During my summer trip home to the US, I crashed at a friend’s place in South Philly. “Susan, I never realized this about you before…but you have such a chaotic energy.” I laughed out loud, finding the term simultaneously amusing, endearing, and probably true at (many) times.

I like to think that I thrive on chaos, a life where I’m headed either nowhere or everywhere, usually ending up somewhere in between. It was particularly true this summer, as I tried to squeeze in 2.5 years’ worth of life into 2.5 months. Hop on a flight every week, bouncing between reunions & weddings & graduations & a billion babies. Schedule work calls across odd hours in constantly changing timezones (“Which continent are you on now?”). Squeeze in overdue catchups with friends between work retreats and trainings. Change plans last minute to fit in extra cities and a newborn. Lug around a broken suitcase and lose a charger, multiple earrings, and a Fitbit. Fly back to Taipei and find an apartment within three days of getting out of quarantine.

The chaos was out of control. I hated the days it threatened to slow down, days that should have felt peaceful as I worked uninterrupted out of my parents’ suburban home. Without it, I felt stuck and bored and lost, all of which bothered me far more than the exhaustion that comes otherwise. But I’ve also been reflecting a lot on how to get this under control, how to tame the randomness that is my life, the unquenchable thirst for novelty, the relentless pursuit of friends, the inexplicable need to fill every single minute.

I’ve been back in Taipei for exactly six weeks now, but I have no idea where the time has gone. I do not like this. I came back declaring that I was going to become an introvert (insert 个屁啦 here) in an attempt to be more disciplined about my time, but that has definitely failed – just like every other time I’ve attempted this.

It feels like the more I try to fill my time, the less I feel that I’ve done; that I may certainly be living in the moment but I’m not sure that I am living the moment. To live the moment, I have to understand what the moment is; how beautiful this day, how dear this friendship, how precious this moment. To live the moment, I have to understand what I’m giving up for it; I can’t just live in it and the next it and then the next next it until I’ve realized too late that I didn’t fully appreciate each of these “its” for what they were.

So that is the cost of chaos: for every time someone has told me that my life seems fun, busy, full, exciting, adventurous – it is, and yet I’m insatiable. I’m sprinting through the buffet of life without taking enough moments to savor and digest, which makes all of this feel almost…meaningless. Fun is easy. Laughter is easy. Hedonism is easy. Purpose is hard. But if I were to take a guess for myself, it is not fun, laughter, nor happiness that I’m pursuing with my chaos. It’s purpose – meaning and depth; how to make this life count; how to love hard and lose harder; how to look back at these moments that make up months and years and be proud of how I’ve spent my time.

My trip home this summer made me more confused than ever about where my future is, which makes time feel scarcer than ever, not just in the every day, but in the now and later. I can’t quite figure out to live in the present while planning for the future (is it possible to do both?), how to spend enough time appreciating the past while pursuing novelty, always. I want to live the moment properly, during it, before it, after it, to make sense of the chaos and how it all fits into the big picture of my life.

I like my chaotic energy. I like my life and its randomness, spontaneity, unpredictability. I do think I’m living my life to the fullest with the highs and the lows, the many incredible and beautiful and heartbreaking and breathtaking moments that I have had. But full is not enough; it can be full of junk, or be a fleeting full, a full that gets forgotten precisely because it’s not of quality. So here I am again, alone in a cafe on a Sunday night, finishing a reflection that is six weeks overdue – but, I think, one step closer to where I want my life to be…even in the chaos.

I forget how, but I came across this writing prompt last week for Mandarin speakers / bilingual people about the word 疼：

“Consider the word 疼 (Mandarin pronunciation: téng), how it can mean “to feel (physically) hurt, “to be sore,” or “to love fiercely and dearly.” When has someone in your life said that they 疼 you? What was the occasion for this saying, this sharing? 我疼你—did this utterance feel similar to someone saying 我愛你 or “I love you”? Or did it feel different? Different how so?”

I thought that this was a beautiful prompt. I can’t think of a time anyone has ever said that they 疼 me, but I’ve felt it many, many, many times; it’s so familiar that I can instantly recall the exact moments when I’ve felt it. Like many Asian kids, I rarely heard “I love you” growing up, and I rarely say it now, finding it awkward and weird and uncomfortable. For some reason, I feel like “I love you” doesn’t do justice to what I really want to convey, which is really “I love you so hard that it hurts,” and that’s where 疼 is perfect.

I once wrote a letter to my grandma the day before I was leaving Shenyang again. Using the shitty Chinese I’d cobbled together from years of Sunday Chinese School and rewatching 流星花园 for the billionth time, I tried to express how much I loved her. “我不想走,” I wrote, “我不想离开你. 我每天想陪着你.” (I’d learned 陪 from 流星雨, obviously). I tried so hard to express in my non-native tongue that there was no one in the world I loved more than her, and I left it by her pillow so she could find it after I’d left.

She had, of course, read it by the time I’d landed back in Chicago. “然然啊, 姥姥看到你写的信了,” she started, and then her voice broke at the exact same time as my heart, both of us missing the other so hard across the ocean that the pain was palpable. “姥姥想你,” she’d manage to squeeze out, and I could only grunt in return, afraid that she’d hear me crying, even though I knew she knew. This was 疼, manifested; “to love fiercely and dearly,” and even though my grandmother and I have never told each other “I love you,” I have never wondered, because my heart hurt, and that is how I knew.

