In five years
Year 5
Year 5 was the hardest, maybe even the hardest of my entire life. It's also when I thought that, for sure, me and Seattle were over.
I doubt anybody believed me. "I'm thinking about moving back," was the line everyone—in Seattle and elsewhere—had heard from me year, after year, after year, after year.
But I believed me. I believed that this time was different. I was tired. Tired of pain, tired of pouring energy into things that didn't matter, tired of the ups and downs.
I actually decided to leave and put some real, concrete plans into motion. The person I often deceive the most, is myself.
One of the biggest lessons I've learned in my entire Seattle lifetime is that all good things in life require risk. To choose anything is to risk. Not all choices can be fixed, but I think all choices can be redeemed. What's the worst thing that can happen? Sometimes risk and freedom come in equal parts.
In the past year, I had worked up a steady rhythm of doing things I wanted to do, risky things that challenged my talents, my skills and my personality. I found things I loved doing and things I realized I hated but did anyway because I was scared about what other people would think.
That rhythm changed me. One random night, I went for a run by the water and noticed the downtown skyline, its neon colors reflected on the still lake shore waters. I laughed, because Seattle's skyline is tiny, but also because despite that, I noticed the strangest feeling: I actually like Seattle.
Which led to the following thought: I've never lived in Seattle while actively enjoying it. And if I held on to my current plans of leaving, I might not ever get the chance.
I had good reasons to move back to the Bay Area. Healthy reasons, even. I had family I really wanted to spend more time with. I wanted to scratch the itch of living in another part of the world. I honestly just wanted something new.
But some part of me really wanted to know what it'd look like to live in a city and enjoy it, when for so long I downright hated it. Really wanted to know. So I asked myself: What if I let myself do the thing I want to do? Why not give it a shot?
I was walking with a friend one afternoon, talking with him about my plans to potentially move back to the Bay Area and all the "What if's" that came with those plans.
"What do you think?" I asked him, not because I wanted his genuine opinion, but because I wanted to know that he wanted me to stay. That that would validate, again, like every time before, that I was worth having around.
"Well, I'm kind of biased," he said, obviously weary of swaying my decision. "But of course I don't want you to leave. I really like hanging out with you."
We walked for a few more steps before he added, "I think you've already decided though." He was right.
And so Year 6 of Seattle life begins with trepidation, nerves and lots of questions. There's a lot of hope, but there's definitely the feeling that this might be one of my biggest mistakes.
Because, really: What if I'm wrong about this?
I've decided that, you know what? It's okay if I'm wrong. I don't really know what I'm getting myself into; each year seems to be so different from the last. And I guess, that's the point. That's the adventure. That's what I live for.
And looking on the past years of my life, that really shouldn't come as a surprise by now.
Year 4
At some point, you're forced to admit that your life—in its current state—is broken.
Sometimes you're the problem. Which, is a hard truth to swallow. I don't mean that you're broken; I mean that sometimes you are the reason why things aren't what they could be—what they should be. Your life is broken simply because you let other people break it.
I think that's what happened to me.
There's a danger in deference, selflessness. It's a powerful, benevolent way of life that can be twisted and turned against you.
The truth is that sometimes, putting yourself first, is actually the right thing to do. Some call it self-care. Some call it chasing your dreams. I like to call it simply putting on your mask before helping others.
To be honest, I didn't know how to do that very well. So I just started trying random things that made me happy.
I changed jobs. Started going on random stupid weekend trips to god-forbidden places like Juneau, Alaska. Planned one-day international layovers in cities where friends were studying in seminary. Bought a keyboard and revived a 20-plus-year-old hobby of playing on the keys. Picked up new hobbies and bought a camera. Started cooking.
I also tried doing improv. That was a kick in the pants. I'm not sure there's anything more exhilarating, and frightening, then getting up on stage and not knowing what you're going to say in the next second or two.
In fact, that's what I told someone a day or two before I was going to put on a show. That my friends coming to watch me would be disappointed because frankly I suck at improv.
"Why are you so worried?" she asked me flatly. "They're going to have a good time regardless."
"They're paying money," I said. The show cost five bucks. Big deal. But I was worried anyway; worried that somehow whatever I showed up with wouldn't be worth their five bucks, or their time.
"Have you ever considered that they're not coming to get their five dollars worth?" She stared straight at me, knowing that her words were truth and that I'd have no good response. "Have you thought that, maybe they're actually just coming to see you do what makes you happy? And they don't care how good you are?"
No. No I hadn't.
I learned when you do care about yourself, sometimes good things happen. As you're floundering around and looking silly, sometimes people actually come back you up. Provide you with support. You discover that those are the people who care about you. Those are your friends.
Year 3
This is the biggest lie I was ever told: Hard work can get you anything.
Make no mistake, hard work, determination, persistence, resilience even, are core qualities you cannot live an adventurous, fulfilling life without.
But hard work cannot make people like you.
Everyone wants to be accepted. It's like some law of nature: put enough people into a group together, and a small subset will become known as "the cool kids"—an exclusive club determined by unknown rules that all others will strive to be a part of.
