The rules I absorbed without knowing I’d absorbed them: I wasn’t allowed to feel sexually attracted to someone before finding admirable qualities in them first. I felt guilty for noticing other people while already in a relationship. My desire was unholy. Sex could only exist as a sacred union. I could be beautiful, even wholesome, but not hot. And a woman couldn’t chase; she waited to be found.

These beliefs made me a romantic conservative. Because desire and romantic interest arrive together, I learned to pathologize anyone who showed interest in me: they have no friends. They’re desperate. I almost never dated.

This year, I started dismantling it. I let myself explore what it felt like to be sexually present in a room. The discovery came quickly: I’m far more magnetic than I’d allowed myself to be. I don’t need an dating app. My emotional sensitivity gives me an accurate read on the energy between people, on the charm I generate without trying.

And yet, even as I reclaimed power in public, something in my body still held the old story when it came to romance. Inferiority, encoded in the muscles.

Last week, a friend set me up on a date calculated as a “perfect astrological match.” What they forgot to mention, until I was already in the car: she was polyamorous.

I’m already in the car.

Worse, the moment I saw her, something in me seized. She looked like every loud, politically aggressive, artistically confrontational white girl I’d navigated around in school. I immediately knew: she’d be opinionated, sharp-edged, and I’d spend the whole night walking on eggshells.

I was so overwhelmed and scared, the date, the noise of Dave and Buster’s, twenty screens, that I left in the middle.

Then something unexpected happened. My friends and the date came after me. We walked. We talked. And I was completely wrong about her. She was kind, genuinely curious, gentle in the way she held the world. Not aggressive at all.

What looked like a disaster was actually a hinge.

For the first time, I felt something loosen in me around who I could connect with, across gender, race, belief, culture. The belief I can only love a very small number of people had been built on shame, not truth.

A sense of ease moved through me. Something healed.

My scarcity didn’t have to govern romance anymore. Like friendship, I’ve never been scared of losing a friend or two, because I’ve always trusted that good people keep arriving. That same faith could live in romance, too.

Afterwards, first time in my life, I finally directly asked someone I’d had a crush for a long time on to go on a date, even though they barely texted me back.

And this time, I started to feel at ease. Their answer wouldn’t define me.

What I received: “My week is a lot. I don’t have the bandwidth to show up as what I’d want to.”

So it was never about me.

Why had I been rejecting myself preemptively, before anyone else had the chance?

I smiled. Because I know now, whoever I meet, however things go, I’ll have a rich life learning from different people. It is already a romantic journey.

In the dream, I went to her apartment so we could go to a healing session together.

But then I saw her pull out a knife. She was trying to kill me.

She had told me she struggled with intrusive thoughts. And I knew I had hurt her. I had hurt her. I looked at her, and said, “That makes sense.”

Then I woke up.

When I woke up, I realized how unsafe I had felt around her, and how much my unconscious mind expected that danger.

Dreams don’t come from nowhere.

This one came from the emotional work I’ve been doing since my sleepawake therapy retreat. After the retreat, I felt my emotional repertoire expand in a way I didn’t expect. I had several difficult conversations with people, and for the first time I didn’t feel that familiar choke in my throat.

For example, when someone is pushy, I used to either say a hesitant yes or wrap my no in politeness.

Now I say no. Directly.

I’m still learning how to do it, but I’m doing it.

Even with the person I had the biggest crush on for a year, the hottest person I knew, I found the courage to talk about it. It’s terrifying. But going wrong in your own way is better than going right in someone else’s.

So many things I once imagined would be emotional catastrophes turned out far better than I feared.

I’ve been practicing that courage in my career too. Career has always been my biggest fear, asking for what I want, being who I am. I was afraid of being too much, or too little.

Now I post on LinkedIn every few days. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I want to take up space. I’m training the muscle of taking up space.

And surprisingly, many people support me.

But there is still work to do, especially with those who trigger me the most. When I invited her to join a healing activity after our disconnection, my body lit up with fear. A hollow ache in my chest. Suppressed desire and rage moving through me.

Even sending a follow-up message filled me with fear.

I felt jittery, scattered. While writing this, I kept stopping to scroll Instagram every few sentences.

I can still feel the scars she carved into me. And the day I pulled the trigger, the bullet into her head. Even now, I’m not sure if it was revenge or self-defense. They might be the same thing.

She turned me into a monster.

But now I want to heal.

Come. I want to heal. I want that for you too. You once promised we would go to healing activities together.

Strangely, since the retreat, I have started to love my monster more and more.

The pain.
The rage.
The sorrow.
The jealousy.
The desire.
The lust.
The pleasure.
The yearning.

One day I stood by a canal with a friend and screamed:

“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
Fuck you for making me feel so small.
Fuck you for making me believe selfishness was the only way to succeed in America.”

Then I collapsed into my chair like a baby.

Safe. Calm. Cradled by my rage.

I don’t know how things will unfold.

But I remember what Ocean Vuong wrote:

“Remember: The rules, like streets, can only take you to known places.”

And I’m ready to leave the map.

But rarely do people ask: “If you became a billionaire, how would you value and spend your time?”

For me, that question changes everything. My days would look completely different. I would value myself, my time, and my life far more than I do now.

Lately, I’ve been expanding my understanding of self-love with a friend. Many of us think self-love simply means treating ourselves well, going on solo coffee dates, enjoying alone time, learning to sit with ourselves. But I’ve realized self-love goes much further than that.

Self-love is about respect.
Respecting your time.
Your environment.
Who you spend time with.
What you choose to work on.

This is a list of self love I’m exploring.

1. Being brutally honest can be self-love. I often get approached by people whose intentions are purely romantic. This year, I started saying:“We can hang out if it’s not romantic. I’m tired of the cycle of sharing a meal, getting a confession, and then being ghosted. That wastes too much of my time.”

