touch with. What I've learned is that relationships take work—they require nurturing and watering, just like a plant. But my tribe consists of people I've been lucky to lean on during the darkest of times, people who show up for me. I'm grateful for them, and I never forget that maintaining these relationships is continuous work—work that is meaningful and deeply energizing to me.

The Beauty of Resilience

My twenties have made me a stronger, more resilient person. I've gone through two layoffs, a series of heartbreaks, familial roller coasters, living in three cities, and many more challenges. What I'm most proud of is my ability to bounce back. That takes strength and courage.

It's uncomfortable making these qualities pronounced, but I think we should let ourselves celebrate who we are. It's uncomfortable because that's not the culture I grew up in, but celebrating yourself doesn't make you unhumble. Confidence and humility can coexist.

On Self-Love

It's a phrase that makes me uncomfortable to this day. What this means to me is the ability to be less critical of yourself—to set boundaries even when it will disappoint someone else, to do things that energize you (movement, getting that perfect flaky croissant, making that perfect cup of coffee in the morning). It is letting go of my habit of pleasing other people and the fear of being disliked. It's accepting my flaws and still being able to look at myself and treat myself with kindness.

I am still working on this one, as I still struggle with it. I hope to be kinder and more compassionate to myself in this next decade.

It's Not All About You

When I'm having a tough day, I like going to the park. For the longest time, I thought this was because of my love for nature and the outdoors. This is true, but it's also because I'm reminded that the world is expansive and my problems are small in comparison. Today I saw a grandma chase her grandson at the playground, a pup looking so lovingly at its owner, a couple enjoying a breakfast sandwich while passionately talking about living room lamps. And there I was, listening to "Fix You" by Coldplay, crying and noticing all of this life unfolding around me.

It gave me comfort witnessing people experience joy, and it reminded me that this too shall pass and that everyone is going through something. These moments of perspective have taught me that stepping outside of my own head—literally and figuratively—is one of the most grounding things I can do.

I've been a PM for 7+ years now at both big tech companies and startups. I've survived two layoffs and made mistakes along the way, but from them, I've had the privilege to learn about myself. Understanding myself better and more clearly is the best thing I can do for myself. Self-understanding leads to clearer thinking and less room to make mistakes or repeat the same ones. I wanted to share this in case it was helpful for anyone going through the same thing.

Your Self-Worth Is More Than Your Job

This mindset shift is something I need to continue to practice. During both of my layoffs, I was fortunate enough to take time off. I spent this time doing what I loved: reading, spending time with my family in Nepal, traveling, and exploring the outdoors. In these moments, my full-time job was to be completely immersed in these activities—being a learner, a granddaughter, cousin, and fellow lover of the outdoors.

I gained so much joy from doing these things: playing memory games with my grandmother, feeding unlimited bananas to my very hungry 1-year-old cousin, being my aunt's makeup artist at her wedding, and being in awe of the beautiful snow-capped mountains during sunrise. When my aunt told me she was extremely grateful to have me at her wedding in Spain, it reminded me that my self-worth is derived from more than getting validation from team members at work or hitting a certain KPI. I am enough by simply being me.

However, this mindset is something I need to continue practicing every day. I've noticed that when I get back into work, the pattern returns: I put all of my self-worth into my job and I lose myself. This is something I need to actively and constantly work on, especially when I'm reintegrated back into a job.

What You Want Changes Over Time—Embrace It

When I lost my job the second time, I thought it would look similar to the last time. I'd go back to applying for another job and want to work 9-5. However, I was surprised by what I found. What I wanted had shifted. I had this desire to explore working for myself and going down a non-traditional path. This surprised and scared me—I had never done this before, but I was in a unique position to give it a shot.

The biggest thing I've learned in this process is to trust myself more. Listening to that inner voice that guides and encourages me to try things, especially when things are uncertain and not easy. When I look back at my 20s, I want to remember it by being proud of trying. Trying by doing.