This is why I find the Chinese language so beautiful: I love these words and phrases that convey a million feelings in one, that define a depth that I struggle to capture in English, even though I’m much more fluent in the latter. It’s because one word might be positive or negative but also both; concise characters packed with meaning lived by thousands of years of humans. English is the language of my head; I use it to describe and explain and summarize; I am by far a better speaker and writer in English. But especially throughout this past (almost) year in Taiwan, I have realized: Chinese is the language of my heart. It’s where my thoughts and feelings are expressed most purely, as if I were a child, but with the layers of nuance that come from a life thoroughly lived.

I’ve struggled with language since moving to Taiwan, especially when it comes to work, because I just sound less eloquent and less smart in Chinese, an inconvenient handicap especially when it comes to client work. I hate social situations where I have to choose between being annoying (“What’s 甘拜下風?”) or being awkward (because I just can’t understand the conversation). Despite this, I genuinely love learning more Chinese, and I’ve found a whole new love language in the form of friends who know me well enough to know which words I won’t know (and auto-translate without me even asking. You are the true MVPs).

But tonight, after reflecting on 疼, I feel quite differently. As I sit here listening to all the Mandopop songs playing in this neighborhood craft beer bar, I understand better why I love listening to Taiwanese artists, and why I love going to KTV to sing Chinese songs: it’s because I literally feel more in Mandarin. Words like 疼 pull my heartstrings viscerally; the language of my childhood, the language of my family, the language of love. And while this isn’t enough to optimize my professional experience, it is exactly enough for my personal experience: every day that I prance around saying little things like “开心” or “怎么办“ or even “不要!!!”, I feel so genuinely, inexplicably me.

I rarely say “I love you,” and I’m not sure that I’ll ever say “我爱你” – Chinese or not, I personally find explicitly expressing this to be somehow lacking. But I’m so grateful for Chinese words like 疼 and others like it that help me to perfectly encapsulate this feeling, to express a love that’s powerful and pure and maybe even painful. And right on cue, as I finish this post, 刻在我心低的名字 just came on here in the bar – an excellent way, I think, to wrap up love in the language of my heart.

When I started writing this post a few weekends ago, I thought it was going to be about overconfidence. I jotted down thoughts about underestimating the challenges that come with moving to a foreign country, starting a new job, and living alone – in fact, I haven’t lived alone in years, now that I think about it. Despite implications of arrogance or lack of self-awareness, I still felt like overconfidence just sounded better than what I was really feeling, which was insecurity. The former carries an air of self-assurance, after all; the latter sounds a little bit sadder, maybe weaker.

It’s easier to humblebrag when you’re writing about overconfidence: “I’ve done this a million times before, moving to a new country; I know the drill, even if this time is a little different.” I could frame it as ambitiously attempting to adjust to so many things at once, of wanting to do everything well and doing well NOW. I wanted to build a meaningful community, to excel at work, to improve my Chinese; to finish editing my book, to get involved in education, to meet the alumni communities here; to fully explore Taiwan, to deeply reflect internally – I still want all this and so much more, and I want them all done well. But as I reflected on my struggles over the past couple of months, it became clear to me that the barrier in front of me wasn’t overconfidence; but its opposite: my projected overconfidence served only to buffer my internalized insecurity, and I was stuck.

“Of course you feel insecure here,” my therapist reminded me gently. “You have no 安全感. You’re far away from your family and friends, from anyone who really deeply knows you. You just moved here, and you’re a foreigner – feeling out of place is completely expected.” I often forgot this; in my eagerness to embrace my new home, through the whirlwind of falling in love with Taiwan, I almost expected myself to feel immediately at ease, as if I too was from here and had come back “home.”

I liked this idea, an illusion of successful integration, a seamless transition: even though I was new here, I wanted it to be a perfect, easy fit. On a basic level, I understood the culture and the language. On weekends, I adapted to a new city, new friends, new systems; on weekdays, I navigated a new role, new colleagues, new ways of working. But reality set in quickly: I wasn’t adjusting nearly as quickly as I wanted to be, nor nearly as well as I thought I would.

As the weeks flew by, I felt it more acutely: the growing insecurity gnawed away at me. The gap between where I wanted to be and where I actually was grew so quickly that it was swallowing me up right up, sucking me into a quicksand of negativity that I couldn’t pull myself out of. I was used to feeling likable, and interesting, capable and successful, but for some reason, I couldn’t see it in Taiwan. I wasn’t prepared for how easily I might feel like an outsider in Taipei, and I started doubting my ability to build strong relationships. I wasn’t expecting the mental exhaustion of keeping up with Chinese conversations nor the Taiwanese slang that peppered them, and I started doubting my ability to effectively communicate. I wasn’t ready for the level of humility required to genuinely learn in a new workplace environment, and I started doubting my ability to succeed, period.

They say to fake it till you make it, but what you don’t make it, I began to wonder. What if you’re just faking it until you break it – what are you left with then? Would this have been been worth it?

I spent sleepless nights wondering how the heck I got here. “You have such high expectations,” my teammate gently reminded me, “because the opportunity cost of your being here is so high.” Without exaggeration, I have cried every single week since I’ve moved to Taipei – always for different reasons, but always coming back to the same root: I felt so damn insecure here. I wanted the security of feeling that I was loved and understood and accepted, and I didn’t understand what I was doing so wrong that I couldn’t find this.