2. Working a lot can be self-love.
   We usually see overworking as self-neglect or burnout. But what if you’re working on something you deeply care about? Self-love is loving what you do, and having the courage to say no, or even quit, when you don’t. This year, I’m working hard on my visa. Not for anyone else. For me. My future. My freedom.

3. Spending money can be self-love. I grew up afraid of wasting money. Saving was always the priority. But this year, I’m investing in myself, therapy, growth retreats, clothes, makeup. I’m getting rid of my hoodies. I want to feel charming, respected, and valuable when I walk into a room.

4. Choosing who you spend time with is self-love. We all have social obligations. But who you spend time with shapes who you become. I’ve always had high standards for friendships, and now I’m raising that standard in romantic relationships too.

5. Saying “no” without explanation is self-love. I used to people-please. I stayed quiet and over-explained when something made me uncomfortable. Now I’m practicing saying a simple “no” — without guilt, without justification.

6. Stopping overthinking about others is self-love. I’ve lived as the “thoughtful, sweet” person who constantly does emotional labor, worrying about how everyone else feels, whether they’re comfortable, whether they like me. I’m learning to shut that mental loop down. To stop my brain from constantly running calculations about everyone else.

Honestly, many of these forms of self-love still to feel like selfishness. And that scares me. I’m still uncomfortable with the idea that loving myself might make others unhappy, or I’m afraid I will hurt them.

But I’m learning to carry a sense of importance, even a touch of “healthy narcissism,” instead of feeling powerless, victimized, or resentful after overgiving.

Strangely, this mindset has reduced my anxiety. Because now, I carry weight in my own life and stop letting myself and others push me around. Jobs shouldn’t overwhelm me. People shouldn’t diminish me. When I respect my time, my energy, and my environment, I feel like a queen.

This year, life isn’t about serving everyone else. It’s about serving me.

I draped myself in a shawl named darkness and walked into the shop. My gaze was overly fixed on the person inside, so much so that at the doorway I was nearly kissed by a strange man, yet I didn’t mind.

“How was your Vipassana?” the CEO asked.
“I learned many things,” I replied flatly.
“I’m so curious. Tell me.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I realized that the development of our physical relationship was something I never consented to.”

I think this is where I admire them most: no matter how shocking the message, they never lose composure. There is no fear, no defense, only quiet listening and questions. Sadly, it is only at moments of crisis that they are willing to listen.

“I feel lots of hatred toward you.” In my entire life, I’ve never spoken such heavy words to anyone. But they awakened my darkness, and I have already decided to surrender to it, to become this darkness myself.

We talked for a long time. When they asked how I felt, I felt nothing at all. These destructive words felt like mere facts; speaking them felt no different from saying,
”it’s 8 pm in New York now.”

“So what do you want now?”
“I want to destroy this relationship. Oh no. I want to hurt you. I want you to feel the anger, hatred, and fear that I feel.”

“Why?”
A trace of confusion and shock flickered through their eyes.

“Because they have their own beauty.” When love, admiration, desire, hatred, anger, and fear intertwine into one body, the complexity of human nature carries its own unique beauty. But their world is like a smooth, spotless woodblock, perhaps incapable of understanding this.

Their individualistic love carries freedom and respect. My collectivist love embraces care, giving, and responsibility. I cannot enjoy a freedom that is only mine, just as they cannot perceive the care I give them.

In the end, respect collapses, responsibility mutates, the fuse is lit, and the relationship explodes like a beautiful atomic bomb.

“I’m ready to walk away.” I take a deep breath, feeling pain sizzling inside my stomach, yet I am still able to say it aloud.

We fall silent and gaze at each other three times. Perhaps the longest gazes of my life.

The first time, I see them. I see their firmness, that self-determined firmness unmoved by whatever shape the world may take.

The second time, I see a human. I see that beneath self-centeredness, there remains a trace of hesitation and confusion.

The third time, I don’t know what I I see, maybe it’s love. I see them wanting to speak yet holding back even they loved argue and negotiation. This is the first time they don’t negotiate with me.

Such a long stare. Even now, I remember their expression with perfect clarity.

If they are an angel, then I must be Joan of Arc, unafraid to die for faith. If they are a demon, then I have already become Faust, auctioning off my soul.

Joan of Arc and Faust seem irreconcilable, yet in truth they are brightness and darkness interwoven, the same person, the same self.

For several days, I lived something close to a military lifestyle. To make the most of the trip, I had to wake up at 5:40 a.m. in the morning so we could pick up the rental car. The CEO even called the car owner early to coordinate logistics (poor car owner), probably for better efficiency.

Every day followed an intense routine: aggressive snowboarding in the day, coworking together in the evening. It was completely different from what I had imagined, no sipping tea by the fire pit, no relaxed conversations about life. When I asked if we could spend a little more quality time together, the only option was playing speed chess so they can go back to work.

The most difficult part of the trip was snowboarding. The moment we arrived at the resort, I was already being left behind, forced to figure everything out on my own. They told me they had trained themselves on difficult blue slopes until their bodies were covered in bruises on their very first day, because “fear is only in your imagination” and “you have to keep falling to learn.”

So, as a beginner, I followed them onto a terrifying blue trail. It was deeply traumatizing. Standing on the tip of mountain, I suddenly realized how exposed I was, there was no protection. Fxxk. If I slid off the slope, I could roll down the mountain or bumped into trees. But then the CEO slid away, leaving me alone, buried in snow, not knowing what to do or how to survive.

I tried to stand up again and again, but I couldn’t. When I looked downhill, a snow bulge blocked my view, I couldn’t see anything. There was almost no one else around that day. The snow was heavy, visibility was terrible, and I sat there completely helpless.

I panicked. I didn’t even know how to switch sides, so I tried to take off my snowboard. The moment I did, my snowboard slipped away and flew downhill, nearly hitting someone in front of me. Soon after, the rescue team arrived and took me off the mountain.