Rest Has A Purpose

My natural state has been that of a doer. I enjoy routine. I want to put my 1000% into everything that I deeply care about. This typically translates to a schedule where I am always doing something—working out, reading, spending time with family and friends. I feel an immense amount of guilt for simply resting or vegetating on the couch. The guilt comes from not feeling like I'm producing an output: a document, a thoughtful dialogue, etc. I feel like I'm being lazy.

Most recently, I experienced a series of health issues all compacted in a week. Somehow, I mustered the energy to complete an 8-mile run. After, my body did not want to do anything. One hour of watching The Bear turned into two, and on and on we go. Every few minutes, I'd feel an immense amount of guilt for resting. My mind would want to be doing things, but my body didn't give. After a few text exchanges with my friend, I conceded and decided that for that day I would fully just rest (I did still get 2 hours of cleaning in). The results? The next day, I woke up refreshed and re-energized.

Through this experience, I realized that rest has a purpose. It does not mean you're lazy; it means you are giving your body and mind the time to do what it needs to feel energetic. This experience truly changed the way I view rest and made me realize that our bodies are intelligent and we should listen to them more rather than resisting them.

Looking Inward Is the Biggest Favor We Can Do For Ourselves

My first month applying for jobs, I mindlessly applied to opportunities to gain interview practice. After completing 20+ interviews, I realized this strategy was costly. I underestimated the amount of emotional and mental preparation required to interview at companies that I would eventually reject offers from. It was also wasting the companies' time. I got lucky in that I was rejected from some of these roles, making it easier.

One thing I've changed after reflecting on my strategy is to deeply reflect and answer one important question: what do I want? It’s a simple question, but not an easy one to answer. To answer this question, I took a first principles approach. Before, I had applied for whatever open roles I could find. Now, I shifted my strategy to looking inward and answering these four questions. The goal was to break down what I wanted into different elements. This was a strategy recommended by a course I took with Shreyas Doshi. It helped me gain more clarity on what I wanted and will hopefully mean that I am wrong less often.

• What kind of life do I want?

• What are my superpowers? For this question, I reached out to my trusted colleagues and asked them what they think my superpowers are.

• What type of work energizes and drains me?

• What type of people do I love working with?

The Bigger Picture

The truth is, in the grand scheme of things, a job is only one part of your life. You get what you put into it and how much you let it influence and impact your life. Having this time off has helped me reflect and think more clearly and strategically about what I want next.

If you're going through a similar transition, remember that these moments of uncertainty, while difficult, can be incredible opportunities for growth and self-discovery. It shapes your ability to adapt and become resilient. All qualities that help you navigate the ebbs and flows of life.

Take the time to look inward and trust yourself. The path may be unplanned, but that doesn't make it wrong. Sometimes the most meaningful journeys are the ones we never saw coming—they're all part of becoming who you're meant to be.

The moon is quietly staring at me.

I'm in my childhood bed, cuddled up with mama.

We both can't sleep because it's day two of jet lag.

Tears start rolling down my face.

I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's yearning for a home that feels unfamiliar now.

Maybe it's missing home.

This childhood bed is not just a bed, it's a reawakening of core memories.

Of a new chapter, when my sister and I got our own rooms and it was painted a bright yellow-green.

It was a symbol of independence.

A cause of tension among the sisters-in-law as no other grandkids got the same room.

It was the bed where I used to dream, dream to be a singer one day.

It was a bed where I heard the guava tree leaves rustle when it rained long and hard.

A guava tree that is now only marked by my uncle pointing to where it once stood in our new home, now buried underneath the parking lot.

It's strange, this place I grew up in.

A place where I learned how to walk, how to say the word "ma-ma," where my ancestors came from.

I don't feel the same comfort in it anymore.

I don't agree with all of the principles I grew up with anymore.

But it's where some of my earliest values were shaped.

I see the desk that my uncle designed.

The desk where I worked tirelessly on Nepali homework and crafted art binders using my uncle's architecture supplies.

The very desk that taught me the value and tropes of hard work that still both bless and haunt me to this day.

Maybe these tears are for what could have been.

If I hadn't left my motherland and had forged closer bonds with the people I love, the people who helped raise me.