Last week, I decided to go alone to Jiufen, impulsively booking an Airbnb for later that same night. “I want to find the self that I was when I moved here,” I announced to my therapist, who seemed mildly alarmed when I informed her that I was rushing to catch the last bus to Jiufen after our session. Then, she smiled. “You know, I’m really moved to hear you say that. You live life so earnestly.” 你很認真的在生活. And in Jiufen, I felt it again: a glimpse of who I knew myself to be, the person I’d lost sight of over the last few months. As I soaked in the mountain and sea and lots of tea, I reflected on being kinder to myself, on the expectations I had for adjusting to a new place and new job. On how quickly I blamed myself for being insecure when I was just seeking the basic human desires to belong, to be liked, to feel useful, to feel like I mattered.

I was trying too hard, I realized, to fight the insecurity. The more I talked to my friends and recharged, the more I regained my confidence, and yet I recognized the strange reality: my confidence and insecurity were not, in fact, at odds with each other. Neither was a reflection on my identity, and both could coexist in the same world; feeling insecure adjusting to a new life in Taiwan didn’t mean I had to lose confidence in who I’ve become as a person. I spent time in Jiufen resetting, feeling more and more like myself again, remembering that there was so much more than whatever was making me feel smaller and smaller in these past few months here.

So here’s to giving myself – ourselves! – space and grace, on continuously learning without feeling like I’m failing. I’m excited to finish up the year strong here in Taiwan, with both confidence and an acceptance of the insecurities that come with moving to a new country, adjusting to a new job, and building a new community. Thank you for following along on the journey!

In just another few weeks, I’ll be hitting my six month mark here in Taiwan. Somehow, it feels both like I just got here and like I’ve been here forever. That’s one of the things I’ve loved most about being here: the coexistence of novelty and familiarity has made settling in here feel different from the other times I’ve moved. I get to wonder and wander while feeling comfortable and confident, Youbiking down random streets in the middle of the night fearing only the omnipresent scurrying cockroaches.

Yet this year, more than ever before, I have wondered to myself: did I make the right choice? During the loneliest parts of Taiwan’s Level 3 lockdown, when my heart hurt from missing my family and friends so badly, when my mind filled with dread as I faced yet another day of isolation, I asked myself this over and over. I’d hang up Facetimes and Zoom calls and burst into tears, feeling even more alone in the echoes of a silent apartment. It felt like nobody got it, understood how it felt, that I was not only alone in a lockdown but alone in a lockdown in a new city; that I hadn’t seen anyone who loved me in so damned long.

The thing was, I didn’t quite know why I was here.

I only knew that I had no one to blame but myself for randomly moving to a new place with no real reason. It wasn’t like New York, which seemed to be the logical place to start a finance career; it wasn’t like Shanghai or Hong Kong, which both had one-year expiration periods; it wasn’t like Chicago, which had people I loved; it wasn’t like Singapore, which served as a stepping stone to the life I thought I wanted. Each of those moves had either a purpose or an expiration date or both; this move, I realized, had neither.

I could create both, of course. Whenever people ask me “Why Taiwan?” – which is all the time – I’m armed with a standard set of answers, some combination of job and food and culture and my Japan + China background. And it’s not that these things aren’t true; but the question was whether these reasons were good enough to warrant this move, or rather, since I’m already here, the permanence of this move. “Why did I do this to myself?” I’d question, “Why did I choose to start over, in a new city, again?”

It dawned on me that I have always taken moving for granted. This is the tenth move of my life, the the sixth of my adult life, my third country in the last three years; recency bias has all but guaranteed that I associate every move as a net positive – moving is fun, not hard. I’ve taken it for granted that adventure (exciting) outweighs stability (boring), that family can be visited during holidays, that community is easily built with an extraverted personality. But the stakes are different now: with COVID, and also with age, for the first time, much of what I took for granted has been taken away. When I hugged my family goodbye at O’Hare in December 2019, I never imagined that I might not see them again for two years. When I stepped out in Taiwan after quarantining in March 2021, I never imagined that, just six weeks later, the entire island would be locking down for two months before I’d get a chance to build a community.

In a COVID world where the things that fuel me became inaccessible – family and friends, adventure and activity, mobility – I sincerely wondered: was this worth it?

So when I think about this move to Taipei, I still can’t quite answer “why,” nor whether it is the right choice or not. But it is the choice that I made; it’s perhaps gratuitous to wonder about right or wrong or what-if and could-be. Instead, I’m driven to treasure this move more, especially now that things are returning to normalcy here in Taiwan. I find myself going through the familiar motions of building a community, meeting new people, settling into work, trying new restaurants, exploring new neighborhoods, even traveling again – and yet there is a family I still miss, friends I still haven’t seen, a world I left behind in order to pursue this new one. There was a cost to this move, a cost that has perhaps been there in all other moves but that I had neglected to acknowledge; it is this cost that makes this a valuable, precious, meaningful decision.