That experience mirrored the trip as a whole. The CEO did whatever they wanted, and I often felt like I was on a solo trip rather than traveling with someone else. As a person who naturally thinks about others and prioritizes shared experiences, this was deeply uncomfortable. Yet in those moments, I had no choice but to practice detachment, acceptance, and self-interest. Every time I caught myself wishing for closeness or a meaningful shared experience, I had to shut that thought down and ask instead: What does Esther want right now? “Us” was not the priority, myself was.

Throughout the trip, I noticed patterns I’ve seen in many tech founders around me: self-centricity, extreme confidence, constant focus on what they’re good at, and relentless negotiation for what they want. Everything revolves around them. Most of the time, it’s done politely and kindly, but the philosophy is the same. I constantly felt that I had to fight for myself internally, or else I would shrink more and more around them.

On the third day, I looked back at the blue trail where I had been rescued and felt even more fear than I had on the first day. Still, I decided to try again. I trained intensely. I walked from downhill to uphill many times like a idiot, gradually increasing the incline to match my comfort level. I experimented with different angles, observed the terrain, studied how others moved, and tested different ways to fall safely. I used every bit of knowledge and experience I had to counter my instinctive fear.

Then I went back to that same terrifying hill, the exact spot where I had once sat hopelessly in the snow.

This time, I calmed myself. I planned my route in my head, stayed present, focus on the techniques I’ve learned, and made it down with very few falls.

At the bottom, I looked up and felt a deep sense of accomplishment. I realized something important: I am very smart.

I may not have the brute-force fearlessness that the CEO has, but through strategy, observation, and learning, I have my own way of overcoming difficulty. I don’t rush blindly forward, I observe, strategize, and move with intention.

I rose to meet the challenge, the fear, and the stress that this trip placed in front of me, and I did it on my own terms. While I admired their accomplishments, I discovered something more important — I love who I am, and my strength comes from a power that is entirely my own.

For most of my romantic life, I’ve never dated someone conventionally “successful.” Not because I have bad taste, but because I’m usually drawn to unconventional people, artists, humanists, very left-leaning, anti-capitalist types. Social success never mattered to me; I’ve always assumed I could financially support my future partner anyway.

Then suddenly, as if the universe shuffled the deck, a CEO decided to pick me. And it has been… an experience.

First learning: discomfort and self-doubt. At the beginning, I felt strangely uncomfortable. They have this huge career and real wealth, and I felt incompetent just standing next to them. Why me? I can barely manage my own life right now.

Me: “You pay how much for your rent? What?! Can you say that again?”

I felt behind on every measurable dimension. I kept asking “why me?” so many times that the CEO actually got annoyed. That’s when I realized: even though I always said I didn’t care about social success, it still affects me. And I did feel superficially proud with someone who is successful.

Second learning: couple fight is like a $10B business deal. I have never met a person who can fight and negotiate like this. Where most people take “no” as a no, the CEO treats it as a puzzle: find the “yes” hidden inside and push.

Normally, when I say “this is my boundary,” people respect it and back off, I’m assertive and clear. But this CEO? They ignore the all the no and zoom straight into the weak places that can be turned into a yes.

“Oh… you’re open to healing experiences? It’s tied to your value system, so maybe you should make decisions outside your value system.”

In my entire life, no one has ever had the audacity to tell me to discard my value system. I was both angry and amazed.

Suddenly it made sense: this is the type of person who gets rejected by 100 investors and keeps going unfazed. Every argument we had felt like a $10B acquisition negotiation, except I’m just a girl…

Third learning: their sense of possibility is… different. One time I jokingly said they should fly over to see me. They shrugged and said, “Yeah, why not? It’s just a flight. When I was fundraising, I flew coast-to-coast every week.”

Completely nonchalant.

Another time, when I told them we were definitely incompatible, they smiled and said, “Great, let’s come up with a creative solution.”

I genuinely didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

Being around them made me realize: while most of us are busy trying to fit into an existing slot in the world, CEOs bend the world to fit them. They don’t take no as no because giving up is not even in their mental dictionary.

It’s funny looking back, in every past relationship, I was the one who got rejected, the one doing the chasing, frustrated that the other person couldn’t see what we could’ve been. Now the roles have completely reversed with someone more naive and far more ambitious.

Working in education for the past two years, with more trauma than success, I’ve been feeling discouraged.

I often think:

• Working in education makes no money.

• I’ve tried so hard, even as a founder, and it still didn’t work.

• Maybe nothing I do will ever work.

• No one believed in me, and eventually, neither did I.

• I don’t have the skills to change the world.

• I look at everyone else’s ideas and feel like none of them will work either.

So I stepped away, unsure of what to explore next.

In contrast, this CEO has the exact qualities needed to push through moments like this: a mix of delusion, persistence, and absolute fearlessness. It’s both unrealistic and inspiring.

As much as I don’t think this relationship is destined to work out, I’m learning a lot, and I’m curious to see how this strange, unexpected connection unfolds.

The second time I became jobless, I thought I’d be better at it. I’d done this before, right? But no, it still took me over a month to detach from the need to belong. That pressure doesn’t just come from within; it comes from the world around me.

“You should go dating since you’re free now,” someone said, as if my time only had value when filled with distractions most busy people can’t afford.

“It’s okay you don’t want to do 9-9-6,” my founder friend told me, and I felt quietly judged, as if I wasn’t ambitious or disciplined enough.

“Freedom needs discipline,” another voice said, and I wondered if I was failing at both.

All those voices swirled together, echoing the one I feared most: “You don’t fit in.” And maybe, they were right.

Because I no longer did.

I became no one. Nothing. And somehow, my life began to bloom.

On my birthday, I hosted a small gathering. Just 6 people, the ones who truly brought out the best in me this year. For each of them, I handwrote a gratitude story, honoring the qualities I admire, the values I want to live by, the ways they’ve helped me grow.

It wasn’t a big, inclusive party. It was intimate. Intentional. Painfully exclusive. I knew some might notice they weren’t invited, but I had a vision: to bring together the people who shine, and let their lights reflect off one another.