Maybe these tears are for yearning for the past, the simple days where eating, playing with friends, and sleeping were my only worries.

Maybe these tears are for the disappointment I feel for not being enough: not Nepali enough or American enough.

The people, places, and pieces of furniture that mark our past that we can never relive.

Perhaps these tears are not just sadness, but recognition. Recognition that I am the bridge between worlds, carrying the weight of two homes in my heart. I am the continuation of my ancestors’ story, written in a language they never knew I would speak. In this moment, between midnight and dawn, between Nepal and America, between who I was and who I’ve become—I realize that home isn’t lost. It has simply transformed, like me, into something both familiar and new.

your heart is incredibly generous—and you don’t even realize it.
i knew i did something right when you made my bed the way i like it… well, almost.
it said everything about you: observant, tuned into the little things (even my more... particular habits), and not just accepting of them, but going out of your way to bring me joy.

our minds work so differently.
i’m logical, methodical, a planner.
you’re emotional, free-spirited, laissez-faire.
and yet, in the early days, i remember feeling so at peace with you.

goofing off.
watching you moonwalk when we grabbed late-night pizza.
coming home to a lovingly planned dinner, made with local ingredients and handmade sorbets waiting in the freezer.

you understand me in ways no one else ever has.
you treat me in ways i didn’t even know i deserved.

now we’re getting into the real stuff—
learning how to fight in a way that helps us understand each other more deeply.

sometimes i feel exhausted.
sometimes i wish it were easier.
sometimes, i want to give up.

but then i remember—i’m usually a runner.
i retreat. i doubt compatibility. i go the other direction after just a few bumps.
but with you... i don’t want to run.

i want to stay.
i want to figure things out.

i don’t know if it’s my growth or yours.
but something tells me—you’re worth it.

you’re worth convincing not to leave when you get hotheaded.
you’re worth the late-night conversations and the uncomfortable truths.

i feel seen by you in some ways—
and unseen in others.
but i see you trying.

and i’m reminded: i’ve got things to work on too.

sometimes i wish you could see yourself through my eyes.
the worries you carry—about how the people i love might see you—those worries are valid.
but the truth is, i don’t care what they think.

i know in my heart you’re doing your best
to brave the uncertainties ahead.

we can figure this out.

you make me kinder.
you help me see the world in a new way—a better way.

i don’t know what the future holds.
but i know, right now,
i’m exactly where i’m supposed to be —
here, with you.

It started with the layoffs at the very beginning of 2024. Unexpected, yes, but not entirely unforeseen. When it first happened, I was surprisingly calm. I immediately began crafting narratives in my mind, reframing the situation as an opportunity rather than a setback. Just minutes after receiving the news, I was hosting a friend for brunch. When I told him what happened, he asked how I was feeling. I remember responding, "I’m fine. I’ll survive." It wasn’t false bravado—I genuinely believed it at that moment. The only option was to move forward and start thinking about next steps.

But a few days later, I found myself alone in my apartment, crying. I wasn’t just mourning the loss of a job; I was struggling to accept an uncertain future. I realized that no matter how much effort I put into finding my dream role, the outcome wasn’t fully within my control. That helplessness was terrifying.

For the next four months, it was rejection after rejection. People were ghosting me on LinkedIn, which felt personal. And my confidence—what little I had left—crumbled. Everything I’d worked so hard for seemed to disappear with that one phone call.

It’s a strange mix of grief, anger, and uncertainty, and yet... I made it through.

So, what kept me going? And how did I make sense of this experience in hindsight?

Embracing impermanence and leaning on a strong support system.

The two things that kept me going were: accepting that my situation was temporary, and leaning on a strong support system.

One of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned came during a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat. It was there I discovered something simple, but profound: everything we experience—whether physical or emotional—is temporary. I remember sitting through those endless meditation sessions, struggling with the physical pain of staying in the same position for what felt like hours. But then, something incredible would happen: the pain would melt away. It wouldn’t last.