When I first moved to Taiwan, I wrote, “I hope I never stop marveling at how a city I’ve never known can have so many traces of places I have called home.” These days, this marvel has returned alongside post-lockdown normalcy; I find myself smiling for no reason as I walk along the streets of Taipei, grateful to be in this city, with these people, even at this time. I hope this continues to hold true, that I remember I am in this new place not in spite of my past but because of it. I hope I find peace in Taipei even though I may have come without a reason nor an expiration date. I hope that this city I honestly already adore becomes the new place that I can wholeheartedly call home. I hope that when I reflect back few years from now, I will be able to say: this was worth it.

I spent 40 days backpacking around the island of Taiwan while it was still a virus-free bubble, often completely forgetting about the pandemic’s existence as I roamed around one of the world’s “COVID success stories.” In an ironic turn of events, COVID cases “exploded” in Taiwan just a few days after I arrived back home in Taipei (note: “exploded” is relative; for reference, Taiwan is averaging ~300 cases/day for a population of ~25MM vs. Chicago’s now ~300 cases/day for a population of ~2.5MM, although we are woefully unvaccinated over here).

Taipei entered into Level 3 of COVID restrictions on the same day I scrambled to move into my new apartment. As I loaded up my shopping cart with new cleaning supplies, basic cooking goods, and ONE PACKAGE of toilet paper, I observed the empty shelves of instant noodle section and grimly acknowledged the familiar sensation of impending gloom. It was only a year ago, after all, that we were in the midst of Singapore’s Circuit Breaker, and I could feel that same anxiety in the air. “But,” I thought cheerily, “if I can make it through Circuit Breaker, I can make it through this!” I proceeded to the cash register, unnecessarily explaining to the uninterested cashier that I wasn’t hoarding, and that I just happened to be moving today, and therefore needed to buy all this stuff for my new apartment.

At that time, I hadn’t even been back in Taipei for a week, but it already felt like I had never gone on the adventure around the island. And now that it’s been nearly three weeks, and we’ve been on semi-lockdown for two, and I’ve even gotten a couple of days of the new job under my belt…it really feels like that entire time was a dream. Yet in a strange way, it feels like the trip ended up preparing me for this new period of time at home, one where I’m really feeling the weight of being alone in a new city during a lockdown. The truth is that making it through this is nothing like making it through Singapore’s Circuit Breaker: last time, I had flatmates in the apartment and friends in the city; this time, I am living alone and had barely begun to meet people before we were asked to stay home. Last time, I had at least seen my family a few months ago; this time, I am running on 18 months and counting of not having seen any family or friends from back home.

As I tried to figure out how to deal with this mentally and emotionally, I found myself drawing back on the experiences I had during my travels:

• In Taipei and Taichung, I repeatedly marveled at how quickly Taiwan felt like home to me. For a place I’ve never lived in, it sure feels nostalgic: there is so much physical and cultural history left behind that remind me of my Japanese childhood and Chinese heritage. I see it especially in the big cities here, and I’m grateful for how quickly it became comfortable to be here. It was almost instantaneous, so much so, in fact, that I’ve felt guilty a few times for barely missing Singapore, like this new, shiny home quickly replaced the one that I’d grown so fond of. The fact that Taipei already feels like home makes it that much easier to get through this time, because I don’t feel like I have to deal with the typical challenges of living in a foreign place.

• In Xiao Liuqiu, I learned, through my freediving class, to become so much more aware of my mind and my body. There’s an immense feeling of satisfaction in physically accomplishing something that mentally seemed impossible. I didn’t think I could hold my breath for two minutes within a few tries; I didn’t think I could do a 20 meter dive within a few days. And yet with the right coaching + support, I was able to up my mental game to a point where I could do both of those things, which in turn has given me confidence that my mind is a lot stronger than I think. This has been incredibly helpful in lockdown and I’m now a lot more intentional about setting apart space to mentally reset and physically stay active.

• On Green Island, I probably felt the loneliest I had felt in the entire trip. I felt tiny on this empty island of looming volcanic mountains and crashing ocean waves, devoid of tourists because of the passing typhoon. And yet as I scootered around listening to sad songs and maybe shedding a tear or two or a lot, I also allowed myself to recognize that I was actually brave. I was brave for embarking on this trip of unknowns by myself for over a month, and I am brave for embarking on this new life in Taipei. I’m proud of myself for moving to a new city where I knew no one; for signing an apartment lease in Chinese; for braving another lockdown by myself; for facing the loneliness head-on. Where it had seemed to prideful to think this way before, Green Island helped me to embrace these notions of pride and courage.

• In Miaoli and Chiayi and Kenting and Lanyu, I connected with people. I kicked off the trip with a friend-of-a-friend who drove us from Taoyuan to Miaoli, the first leg of my trip. In Kenting, I met another friend-of-a-friend, and we spent a week surfing and laughing and wondering what crazy antics our surf host was up to next. In Chiayi and Lanyu, I made connections purely by chance: a woman at a bar who had also lived in NYC; a man also at a bar who was headed to my same hostel; a pair of colleagues who helped me make my way back to the mainland; a pair of American friends who were also based in Taipei. In the first few weeks of this lockdown, despite mostly being based outside Taipei, these unexpected connections sent me news, offered to send masks, called to check in. I am impatient to begin building a community of friends here in Taipei, but these connections – despite the current restrictions – already remind me that even now, I’m not completely alone.