I'm a little worried about you, someone told me once when I moved to Seattle. You've moved around a lot. I'm not sure you'll really want to invest in community here.
I was offended, Shocked. And worst of all, I did not stand up for myself.
That person was one individual but it in essence was how I treated the city and everyone in it. I vowed to show them, to prove them wrong. I was determined to go to every event, sign up for every project, work more hours than anyone had seen.
Then they would know—everyone would know, that I am someone who is worth having around.
That I too, can be one of the cool kids.
I remember the moment when I felt like I won this person over. I remember every moment that I realize that "I made it." I'm one of the cool kids now. I'm in the club. The feeling is intense. It's joyous.
It's also hollow.
We all know how these kinds of stories end. The only person who truly cares about being in the club is yourself. It's unclear if "the club" actually even exists. But we assume it does and then we hit the days when the world seems to turn against us. And it's on those days you ask yourself the questions: Why did I work so hard? Why did I try so hard to prove anything to anyone?
Why put so much effort into something that doesn't care about me?
Year 2
I don't like the book "The Purpose-Driven Life." I've never read it. I still don't like it.
Not for any religious reasons, mind you. I don't like it because I can't tell anyone that I like to live my life with purpose, without someone calling into question the book.
Purpose, is important to me.
I don't like to do things without knowing why I am doing them. That doesn't mean I have to know the details—even something as mundane as "it'll be a good experience" is fine—it just means I gravitate towards the things that promise purpose, even on an overdramatic, grandiose perspective.
Year 2 of my Seattle life was hard. I found the city difficult to connect with; the culture, foreign, in a way I could never break through and understand.
And so I turned to whatever gave me purpose. I redoubled my efforts on whatever would give me some semblance of worth. I turned to social gatherings, family obligations, getting lost in work. I turned to the things that promised me that whatever I did would help "change the world."
Oh how I bought into that.
I'll never forget talking with a friend in my car in the wee hours of the morning. He was telling me about his life and how he was balancing his dreams of being a musician with just holding a job. It was earnest, though simple.
"I don't know man," he sighed towards the end. "What about you, how do you see things going?"
I told him about what I was doing and how those things were meaningful to me. That I was volunteering with some college students, dutifully visiting family, working on programs to lower high-school dropout rates.
"Wow, Dan," he said, clearly impressed and almost stunned. "See, you're doing all these cool things. I can totally see you as a leader."
I played it off sheepishly. It wasn't even the first time he gave me that sort of cheerleader treatment. There are days when I'm honestly used to being praised. I've unconsciously learned how to quietly, subtly, act like the humble guy when really I'm feeding off of all the good words people throw at me.
It powers me. It powers my ego. My story was also a lie.
All those things I did, they did serve their purpose, in providing me with purpose. For a time. But along with understanding how much I care about 'purpose', those things also taught me that misplacing your faith in something like obligation, societal expectations, and even work, can be a grave mistake.
"Changing the world" is often a kind of myth. It's absolutely possible to change the world. We all can do it, right in front of us everyday. Most of us don't. Because the world in front of us is too small, too insignificant, and it's not what everyone else tells us "the world" is. Because those other people matter. For me, the truth is I'm actually too busy chasing fame, covered in the veneer of world change.
Year 1
It had been for four years. For four years I hadn't lived in a single place for more than 12 months. San Diego. Some small town in mainland China. Hong Kong. Taipei. Chicago. DC for three days. Hong Kong again. And four years later, I decided it was time to move back to be closer to my family. My parents were getting older. My first nephew was about to be born. It was time.
Seattle was closer to home than Chicago was, and on those grounds Hong Kong had zero chance. It wouldn't be an easy adjustment, I knew. I had no family there. No friends. And I'm not sure I would have had it any other way. Because when everything is new, everything that doesn't make sense is just a puzzle to figure out.
Plus, "I got a job in Seattle," I remember telling one friend in particular, although it really could have been anyone.
"Congratulations!" he said, face brimming. "Seattle though, huh? You're such a jet-setter."
Everything was daze in the weeks leading up to my move. I bought a bunch of random small things—a printer, a water filter, some new clothes that I could wear to my new job—stuff that I thought I'd need to live in the States again. It was exciting, because I was planning on living and working in the country I was born in. It would be new, it would be fresh.
I saw my newborn nephew as often as his new parents would let me. I called up all my friends and hung out with them as often as our schedules allowed. We celebrated quick reunions, lamented goodbyes, and talked about our plans to catch up in the future.
And as quickly as I had arrived in the Bay Area, I was off to Seattle.
"Man, I'm gonna miss you," the same friend told me the day before I left. "You're probably gonna meet a girl up there, get hitched and never move back."
I laughed. "I'd doubt it."
"You think this is long term?" he asked about my move to Seattle.
I thought about it. For the past four years, nothing was ever long term. Before that it was four years of college. It'd been at least eight years since I lived close to my family. I always felt like it would be a step backwards to not keep moving forward. And so even if forward meant Seattle, history seemed to suggest that my direction would change again fairly soon. After all, that's the kind of adventure I knew. The only kind, really.
I turned to my friend and said: "Probably not."