That experience stuck with me. I started applying it to my emotional pain. The heartache after the layoff, the rejections, the fear of financial insecurity—all of it felt so overwhelming, but I kept reminding myself that it would pass. Just like the physical pain I’d experienced in meditation, the emotional pain I was feeling wouldn’t last forever.

I also leaned heavily on my support system during the first half of this year—more than I ever had before. I was deeply touched by those who showed up for me, even if we weren’t particularly close (you know who you are). Small gestures moved me in ways I didn’t expect: a “treat yourself” Venmo transfer after a grueling round of interviews, champagne sent to celebrate job offers, and heartfelt phone calls that reminded me life is so much more than a job.

They patiently listened while I vented, holding space for my emotions without judgment. They weren’t afraid to call me out either, gently pointing out when my optimism was a mask for deeper feelings I didn’t want to confront. These moments of honesty and support offered me a lifeline of perspective, helping me see beyond my fears and shift my focus from loss to possibility. Through their care, I began to see my life not as a series of setbacks but as an evolving story filled with resilience and connection.

Letting go of shame, and celebrating myself.

Humility has always been a core value for me. I grew up watching my family credit others for their success, never boasting about their achievements. As a result, I internalized the idea that celebrating my own wins was self-indulgent or shameful.

This year, I realized how much that mindset was holding me back. Even small wins felt like something to downplay, as if being proud of myself was wrong. I had weaponized humility to diminish my accomplishments.

Two things helped me unlearn this: caring less about what others think and making space to celebrate how far I’ve come. Slowly, I’ve given myself permission to acknowledge and even honor my wins—without guilt. It’s been liberating, and it’s helped me see self-celebration not as arrogance, but as an act of self-compassion.

Confidence doesn’t always grow with age.

This year, many of my past insecurities resurfaced, and new ones took shape. I’ve struggled with body dysmorphia since I was a teenager, and I’m still not happy with how I look. Every time I step on the scale, I feel a sinking sense of dread. My reflection in the mirror pulls my focus to the parts of my body that have changed or grown, and I find myself longing for the body I had at 23.

These changes have impacted my relationship with food in ways I didn’t anticipate. It’s become a cycle: sometimes, I feel excited to eat, seeing food as a source of joy. Other times, I catch myself hesitating, thinking three times before deciding whether to eat something. These moments are filled with frustration and self-criticism, as I grapple with a body that feels unfamiliar and changes that feel both uncomfortable and unwelcome.

I always believed that confidence naturally grew with age—that the older you get, the more self-assured you become. But this year has challenged that assumption. My body dysmorphia, which I thought I had defeated long ago, came roaring back—bigger and bolder than it ever was when I was younger. The most disheartening part of this struggle has been realizing that it wasn’t “gone” after all.

The difference now, though, is that I’m no longer resigned to it. As a teenager, these feelings consumed me, but now I’m actively working to confront them. Through therapy, I’ve started to explore the uncomfortable truths behind my insecurities. I’ve realized just how much of my self-worth I’ve tied to my body weight, and how deeply I fear that changes in my appearance will make me less likable, less desirable, and less worthy.

The reality is that growing older doesn’t automatically bring confidence. What it does bring, however, is the wisdom to recognize harmful patterns and the tools to take action. I’m learning to approach my insecurities with curiosity rather than judgment, to understand where they come from, and to unlearn habits and beliefs that no longer serve me.

It’s a work in progress, but one thing is clear: confidence isn’t something you simply acquire with age—it’s something you build through intention, reflection, and a willingness to face the hard truths about yourself.

However, when the meat arrives, you're disappointed by the portion size. Although you can finish it all by yourself, you're here with your best friend who can eat twice as much as you. The bulgogi is sizzling on the pan and it has a crispy char you can’t wait to devour.

In the meantime, you snack on all of the banchan on the table. There's plenty to choose from, including bright green spinach marinated in sesame oil and spicy squid with a chewy texture. However, your favorite is the gyeran jjim (steamed egg). Although the texture isn't quite right at this place, you still feel the warmth of the steamed egg that pairs perfectly with the sticky, soft rice. You scoop some of the kimchi tofu soup in the next serving, which adds a note of spice and tanginess to your bite.