• In general, I adopted more flexibility. A personal challenge for this trip was to not book everything ahead of time, but to allow myself to be more unplanned; stay longer there, leave earlier here (except I didn’t actually leave anywhere earlier). On each of the three islands – Xiao Liuqiu, Green Island, and Lanyu – I extended my stay. I hitchhiked for the first time, growing comfortable with not having a planned-out way to get to where I needed to go, and maybe I didn’t even need to go there anyway. My days became unstructured (this will likely lead to a rude awakening now that I’ve started work), but all that to say: even in this time of uncertainty about when Level 3 restrictions will end, it’s easier to accept the unknown and roll with the punches. The impatience is still there, yes, but there’s no stress; annoyance, but no anxiety. Spending so much of my trip on island / beach time forced me to slow down and relax and trust that things really do tend to just work out.

Most of all, though, I’m grateful that I had this entire experience before COVID burst Taiwan’s beautiful safety bubble. Even with 40 days, I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface of the natural wonders that Taiwan has to offer, and I loved spending so much time in the ocean – I was probably in the water for a third of the trip, with the saltiest hair and now-fading tan to show for it. I know that I’ve only had a taste of the many, many, delicious foods here on this island, and that I am in no rush to taste them all because I’ll be here for a while. And the best part of all – there will be so, so, so many good conversations to come, and with them, good people. I had a blast chatting up bartenders and coffeeshop owners and dive / surf / kayak instructors and fellow travelers and Uber drivers and B&B hosts and turtle owners and all kinds of people. I loved getting out of the world I’m so used to living in, challenging my own definitions of success as we compared notes on our life goals. For all the lonely lows I had, there were also the many, many, many highs. This was the longest time I’ve ever traveled solo, and it was more fulfilling and rejuvenating than I ever could have imagined.

Thank you again for following along on the trip! In my lonely lows, I also really appreciated the encouraging messages that reminded me that my loved ones might not be here, but they sure are out there somewhere. Below is a map of all the stops that I made – you want to see more trip details, city-by-city photos and summaries are on my Instagram!

I left Taipei for this solo round-the-island trip about 20 days ago, which means that tomorrow, I will have been on the road for exactly three weeks. I roughly sketched (well, Excel-ed) out a 35-day itinerary, vowing not to arrange everything upfront but to leave room for spontaneity. As such, I’ve been booking accommodation a stop or two before I head over, which has allowed me to add days where I feel like it. My planned 35-day trip will probably be something more like a 40ish day trip, which makes today halfwayish.

Some context: I moved to Taipei in March because my work visa stipulated I had to enter by March 14th. Since I don’t start my new job until the end of May, I decided to get to know Taiwan a little better (I’ve previously visited in the spring / fall of 2015 to Taipei / Kaohsiung). It’s a “thing” to do the round-the-island trip in Taiwan, although the most legit way to do it is (in my opinion) via cycling. I am neither in good enough shape nor have the mental motivation to cycle 100+km / day for two weeks, and I am not good enough at riding a scooter to do that either…so I’ve been mostly taking trains (and boats where needed) to get around.

Travelling alone gives you so much – arguably too much – time to think and to feel. I’ve been trying to be as honest as possible on my Instagram trip updates, sharing not only pretty snapshots but also the ups and downs that I’ve encountered along the way. Now that I’ve been travelling for three weeks, though, I’ve noticed some recurring emotions, and so for this post, I want to dig into some of these, rather than record a stop-by-stop description of my itinerary.

1. Fear. I’m really not used to feeling the sensation of fear. I’m not talking about these mental battles we have like fear of failure or fear of awkwardness, but rather immediate fear for my physical safety. I’m not sure if it’s because I just got out of the Singapore safety bubble, but there have been several times on this trip that I’ve felt the kind of fear where my heart races and the hairs on my neck prickle and I’m hypervigilant, relieved only after I’m out of the danger zone. I’ve been chased by aggressive stray dogs more than once; when they’re barking and sprinting after you, it is terrifying – I’ve never felt so lucky to be able to zoom away on a two-wheeled vehicle. I’ve also been scootering along on pitch-black roads, where the only light is that of my ride. As a female traveling alone, I worried that a bear or a rapist or both would jump out from the shadows, relaxing only when another vehicle came in sight, or a street lamp finally reappeared. Even though Taiwan is incredibly safe, it’s hard to shake that feeling of being scared that if something happened to me, I would be alone. I am sure that a lot of this fear is exaggerated because I’m traveling by myself; even as I marveled at a Jurassic Park-esque landscape on the volcanic Green Island (not a single other soul was around), I dryly thought to myself that if a volcano really erupted right then and there, I would die quite literally alone. I’m also more afraid of the ocean when I’m solo; even snorkeling, I became a lot more risk-averse in venturing too far out when there were no other humans around, afraid that a shark or a strong wave would pull me into the ocean nethers.