And it was magical. There were no job titles, no status, no forced small talk. Just honesty, laughter, and warmth. We weren’t filling silence with gossip or work updates, we were showing up, fully, for ourselves and each other.

That’s where I want to be.
That’s the tribe I want to build.

Not a circle where we talk about who we should be,
but one where we’re accepted for who we are, and encouraged to grow into who we can become.

I’ve lost many friends along the way.
But I’ve never felt more free.

I hope one day, I will feel no fear of becoming me.

Okay, my weird friends, don’t gossip. This isn’t a romantic story. It’s about self growth. She’s one of the most curious and adventurous people I’ve ever met, someone who reminded me of who I used to be.

First, let’s give her some credibility so you don’t think she’s just another wild soul. She secretly applied and got into university at 14, built a successful startup, and even impressed Sheryl Sandberg enough that she introduced her to everyone in the room.

But what struck me most wasn’t her accomplishments. It was her creativity and sense of play. One day she landed in my city, texted me out of nowhere, asking if I was home, and then showed up at my door. We spent the night laughing, exploring, and rediscovering what pleasure in life feels like.

Once we passed by a poster that looked like a party. Out of curiosity, I scanned the QR code, and then…

She was rebellious in all the best ways. She didn’t care about living by society’s rules. She just followed her own curiosity. Being around her reminded me how much I had shrunk myself to fit in. I started saying yes to things again. I went to a Substack CTO dialogue, got cast in a film, and even tried shibari for the first time.

Even I encouraged myself to be different, I still often lived under pressure to appear normal. You need a stable job. You should plan hangouts weeks ahead. In the Bay Area, you’re supposed to grind, build a startup, and make money. People said freedom comes from discipline. People said this is my best window to date because I don’t have a real job yet. People said they can’t hang out because adults need long notice for everything.

All those voices made me feel like my curiosity and excitement for life were dying.

Even now, I know I’m not really interested in having a job. I’m still scared to chase what I genuinely want because I don’t fully trust myself to make money doing it. I used to tell myself those dreams aren’t real. Fun and success don’t coexist. Rewards only come from suffering.

Then I met her. She showed me that someone like that can exist. The rebellious can survive. The playful can thrive. That realization lit something inside me again. The desire to explore. The desire to live.

It felt like meeting someone who was so admirable makes all my past unhappy obsessions fade away. I told a friend, I need to surround myself with people like her. I yearn that. That’s the world I want to live in. She said, instead of wanting that environment, how will you internalize it and bring it forward?

She was right. No matter where she goes, this girl carries her own unicorn energy. The real question is, can I do that too?

I still feel fear. I still feel loneliness and judgment. But she once told me something that stuck.

Don’t just look for your tribe. Create it.

As an Asian myself, there’s an undeniable comfort in meeting someone who shares the same background. I can make jokes about stereotypes, bond over familiar foods, or use shared festivals as an easy reason to meet up.

In tech, I still meet people from many cultures, but many feel “more American” than from their original culture. They don’t embody it.

Recently, I went to a party hosted by a Black friend and met a lot of Black people. I could immediately tell who were Black Americans and who were immigrants. The etiquette, motivations, and life goals felt very different.

One person said, “I’m from Daly City. I studied law to make more money.” I know the Bay Area is expensive, but I didn’t know what else to ask.
But when another said, “I’m from Burkina Faso,” I lit up, Taiwan’s best friend! We dove into geopolitics and how their media portrays Taiwan.

Of course, anyone well-educated can talk about their culture, but actually embodying it feels different. It gives me energy.

At another event, I met a hot Brazilian who instantly reminded me of my time in Argentina. We had tons of latinos who made a million dollar business in my office which doesn’t intrigue me. Many are “Latino-looking white people” with American accents and Stanford degrees, smart but not fun for me.

The next day I went to a Brazilian picnic. I didn’t understand a single word. They could’ve been saying, “This Asian girl is so dumb!” but just watching them was beautiful. Loud, lively, full of gestures, enjoying life. It felt like being dropped into a living zoo of their culture.

Now I’ve set myself a mission for making friends:

• white American women (I already have guy friends).

• Black American (history and culture)

• Latinos (culture)

But I’ve been trying for months without much success, blocked by cultural barriers and my own discomfort.

How do I do this better? Please give me ideas!

And suddenly I froze.
I don’t call friends just to chat.
I don’t stay on the phone for an hour, losing track of time as if the world had slipped away.

Something felt VERY wrong. Why didn’t I notice it sooner?

That night I couldn’t sleep. The next 48 hours turned into a slow-motion nightmare. Flashbacks tore through me, the tears, the pain, the weight of you pressing in. I heard your voice again, flat and indifferent: “You were the saddest person in the world.” It ripped me open, pulling me back into those days, when I kissed in tears, when every touch carried the weight of pain, when desire and despair tangled until I couldn’t tell them apart.

I remembered the throbbing headaches after the “breakup”, fighting just to stay focused and awake. Red, the sofa was red, too soft beneath me as I tried to write my next sentence in my assignment.

I remembered the Thames, the shimmer of stone, the raw shout I hurled into the shining river from my chest.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. Sliding in a relationship without an intention is the worst way to begin a story. It starts in innocence: friends, a light hello hug. Then closer friends, an embrace that lingers a heartbeat too long. Step by step, the line dissolves, each touch weighted, each moment steeped in a sweetness that rots into ache. And before I realized it, I was already deep into the swirl. My rationality pleaded, but my desire bit back, hungry, restless, unheeding. There is no turning back, only the quiet tragedy of slipping into love like a dream, and waking to find my skin seared, my body blistered, burned alive by a fire of my own desire too merciless to touch.

I was an underground girlfriend, buried in dark silence, never allowed to breathe the open air. In truth, not even a girlfriend at all—only a “friend,” a fragile disguise, a word people cling to when they cannot face what trembles beneath. And still, I was wrong. There was no love waiting there. Only admiration, endless, glittering, hollow. It dazzled like glass catching light, but it was never love. The capacity simply did not exist in you. I reached with all my being toward a vessel that could never hold me. I was the light, and you could never be anything more than my shadow.