The meat is finally ready, and this is the moment you've been waiting for. You take a piece of lettuce and align the tender bulgogi with rice, egg, and fresh bean paste. You wrap the lettuce like a spring roll to ensure none of the food falls off. On your first bite, you taste the freshness of the lettuce followed by the tenderness of the bulgogi, with a hint of sweetness from the pear marinade. On your second bite, you can feel the crunch of the lettuce tickle your jaw.

For the next hour, you follow a similar rhythm: assemble, bite, crunch, and repeat. Your conversation with your friend is minimal. You exchange a few words, but both of you are primarily focused on feeling the satisfaction that comes with the delicious meal.

You are grateful for your senses, which allow you to see, taste, and experience the sensations of food that can bring so much joy. You are also grateful to have a friend with whom you can share a meal in comfortable silence.

As you approach Penn Station, the New York skyline glistens with radiant lights, obscuring the stars from the view. When you get off the bus, the smell of the halal cart engulfs your senses. Yellow cabs honk, pedestrians hurriedly cross the streets, and nimble rats scuttle about. To me, this is home.

Six months have passed since you left Kathmandu. Every day you come home from school and gaze out the quiet suburbs of Virginia, longing to go back to your family and friends in Nepal. Your mom summons you for dinner. When you step into the kitchen, the irresistible aroma of your favorite chicken curry, infused with the fragrant blend of cumin, garlic, and turmeric, transports you back to your happier days. To me, this is home.

You wake up to the sound of leaves rustling. You look outside and your aunt is skillfully plucking avocados using a long wooden stick equipped with a plastic water bottle cleverly designed with an avocado-sized hole. You go downstairs and find your cousin dressed in her school uniform watching Wednesday on her iPad. You dip your hide-and-seek biscuit in a steaming cup of chai and ask her about her day ahead. To me, this is home.

At 3 am, you're devouring jiapaguri from your favorite late-night spot while watching Pachinko with your best friends. To me, this is home.

You feel displaced and inadequate in your own body, but when he holds you and looks at you in utter awe, just for that moment, the weight of your insecurities melts away. To me, this is home.

It's your high school graduation and your mom blindfolds you and says she has a surprise in store. When you open your eyes, you find a wall full of carefully curated pictures and memorabilia commemorating your high school journey. You feel overwhelmed by your family's thoughtfulness and eternal love. To me, this is home.

Home is where you watch WWE with your bajya and your jaws drop at the same time watching Hulk Hogan slamming André the Giant to the ground.

Home is where you can spend an hour talking to your aji in Newari, your mother tongue, and where she reminds you to wake up every morning chanting the five core teachings of Buddha.

Home is when you are enjoying an ice-cold Hazy IPA at your favorite brewery while exchanging intimate details of your night out with close friends. You can hear the subtle waves crashing in the background at Ocean Beach and are grateful for a sunny, mildly breezy day in San Francisco.

Home is the sight of your aji making buff momos with her frail yet resilient hands. The same hands that fed and raised five brave and independent daughters.

Home is when you eavesdrop on your dad’s work calls and are in admiration of his work ethic and courage to ask the hard questions despite being the only one in the room with questionable English.

Home is when you can look at yourself in the mirror and feel worthy of the body that reflects back at you. It's when you learn to accept the bruised, yet beautiful, soul within.

This doesn’t happen every day. 

When people ask me “how are you feeling about life?” my gut reaction is to say that I’m ok. Not good, but ok. Most days I find myself in neutrality — just okay. 

If there is a world where I can wake up happy everyday, I’m not totally sure I’d want to live in it. 

Like anything in life, when something becomes abundant, it loses its allure. 

In my good days, I have the energy to be grateful about my life. Like this morning, I woke up and wrote down all of the things I’m blessed to have in my life. 

Many things that I wish I wanted when I was younger - a place to call home, feeling secure in my relationships, feeling loved, and not feeling alone. 

Today I find myself being grateful for my solitude. 