2. Loneliness. Dear God, I hate feeling lonely. Earlier this week, I actually had a moment where I considered ending this whole trip early and heading back to Taipei. The problem was, I realized, that even if I returned to Taipei, I didn’t have anyone to really go back to. I haven’t seen any family in over a year (almost 18 months), and I haven’t seen any close friends in over a month (since I left Singapore in March). I don’t mind solitude at times and have recently gotten into a hotpot + podcast habit, but around the two-week mark, I started feeling lonely more frequently. Similar to the start of the MBA, I am constantly meeting people, which is both exhilarating and exhausting. I genuinely love conversations with the food stall owners and shopkeepers, but they’re almost always one-offs. And in places I’ve stayed a bit longer, I’ve felt a surprising amount of insecurity and social anxiety – which, similar to fear, I’m quite frankly not used to feeling. Recently, I’ve left places wondering whether I was annoying or boring or both, struggling to accept that relationship-building didn’t flow quite as easily as it normally does. I’m understanding more and more why people tend to stick to similar people, and yet I refuse to accept that this is how I should operate, no matter how awkward it feels. Despite feeling utterly out of place as a goody two-shoes white-collar American hanging with carefree chain-smoking tattooed SCUBA instructors this week – exacerbated by the language barrier of local Taiwanese – I forced myself to sit with the discomfort of feeling lonely and potentially even rejected. It almost feels lonelier when you’re surrounded by people who pay you no heed. I just wanted to show that I was fun and interesting and not a weirdo lame freak, but I’m pretty sure I failed. I miss my family and my friends.

3. Awe. Everywhere I go, I keep stopping in my tracks. In fact, I annoy myself with how often I want to stop to take photos, which (unsurprisingly) never even come close to doing justice to the scenes I’ve seen. In the mainland cities, it’s been a lot of marvel at how familiar the streets feel, like the ones I used to run through as a little girl in Yokohama, Japan. I am shocked at how familiar Taiwan has felt already despite my barely having spent time here, but it makes complete sense that it does due to the island’s history. Out on Taiwan’s islands (lol islandception), I’ve been gaping at the insane scenery, both on land and underwater. Every time I’d round a corner on the islands (which is a lot, since the roads tend to wind around the mountainous islands), I would laugh out loud in disbelief at how stunning some of these sights were. Several times, I have said aloud to myself: “This place is not real.” The deep green mountains and azure ocean waters have been absolutely gorgeous, as are the rock formations. Underwater, I have been amazed by the sea turtles flapping their arms calmly, unfazed at me swimming alongside them. Same for the fish, some of whom were mean and territorial and bit me (although, to be fair, I was in their territory). And the underwater sun rays that beam in a perfectly visible crown, so clear that I kept putting my hand out to try and grab them between dives. I love feeling in awe; it feels like the world is so big and full of beauty and wonder and it is the perfect combination of surprise and pleasure, a feast for the eyes.

4. Gratitude. Last week, I was kindly reminded that “Not all of us are on a month-long vacation,” which is completely right (well, kind of. Technically, I’ve been free since like, mid-December, so this will really be almost a six-month long vacation by the time I start in May). But seriously, it is not lost on me how incredible it is that I have this swath of time to not just travel but to do whatever I feel like doing. In the first few months of this year, I finished the first draft of my book project (37,000 words!) which I have become woefully behind on editing due to my travels. Not once have I felt that I have been bored, in Singapore or here in Taiwan; instead, I try to make the most out of each day, even in the most mundane ways, knowing that this chapter will soon come to an end. I’m thankful that my new job is in a place that has handled COVID the best out of any other place in the world, which is the reason I can travel freely without guilt. I’m thankful to be in these interesting and beautiful places, meeting interesting and beautiful people. I’m thankful that I learned about investing back when I started my first job and have, for the most part, managed to avoid lifestyle creep, which is how I’m able to use savings to fund my travels. I’m thankful that I get to have all these experiences in these new locations, even the fear and the loneliness but especially the awe. Research shows that those who are happy are also those who are grateful, and I feel lucky that I’m constantly surrounded by things to be grateful for. I’m especially thankful for my family and friends whom I love enough to miss, who are quick to suggest a phone call (or, in some cases, drunkenly call), always reminding me that even if they aren’t here, there are people out there who do not think I’m a weirdo lame freak.

While all of the above emotions can be felt while traveling with others, I’m a staunch believer that it is only through moments alone that you can begin to feel the full magnitude of fear, and loneliness, and awe, and gratitude. There’s a certain gravitas that is difficult to squeeze out when you’re sharing the travel experience with others, an uninterrupted solemnness that makes life feel somehow fulfilling, wondrous, meaningful. Off course, traveling with friends comes with its own set of beautiful moments that are impossible to have when you’re alone. For example, I have also thought to myself several times that I wished I could share the beauty, or the tastes, or the smells, or the sensations of this trip with those that I love.

This is not the first time that I have travelled alone, but it is by far the longest. Next week, I’ll be meeting up with a friend, so I’m looking forward to a break from the solitude before finishing up the last leg of the trip. It’s already been an incredible ride, and I’m excited to make the most of the remainder of my solo travels – and see what else I learn on the way!

Let me just start with this: when there are days you want to just hide away from the world, it’s wonderful to be under quarantine in a hotel room that you’re not allowed to leave.

It reminds me of when I worked in Shanghai, where I felt like I hid away for not just a day but almost an entire year. I was so carefree and happy; my biggest worry was that my life was too hedonistic, as if the burdens of the world didn’t exist, leaving me free to pursue pure pleasures like food and travel. But it was true, certain burdens of the world didn’t exist for me in Shanghai: for example, I was free from the concept of race.