If you are a girl and open for exploration, it is the common story, isn’t it? The way certain beginnings blur. Boundaries slip, intimacy drifts into ambiguity. At first, the fearful ones call it “exploration,” laugh and call it “fun.” But without words, without an anchor, someone always ends up bleeding. And back then, it was me.

For hours I was dragged back into the past, my mind locked, replaying every wound on an endless loop. When I finally spoke it aloud to a friend, my body gave me away, shaking, trembling beyond my will, as if memory itself had seized my flesh. The past refused to release me.

Friends call it PTSD trigger. I sat with that for days, but I chose to call it protection. The angry self that will not let anyone treat me unfairly. The grieving self who shields me from harm in every way it knows how. The broken, aching self that refuses to succumb to desire, no matter how much it ignites. And lastly, the fearful self, longing to flee, to find some place safer than here. Yes, that’s PTSD, but that’s also the sensitivity to protect myself.

So instead of trying to fix it, I chose to trust it. To honor it. To let these selves stand guard over me, until, at last, the path of healing can find its way to me.

Weirdo friends, when I tried to explain this to friends in real life, they don’t relate nor understand. But I hoped one of you, of all people, might.

If you don’t, I’m happy for you. Really.

And they will all say, that’s not true.

Life is full of things to figure out, what we want to work on, how to spend our free time, how to manage the endless demands of adulthood. And somewhere in that process, we often lose track of the connections that matter most.

Calls become “random,” and then, nothing.
Six months of silence, after all my messages and gifts, until one day everything is, gone.
“Personal space” stretched into a year, until even living together felt, like living apart.
“If you want to hang out, we can put it on the weekly schedule.” My roommate became another 1:1 calendar invite.

One way or another, we drifted apart. Whether it was gradual or abrupt, that was the end. I felt sad, but also strangely at peace. I saw it for what it was: a difference in relationship values. They made their choice, and I made mine.

No one likes to admit that a relationship is fading. We comfort ourselves with the idea: We might not talk much now, but when we meet in person again, it’ll be like no time has passed. But the reality is harsher, life is constant change. They change. You change.

A few years later, you realize you barely know each other anymore. You might know they switched jobs, but not that they abandoned their people-pleasing nature to become fiercely self-serving. You might know they went through a breakup, but not that they now guard their boundaries, and you’ve just crossed one.

You maintain a polite peace for years, until one day, you wake up to the truth: the “friendship” you’ve been holding onto was an illusion. The genuineness is gone, and even if you try to rebuild it, it’s too late.

I’ve always poured effort into the people I call close friends. Even with acquaintances, I feel a pang of sadness when we reconnect and they feel like strangers. I find myself thinking, Why are you speaking to me like a diplomat? Aren’t we screaming together on the hike 3 years ago?

But it’s 3 years ago.

We humans shy away from painful choices. We chase career growth while clinging to friendships, pretending not to notice the decay. We bury ourselves in productivity, applauding our own achievements, all while turning away from the bonds quietly unraveling. Time is finite, but we cram it full as if that will make it infinite. We value our work, our lives, our relationships, yet convince ourselves the relationships can wait. So we let them wait. Or we rush through the interaction, firing off a hasty reply to their Instagram story, just to check it off the list.

But avoiding the choice is the worst choice of all.

That’s why I feel so much frustration when friends don’t decide. I already know my answer: relationships matter. People I love matter. I’m willing to put in the work. When that effort is one-sided, the imbalance eventually breaks the bond.

Anger, frustration, sadness comes to me. But I’ve never been destroyed by a loss, because I know I’ll always have fulfilling relationships, not because I’m better, but because I’ve made that choice. Again and again.

To all the failed relationships: I’m sorry we couldn’t last.
I carry the pain — but I still carry me.

It was a world I’d never fully understood, and I was both fascinated and afraid. Afraid in the same way I’d felt under the gaze of strangers in a bar or club, when their eyes lingered just a little too long.

Then this afternoon, I encountered another friend, the person who holds the most sexual magnetism I’ve ever seen in real life. Let’s call her the Queen of Sensation. She radiated a kind of power that made everything around her feel electric. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, partly because she was beautiful, but mostly because she was unapologetically herself. Sharp. Blunt. Intimidating. She didn’t soften her words or try to make herself likable. She said “no” a lot. Not with cruelty, but with a kind of self-possession that dared you to take her as she was, or walk away.

In that room, with the air thick from both power and tension, I felt a strange mix of fear and curiosity. She had mastered something I hadn’t even tried to understand. And then, somewhere between discussing power dynamics and playing Esther Perel’s card game about sex, I pulled a card:

“What is your sexual superpower?”

I froze. I didn’t know how to answer. I’ve been told I’m attractive, especially to Asian women at all ages, but I’ve always wondered if that’s just because I fit a beauty standard. I don’t usually relate to people sexually. Attraction, for me, rarely starts with desire. It starts with fascination.

As I fumbled for words, the Queen of Sensation looked at me and said, “You’re curious. You’re funny. You’re so open to learning.”

And just like that, the unspoken power tension dissolved. She was no longer this mythic creature holding court, I saw her as a human being. And I remembered: so am I.

That night, after four hours of talking, laughing, disagreeing, and reflecting, I walked away with something I didn’t expect: peace with who I am.

I realized I don’t have to relate to others through sexual desire. I don’t have to be darker, edgier, or more seductive to be desired. I can just be…me. The playful, curious version. The one who wants to know what makes people tick. The one who’s fascinated not by how hot someone looks, but by what lights them up inside.

People told me I couldn’t be childlike and desirable at the same time. That I needed to grow into something more conventionally sexy. But I’m beginning to think they were wrong.