For enjoying my own company and having the freedom to do whatever I want. I am less fearful now because I no longer believe that spending time alone means missing out on opportunities to establish connections and create meaningful memories.

Today, I have come to accept the fact that there may be experiences or events that I will not be a part of. But I'd rather be here, savoring my coffee while watching the ferries glide toward Manhattan.

This exercise reinforced the idea that certain people and moments in our childhood can have a profound impact on us. Our early experiences shape not only how we perceive ourselves but also how we interact with those around us. By understanding the root cause of our learned behaviors, we can gain clarity about ourselves and initiate change.

As I read through the essay, specific details reminded me of the immense importance I once placed on how others perceived me. Whether it was the fear of appearing uncool in front of my classmates or the trepidation that accompanied stepping into new roles, these themes continue to resonate in my life today. However, I care less about how others perceive me. Part of this growth came from the self-awareness I developed over time by understanding the reasons behind my behavior. I have come to realize that the differences I tried so hard to hide when I was young - such as my culture and language - are what make me beautiful and authentic.

As I approach my late twenties, there are moments when I feel nervous about the uncertainties that come with growing older. However, reflecting on this essay, I am reminded of the inherent beauty in the passage of time. With age comes experience and greater self-awareness. I have become more comfortable in my own skin and less apologetic for who I am. I have a clearer understanding of my values, who I want to become, and the people I want to surround myself with. I am more intentional about how I spend my time and try to protect it as much as possible. If these are the types of lessons that come with age and experience, I say bring it on.

I enter the yellow room and notice the frail body that lies atop the floral jade sheets. His hands rest on his chest, folded and lifeless. Yet, he maintains the grace and poise he has always had. I sit by his bedside, prepared to say my final goodbye before I leave Nepal for the United States, the ‘land of opportunities.’ To my surprise, my grandfather, my bajya, opens his eyes and clasps my hands in a tight grip.

“Sing to me, Aap Ki Aankhon Mein Kuch (In the Eyes of Some),” he whispers softly. My hands loosen, my throat tightens, and my face turns red. I don’t sing outside the confines of my room. His intense gaze makes me break into a sweat. Feeling uncomfortable and trapped, I shut my eyes and try to sing, but I struggle to utter even a single word, let alone the first verse. It simply won’t come out. But I am resolute to sing for him. I close my eyes, and the first word emerges from my mouth, shaky and out of tune. As I continue my cacophonic attempt at a rendition of the song, I grow curious about what lies behind the darkness of my eyelids. I open my eyes. I am greeted by my bajya’s warm smile. As he looks on with pride and tacit support, the melody finds a harmonious pitch and I feel empowered knowing that I always had his love and support. Since that day, I have learned how to make my voice heard in the face of my fears.

I continue to be challenged every day. My hands often and easily get sweaty. I am petrified to volunteer as the lead singer for a band. My stomach is tied in countless knots when I tie the laces of my favorite combat boots, considered ‘uncool’ and ‘boyish’ by my classmates. I close my eyes and am transported to the yellow room in moments like these. I am energized by my bajya’s frail yet reassuring hands squeezing mine with a consoling resolution in his look, telling me to carry on. I now realize that my willpower controls the destinies of my fears. It is my decision whether I allow them to stop me cold or channel them to empower me instead. I don’t want to run away from my fears, but toward them, armoured with my determination, curiosity, and strength.

I cannot control the unknown, but I can control how I respond to it. Daring to dance while singing in front of a full-house crowd, discovering my love for fashion after stepping into my class with the same combat boots, I embrace the possibilities that come from not knowing what lies ahead. And as new journeys unfold in my life, I am ready to perform and meet them with a hopeful song. Regardless of what the future holds, I can look it straight in the eye with no hesitations.

You start your day off with a perfectly made iced oat latte. The kind that basic girls make. The smoky and bold notes of the dark roasted beans are in perfect harmony with the creamy oat milk. When you take the first sip, you're reminded of the joy that small rituals like these bring to your everyday life.