When I left in 2015, I reflected on my time in Shanghai:

“…for the first time in my adult life, I also forgot about “race”. Isn’t that funny? I went to a place where everyone looked like me, where I suddenly was no longer a “minority”…and I completely stopped thinking about racial stereotypes…It’s hard to explain, but at times I feel like it’s difficult in the US to feel totally American – for example, why “Asian-Americans” and “African-Americans” who have been in the US for generations are still labeled with the Asian/African hyphens, but white Americans don’t get hyphenated into “European-Americans” unless they’ve just recently immigrated? This was the type of question I was honestly glad to be away from (even though I know can’t be avoided forever).”

As the 24-year-old Susan noted, it was indeed impossible to avoid these questions forever.

People often ask me why I want to be in Asia, especially now that I’ve moved to Taiwan for a full-time job even after school ended in Singapore. My answer varies depending on how serious of a conversation I want to get into: if I’m feeling lazy, I just say, “Food, duh,” but when I’m feeling a little more candid, I give a different reason. “I’m so much more comfortable when I’m in Asia,” I explain, “Because I don’t have to explain as much. I never feel inferior just because I’m not white. But in the US, I feel like no matter how good my English is, I can’t trust that I’ll always be seen as ‘equal’ or ‘normal’ or even ‘American.'”

This is, of course, due to a lifetime of conditioning.

I grew up being warned by my parents, when certain events transpired, to never forget that I was not “the same.” At the time, I brushed it off; “No one’s racist anymore,” I’d roll my eyes, “Look at my friends! And my teachers! I fit right in with everyone.” My parents would sigh at my stubborn idealism, knowing better than to continue their futile attempts to warn me against the pains they could not shield me from.

But even as I said this, deep down, I knew something was off.

I could tell in the way I tried to hide my food, reaching into the brown paper lunch bag that looked just like everyone else’s on the outside, sneaking pieces of sushi rolls one by one straight into my mouth so that I wouldn’t have to take it out in its entirety. I was afraid of people asking questions, of giving friends another reason to call me “so Asian,” even innocently, because it meant that I was different, that I didn’t fit in.

I could tell in the way I tried to make sure I had friends who were not just Asian but all the other races, an intentional diversification of my friend portfolio, a habit I still haven’t quite shaken off. I was afraid of being associated in a group that was all Asians, of people pointing us out like some nameless homogenous entity that held only broad stereotypes and no individual traits. Despite my efforts, I of course still hung out with my Asian friends, but when I did, I always worried about whether others were thinking in their head: “There are the Asians.”

I didn’t want to stand out, and I didn’t want to blend in.

This, I realized, was because I would be standing out or blending in for the wrong reasons. It was because I wanted to be seen as an individual, known as a person, understood as a soul. Any generic association with the term “Asian” was a direct threat to my identity, and a potentially ‘inferior’ one at that: even though they called us the “model minority,” I knew that no one was modeling themselves after us. Except ourselves.

In 2016, I moved back to Chicago and wondered, as I walked around with my white then-boyfriend, whether people saw me as another stereotypical Asian girl dating a white guy – because, if I’m being honest, I looked at other similar pairs and thought that too. In 2017, I grew frustrated when a friend told me she didn’t want to go out for Korean food because she’d had Thai the previous day, as if all Asian foods were the same (“They’re so different,” I fumed, “It’s like saying you can’t have pizza today because you had pasta the night before. But worse!”) In 2018, I was walking in Chicago’s Chinatown when a man taunted me with “Ni Hao”, and, just like every other time, I just played deaf instead of addressing it head-on because I was scared. In 2019, I grimaced as a horrible hookup experience consisted of the guy smiling at me, “Since you were born in Japan, you must be obedient, like a geisha.” In 2020, I realized that even at an international business school, subtle divides in culture and race were unavoidable, and ugly. I heard, months down the road, that in some ways, I was stuck in an impossible impasse – some classmates assumed they’d have nothing in common with the Asian students (“but I found out later, she’s actually pretty cool), while other classmates joked that I myself was biased (“she only started hanging out with us after the white people left”).

But 2021, I have to say, has been the worst of them all. Unlike the above experiences, none of the recent anti-Asian American violence were personally directed to me or even anyone I know – and yet each one I read about feels more painful than anything I’ve experienced before. Perhaps because now, the hate is fearless, out in the open of broad daylight and patchy security cameras, neither of which do much to deter violence. Perhaps because now, the stakes feel higher, a death count growing to twist the knife even deeper, as if mere verbal or physical assault wasn’t excruciating enough on its own. Perhaps because now, the cries are louder, and yet somehow still not as supported or shared or comforted in the way we deserve. Perhaps because now, my heart feels more tender, every attack on an elderly grandma or grandpa reminding us – me – of the family I haven’t hugged since 2019, the family I’m dying to see.

I hid in my bed for most of the day today, simultaneously wanting to avoid the world and wondering why the world wasn’t reaching out. I alternated between digging through news and distracting through Netflix, trying to muster up the energy to write about this topic that has been looming over me since the start of this year – the violence of this week is not just from this week; Asians have been targets of violence for months and months and months. I tried to avoid thinking about whether I was a coward for just moving to Asia again, because it was just easier, rather than standing my ground by establishing my life in the United States and living through the discomfort. And all of this on top of the glaring fact: I am in such a position of privilege compared to those Asian American women who don’t speak English as well, who have less of an education, who are working labor intensive jobs, who are living in poverty.