Maybe my curiosity, my real, wide-eyed wonder about people, isn’t something I need to fix or outgrow. Maybe it’s the very thing that draws people to me. Romantically, too. My future partner will fall in love with me not in spite of this, but because of it.

Because more than anything, I just want to learn about… people.

And that, I’m starting to believe, sexually or not, curiosity might be its own kind of superpower.

Oh of course, I still want to be sexually desirable, but I realized my path will probably be very different from others.

What surprised me most was loving for someone I wouldn’t normally notice. They weren’t the most charismatic in the room or the most talented in the crowd. I’ve always been drawn to charisma and intelligence, but over the years,I’ve realized those traits often belong to a showman—full of flair, but light on substance. They talk well, they entertain, they sell, but they fail to deliver.

From being around this person, I learned two things about myself:

1. First, I don’t give a fxxk on how “hot” someone is. And I don’t care much about their aura either. What matters to me is kindness, the capacity to love, and the ability to care for others. Why do people always hope I’ll end up looking like someone from a magazine?

2. Second, love wears many faces. Mine is probably gender-blind—maybe even species-blind. So, love for me isn’t inherently sexual. It becomes an option only when a deep level of intimacy is reached, whether romantic or not.

Our encounter wasn’t marked by intense passion, but by a quiet recognition of compatibility. It felt easy to love and be loved. Communication came naturally. No games.

You might think it sounds boring, but I’ve come to realize that the romantic stories we see in Korean dramas are often built on unrealistic longing with a traumatic agenda orchestrated by one or both parties. Sometimes, even the lover gets sacrificed just to create that beautiful version of the story. If that’s the price, I’d rather choose the quiet kind of love—one without fear, where tenderness doesn’t need tragedy to shine, and where protection is not a plot twist, but a promise.

Being seen as an attractive person, I’ve become wary when people are drawn to that side of me. Esther just wants to be Esther—not “hot Esther” all the time. That’s exhausting. Can I just wear pajamas and still be seen?

So when someone treats me as just myself, I feel at home. At peace. I didn’t even notice how deeply I’d grown connected—of course I love them. Why would I even question that?

In circles of brilliance—Taiwan, Minerva, Silicon Valley—I’ve watched as commitment grew scarce, and emotional depth thinned into performance. So when I met someone who moved with quiet loyalty, humble, and care, it struck me like a bell in still air. While I embodied ambition, curiosity, and adventure, they chose something slower, deeper.

I saw them as the bride’s best friend—a bond of over a decade, shining through time. I saw them trade sleep for service, attuned to every flicker of need, every unspoken ask.

Would I ever do that? I couldn't even stay with my own family, though they desire to live with me.

Selfishly, I just want to be me. I want to become me.

So when I met someone who chooses to care—not loudly, not once, but quietly, day after day—I was in awe.
It’s not the grand gestures that move me anymore,
but the quiet, unwavering decision to choose every day.

I don’t see that commitment in the Bay Area. I don’t see that in most of my friends. We’re all too busy trying to become ourselves—or something greater than ourselves.

And though our moment was brief,
its beauty wasn’t in holding on,
but in the revelation that something I dream can exist.

Not a possession,
but a possibility.

Maybe not in San Francisco.
But somewhere—if I keep looking,
and keep soft enough to see it.

我畢業於 2023 正職找工作最倒霉的一年，很多同學都失業，有人做幾個月後被裁員，也有人苦苦面試五輪，做了半年後公司就倒了。大裁員的情況下，競爭者從碩士畢業生，變成資深工作者，學士的我們，不是沒有優勢，是處於完全劣勢。但反正工作確實也是找不到，大家就開始法展奇奇怪怪的興趣，有同學開始拍電影，有同學給我賣蔬果，每天介紹不同種類的香菇（？），而我則是在自己身上做了一連串實驗，譬如：

- 嘗試一週工作 100 小時：失敗

- 嘗試短期工作合約：失敗

- 嘗試做自己喜歡的教育專案：成功

- 被朋友拉去申請 YC：失敗

- 把自己做成 QRcode 貼在申請公司門口：失敗

- 嘗試一天和別人要一個幫忙：大成功（被 VC 內推）

- 嘗試努力被 10 個路上陌生人拒絕：失敗

雖然大多都失敗了，但我不但沒有被壓力侵蝕，反而找到很多樂子。譬如，在路上努力被陌生人拒絕的實驗裡，我的同學走上前去，對著聽 airpod 的人，指著自己的 airpod 說：「我左邊的 airpod 不見了，你可以把你左邊的給我嗎？」我在旁邊笑到表情扭曲。

還有在申請 YC 的實驗裡，天天去朋友的 goole 吃免費的午餐，還在路上貼產品傳單，好玩到不行。自己做的教育專案也是，越做越有心得，不但在黑客松上面受到 deepmind 等大哥大姐的鼓勵，甚至還去演講，因為點子有趣，被聽眾說講的還比有公司的創辦人更好。

我在玩樂中快樂成長，從完全沒有軟體經驗，在幾個月內搖身變成軟體工程師，也因為教育產品一邊做一般收集回饋，就剛好被現在的公司拉進去了。而當時亂七八糟認識的人、做的事都沒有白費，今天想拉我去工作的大哥大姐很多都是那時認識的，他們看著我一整年的成長。

當時雖然有很多的辛苦，但也沒有大家說的辛酸血淚，反而學到面對明天充滿著未知，今天仍能可以泰然自若，好好吃著眼前的巧克力可頌的能力。不但不太害怕被拒絕，更培養的對人脈的敏感度，也在沒有外在動機的空窗期裡，不受干擾的發掘自己真正的熱情，人生就算一片空白都有些方向，我認為這才都是人該好好琢磨的能力。

你或許會說這是個好運的故事，但失業的同學大抵都差不多，在簽證的困窘，與找工作的壓力下隨機應變，有心者，真的沒有人出局，反而找到未能想像的新大陸，後來開始拍電影同學說：「天啊！被裁員好開心！終於不用再寫程式了，人生都亮了起來！」

大家常說，美國找工作都得花千辛萬苦「爬上岸」，那終究只是單一版本的故事，沒有人說我們不能想辦法在海裡悠遊自得的呀！

當你打電話來，聽到熟識多年的你如此焦慮與失意，多少還是感到心疼，所以我寫下這個好玩的求職故事。因為我深深相信，如果你不把自己關在家裡瘋狂投遞，回歸自己的好奇的初心，對法律多一點機靈，延伸觸角多方嘗試，不但能留下來，一定也可以寫下一個膾炙人口的生命探索。

I remember tearing up in the taxi while it was playing songs about breaking up. And that was my Valentine’s Day.