You put on your favorite gym outfit, the one that makes you feel confident and sexy. J Balvin is blaring in the background while you feel strong lifting weights and subtly taking a look at yourself in the mirror every few minutes.

After 20 minutes in the steam room, your pores have opened up and your skin has an extra glow. The shower afterward rinses you off of all your hard-earned sweat and past sins.

Glory is the only way to describe your car ride home. The gentle caress of the breeze and the warmth of the golden sun embrace your melanin skin. You absorb the soothing voice of ¿Téo?’s “Belong in the Sun” track. Your mind and body have nowhere else to be. You're fully present, not thinking of the past or the future.

As you get closer to home, your body and mind are overtaken by hunger. You can only think of food. You make yourself an egg with some leftover fishcakes from the night before and another iced oat latte. There's always room for another iced oat latte.

Next on the agenda: a lunch date with Gucci (your childhood dog), also known as the royal highness. In true suburban fashion, you sit in the warm car and relish in the juiciness of Chick-fil-A's chicken. Gucci finishes her meal before you do and is begging for more, her saliva dripping all over your front car seat. There's something nostalgic and comforting about indulging in your favorite drive-through meal with your childhood furry friend. These are the simple memories that you'll remember her by when she no longer has the energy to go on long drives.

You spend the next few hours catching up with close friends, discussing everything from boba dates to fitness goals and important career decisions. You love these calls. The heartwarming, intimate, and funny conversations shared with people you deeply love. These are the moment you will remember on your deathbed.

In the past, you've used your time off to experience the magic of travel. You've picked figs for lunch from a 50-year-old fig tree in Sicily and sailed in the sapphire waters of the Tagus river. Today, you find comfort in the familiar rhythms of your childhood home. Whether it's sipping on a perfectly made iced oat latte, indulging in your favorite drive-through meal, or catching up with close friends, you find that these simple moments are what bring you glimpses of joy. Perhaps it's because you're fully present in these experiences, liberated from the anxious thoughts and worries that often plague your mind. You realize that happiness does not have to wait for a plane ticket to Italy. It can be found here and now, in the most ordinary of things.

My greatest insecurity has always been my intelligence. To better understand it, I started reading The Secret Thoughts of Successful Women by Valerie Young. Young argues that people who feel like impostors hold themselves to an unrealistic standard of competence. Failing to meet these standards evokes shame. I could relate to three of the five types of competence Young describes The Soloist, The Perfectionist, and The Natural Genius.

The Soloist believes that they must figure everything out on their own and that asking for help is a sign of weakness. The Perfectionist is someone who sees anything less than 100% as a failure, placing excessive pressure on themselves to do everything perfectly. The Natural Genius is ashamed when they struggle to master a concept, feeling that they should be able to pick up things quickly and effortlessly.

As I reflect on the experiences that shaped my competence, I realize how enlightening this exercise has been. When I was a child, math was not my strongest subject. Despite my best efforts, I struggled to understand concepts quickly. I vividly remember the disappointment and frustration on my 5th-grade teacher's face when I failed to understand a concept, despite her trying to explain it to me several times. At a certain point, I pretended to understand the concept just to make her feel less frustrated. This contributed to the shame I experienced when I couldn’t understand a concept with ease and speed.

Although my style of competence was shaped by experiences during my formative years, I am confident that it is never too late to change them. While it may take time and effort to unlearn habits that have been ingrained for so long, it is not impossible to do so. The first step towards this change is recognizing the patterns of behavior that have been holding me back. The second step is committing to unlearning these behaviors. Eventually, new habits will replace my old thought patterns.

In recent years, I have experienced the benefits of asking for help and accepting failure. Whether it was reaching out to a friend to help me move out or shipping a product that was good enough to learn and iterate quickly. Although breaking these old habits was uncomfortable at first, it lifted an enormous amount of pressure that I had placed on myself, ultimately leading to a healthier and more sustainable lifestyle. This is not to say that I’ve overcome my imposter syndrome. There is still a lot of work to be done. Nonetheless, I am more hopeful than ever to build my self-confidence with this newfound understanding and determination to unlearn thought patterns that no longer serve me.