Fast forward to today, I still find our relationship one of the most difficult ones I’ve had. I still feel that surge of anger and that pinch of pain when they wrote, “I wish our past was like a beautiful bedtime story,” while I felt tortured in the so-called “not really a relationship” that we had.

For me, our relationship had already turned into a nightmare from this difficult journey, quite far from a bedtime story. That beautiful bedtime story are nothing mere than their own fantasy. I hate how much they dreamed of orchestrating their love life while utilizing me as a means to their end even they knew I was in pain. I felt frustrated that, similar to that Valentine’s Day, they rejected my offering simply because they lacked the capability to offer, and therefore the capacity to accept.

Even though I have that urge to tell the person, “Please treat me like a person, not a story you imagine, not a door you try to close, and not a problem you try to avoid,” I don’t know if I will ever express any of these to the person in this lifetime. It might hurt them, and hurt me too.

However, given all the difficulties, my heart still harbors a lot of love and willingness to give like that Valentine’s day. I don’t think my love has really changed over time. I was also surprised that it doesn’t change or despite the misery that I’ve experienced. It coexists with the anger, with the pain, and with the frustration and misery. I feel like an ocean, harboring all the complex emotions inside me. I still meditated on this relationship till today, praying for some courage to face, the openness to accept, and the wisdom to resolve. I don’t know what to resolve for. Maybe for the relationship or just for me. I don’t know yet.

This Valentine’s Day, I feel completely at peace and at ease. It’s finally a quiet, undisturbed, and peaceful day.

But whether it's a need or an addiction, it's too late for my friend to walk away—he’s deeply in love, or maybe even addicted to her. Watching him constantly think about her, unable to focus on anything else, I started to wonder how much we allow our emotional attachments and addictions to define what we call "love."

We all know that there are harmful addictions in life—alcohol, drugs, sex, social media, even Netflix and sugar. But no one ever calls being consumed by obsession of another person an "addiction." In fact, society often glorifies it, calling it "falling in love" and portraying it as the most precious experience you can have. Yet, what if, like my friend’s date, the needs start to spiral out of control—indulging in constant sex while ignoring work or other responsibilities?

Yes, society would label that as irresponsible, but it still gets a pass as "being in love." When you talk about it with friends, they blush and giggle with excitement of your wild stories. Romantic dramas and movies even romanticize this kind of intensity, convincing us that the crazier, the better. On the contrary, when you don’t feel this way, you start questioning whether you're truly "in love."

Looking at my friend, so lost in his feelings, I couldn’t help but see my past self in him. I’ve been there before—feeling as if my emotions were entirely controlled by the relationship. I’d cry and laugh with every little move my partner made, thinking that was what "madly in love" looked like. But now, I see a fine line between love and addiction. I’ve come to realize that the intense attraction we feel toward someone—whether physical or emotional—often has less to do with the person themselves and more to do with the emotional cues they trigger in us. I realized I liked the feeling of being "in love," but I also hated the lack of control and the dopamine highs that came with it.

Spending all your time thinking about someone, with your emotions constantly swaying based on their actions—it doesn’t seem like love to me. It feels more like a reflection of how modern society has placed such high expectations on relationships. We’ve come to believe, either consciously or subconsciously, that modern romance is supposed to meet most of our needs: emotional support, reliability, stability, as well as excitement, novelty, and fantasy. But that very expectation often feeds into dependence, and sometimes even addiction. This isn't just accepted; it's celebrated.

Weirdo friends, one of my new year resolution for 2025 will be defining “in love” in my own term.

“You’ve become so much more mature,” Friend A remarked after we met again following two years apart. She had changed too. She wasn’t the same dramatic and gossipy person who had once been stuck in a toxic friend group. Work had taught her a lot. As a therapist, she now observed people with a keen eye and a sprinkle of empathy instead of judgment. I watched her, amazed at the transformation life had brought her. She worked tirelessly from Monday to Sunday, pursuing her passion and crafting a new version of herself.

In contrast, I also met Friend B, someone I used to find incredibly h.o.t. Yet, over time, she hadn’t really changed. She still seemed lost, using endless studies as a way to delay confronting her life’s purpose while indulging in fxxking around. What once might have seemed cool and hot in our youth now felt outdated—like an old desktop PC in a room full of Macs. In an instant, I knew I had lost interest.

Navigating careers, finances, relationships, and living in the real world feels incredibly hard, and I’ve seen many former classmates retreat into terrible jobs, unhealthy relationships, or new degrees to “solve their problems.” Even though it’s been over a year since I graduated, I still feel uncomfortable every day. I understand their choices, but I aspire to be more like Friend A.

I’ve come to realize that the people I naturally gravitate toward are those who can accommodate my growth, and that means they’re growing too. It’s not that those I’ve drifted away from are incapable; it’s just that their pace and direction differ from mine. I’ve kept moving forward, with a growing sense of confidence and clarity about where I want to go.

Though this past year, surviving in a foreign country has felt like a constant struggle—fearing I’d fall, get kicked out, or end up homeless in an unstable industry—I can see now that my persistence is starting to pay off. I’ve accelerated into a new version of myself, far removed from the Esther they used to know, and I’m amazed at how much I’ve changed.

Staying with people who don’t grow with me feels like trying to squeeze into shoes that no longer fit or being in an orchestra where someone keeps missing the beat. I want to surround myself with those whose thoughts inspire me, whose maturity attracts me, whose clear sense of direction grounds me—those who rise to life’s challenges instead of hiding from them.

In the end, I realized my sense of people isn't defined by our past, whether it was healthy or not. My door is always open to those who have grown. Come with me.

I remade this into a audio movie!

The voice is sooooo good! (Made with The Possible)

In downward-facing dog, your thoughts wander, but the teacher’s voice pulls you back. “Pay attention. THIS IS LIFE.” Your chest touches the ground—solid, real. By the end of savasana, you feel tears well up. It’s the first time you’ve been completely honest with yourself, acknowledging the desire that’s been buried inside. The weight of suffering lifts, and you’re ready to carry your desire into a new chapter of life. You finish writing the last paragraph of your story from your perspective, eager to place that final period.

But as soon as you return home, a new email hits your inbox—like an atomic bomb.

"Sorry for not responding. I wanted you to be angry with me so you could move on. But I realize now that’s not the way to handle it. How about I send you one last, long email to freak you out? Also, let me know if there’s anything you need for your ending, so you can begin your next life."

Wait, what? My ending? My next life? Am I on the last stage of cancer? Has someone already arranged my funeral? The priest reads my eulogy, flowers are placed at my grave—“Rest in peace,” they say. wtf

Life feels so absurd, I almost choke on my own laughter after the tears dry up. It’s like the universe is playing a joke, dragging me back to the beginning for the 500th—no, the 1000th—time, just when I’m about to start my “next chapter.”

You know what? If the universe pulls you back five times, you still find the will to push forward. You might cry, get angry, and curse the universe, but you fight against it. However, by the 500th time, something changes. You begin to see relationships as an endless cycle, a kind of reincarnation. Life itself starts to feel like a sitcom. And if the universe insists on keeping you in this loop, you might as well find a bench, sit down, and get more comfortable.

The silver lining is that after being dragged back so many times, you’re no longer driven by extreme emotions. Instead of running, you settle in, observe, and start asking better questions. When you’ve been through something 500 times, patterns start to emerge—the central limit theorem kicks in. You notice patterns in yourself, in others, and in relationships.

Sure, I still cry, I still feel fear, pain, and all those so-called negative emotions. But now, my mind functions more rationally, even creatively. I feel like a general surveying the battlefield, mapping out the complex terrain of emotions, people, and connections.

What assumptions did I make that turned out to be wrong? What impressions of others have been confirmed or disproven? How has this relationship evolved over time? How have I evolved? What makes sense, and what doesn’t?

I feel like a curious scientist, dissecting a complex problem that spans philosophy, psychology, math, behavioral science, and scientific methodology. New insights and questions flow through me. How has this relationship, despite its dysfunctional setup, remained not just low toxicity but sometimes even playful? What is my mental model of a "good relationship," do they even hold true? How is it that I’ve grown indifferent to almost all external circumstances, yet remain focused?

And as I piece together another fragment of the puzzle, I finally fall asleep.

And I think it was hard on both of us. (Well, at least for me.) One processes the loss of her best friend, and one processes the complications of romance.

We treated each other with a lot of kindness, but I bet the triggers were still in the air, as both of us were in intimate relationships. This roommate complained a lot about them, and followed up with things like, “I will not be able to trust other people anymore,” “I cannot sleep with you because I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with friends anymore,” “No, no, no emotional manipulation here,” and “I felt like I was divorced.”

A lot of the time, I felt really worried because I felt that the pain my previous partner had caused others was propagating in this world. As a person who I was deeply connected with, of course, I empathized and understood where it came from, but seeing this kind stranger going through it was also unbearable.

It’s a sad but funny story. Her friendship breakup traumatized her so much that she is losing trust in people. But it’s also funny because she complained about them so much that sometimes I wonder if she was actually a real ex, and my memory is completely wrong. I think I should give her the title of “ex,” given the amount of pain she felt.

Her presence is triggering for me as well, because of the similarities among all of us—hyper-thoughtful and sensitive to other people’s emotions. I think I cannot unsee my ex in her, and I guess she might feel the same too. I don’t know.

One night, she gave me a secretive look and wanted to show me something very important. She took out a deck of profile photos in her wallet. Most were hers, but some were of people really close to her. I guessed the photos were a representation of those she deeply cherishes. When I flipped through her photos, I saw a few of her friends with hijabs, but on the last one, it was the photo of my ex.

When I saw it, I felt a bit nervous. Given her anger, I thought she might tear the photo apart. I didn’t dare to make a noise. But many thoughts were running through my mind. Should I give her scissors? Does she feel disgusted now?

Instead, she gently put all the photos together back in her wallet. In that moment, I felt a quiet ache within me. I witnessed the depth of her love, sustaining her even as she carried so much pain.

Or maybe that’s why she carried so much pain.

She shared with me stories of someone who had caused her great pain, a someone from her past who still lingers in her thoughts. As she spoke, I could see the rawness of her hurt, the way it clung to her words. Though she claimed she no longer cared about the relationship, I could sense the love that still flickered within her pain. She has given so much of herself—in the past through care, and in the presence through pain.

Pain is another form of her love.

Listening to her, my heart ached not only for her but also for the one who wounded her.

I knew my friend’s pain was real, for I had walked the same path, feeling the sting of indifference and the sharp edge of avoidance. It’s as if their actions cut deep, and they twisted the blade. I understand her anguish because I’ve been there. And I might still be there now.

But, I also felt pain for the person who hurt her. I felt the heavy burden they bear—the loneliness, the fear, the mistrust that has scarred them. They, too, have been hurt. I feel their pain, trapped in a prison of their own making, yearning to break free but unable to. They might have a even long time to suffer from their burden, and all the harm they’ve created.

I don’t know what to do, so I gave both of them a big warm hug in my mind.