As I squirmed and moped and mused through today, I realized: being an Asian American is the single most important part of my identity. It is what helps me to stand out, and it is what helps me to blend in; it is also what makes me the individual that I am. And right now, it feels really, really, really terrifying and worrying and infuriating and agonizing to be an Asian American, to even entertain the unthinkable thoughts of this hitting closer to home than it already has. But as exhausted as my heart is, I feel a patch of hope: today, I am prouder than ever of being Asian American, and of being part of this brave, beautiful, bold community that is broken but not defeated.

P.S. If you’re looking for a cause to support, SafeWalks NYC is a service of volunteers who began walking people to and from NYC subway stations in light of recent anti-Asian violence. Learn more about them and donate here.

It would be impossible to extricate my experience in Singapore from my experience during COVID; instead, I can only think of my time in Singapore as a time that happened not despite the pandemic, but because of it. After all, if there was no COVID-19 during 2020, the year that I happened to start a French MBA program on its Singapore campus, it’s entirely possible that I would have focused more on those first few words – “French MBA program” – rather than the latter two – “Singapore campus.” In fact, that’s almost how it was during the first few months: life in Singapore was more of a filler between all the other plans I had, be it trips or campus exchange or internships or, ultimately, whatever new job I’d find.

But as it turns out, COVID-19 not only hurled into Singapore at the end of January 2020 but then invited itself to stay, like an annoying guest who shows up uninvited at a Chinese New Year reunion dinner and is so unpleasant that it literally drives everyone else away much earlier than you would have preferred. And so that’s how I found myself in Singapore for 360 straight days, trapped in this 17-mile radius island with a permanent summer, watching it transform from a multicultural wonderland to a locked-down ghost town to a literally regrowing jungle to what it was when I left it this week – a rare city in this pandemic world where, other than the presence of facemasks and absence of nightclubs (AND KARAOKE), life actually felt back to pretty normal. Like, normal to the point where there would be days that I kind of forgot about COVID altogether, living in this bubble of safety that has, for better or for worse, conditioned me to scan a SafeEntry code and take my temperature when entering any space, mindlessly chatting away as if I had been doing this all my life.  

Anyway, I use the word “trapped” very loosely; the truth is, with the right passports and visas – both of which I am lucky have – I easily could have left Singapore, just like many people around me. And yet somehow, each time, when push came to shove, I found it immensely difficult to leave, and both times chose to stay. Even this time around, now that I have indeed finally left, I found it incredibly hard to say goodbye, for good, for now. For the last few weeks, as this date came closer and closer (along with the nose swab I needed to get in order to travel), I’ve been ruminating on what it has been that kept me here until I was finally forced to leave for Taipei before I missed the entry date printed on my Taiwanese work visa. 

It helps, of course, that when I visited Singapore for the first time in 2015, I adored it; I loved it then, and I love it still. Many of the reasons I wrote about during that trip – the colors, the Singlish, and (of course), the food – still hold true, and I got to experience all of it and more for so many months this time around. But when I set foot in Singapore in January 2020, I was a completely different person from the one I was in September 2015. I was, obviously, older, but I mean that in every way – I was tired and wary and confused and a little sad. Last time, I had come to Singapore to explore. This time, I had come to Singapore to…escape? Take a break? Maybe even start over? I had no idea. All I knew was that I was now a little more serious and a lot more selfish; the former happened inadvertently, but the latter was intentional.

As it turns out, Singapore softened me again (unfortunately also physically, but in a place with food like this, I couldn’t help it). It enveloped me in its unbearable humid warmth, forcing me to search every corner and discover the intricate moments of life within. I discovered that I did not have to travel to see this; rather, I could see it even better, more clearly, when I forced myself to just be.

I spent a total of 15 months in Singapore. In that time, I lived in 5 different apartments, went on 4 different trips (all prior to the country’s lockdown on March 16, 2020), worked on 3 education-related projects, completed 2 treks on the Coast-to-Coast trail, and lived through exactly 1 lockdown. I mourned at a Buddhist funeral, beamed at a Malay wedding, toasted to Jewish holidays. I swam, hiked, biked; went wakeboarding, prawning, and yachting; played hockey, squash, and tennis (only to dislocate my shoulder again); I went on staycations, hung out at the airport, took a peek at Malaysia. I ate at peoples’ homes; I ate at incredible restaurants; I ate at hawkers from Chomp Chomp to Bedok 85 to Adam Road to Sembawang Hills to People’s Park to Tiong Bahru and so, so, many more.

And through all this, I spent time with people: my fellow MBAs, of course, some of whom are now more family than friends. I reunited with college classmates, former colleagues, hockey teammates, and Shanghai friends; one of my favorite things about Singapore is that it’s such a hub, which means lots of people seem to be here at any given moment. I crossed paths with many strangers through projects and networking and dates. Of course, I met Singaporeans. The intern-turned-friend from my summer job, who taught me that the youth now say “bopes” in place of “bo pian.” The kopi uncle at my local hawker, who called me “granddaughter” when I asked for a photo before I moved away. The bilingual man from Holland Village, who evangelized to me while I waited for my drink, ending with, “Return to God.” The widower in that bright flower shirt, who sat with me as we had assam laksa and shared about her life in Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur.

Finally, I spent time with myself; forced myself to spend time alone on writing and walking and thinking and being, to sit (sometimes on the cable car) with the fears and tears and insecurities, but also the joys and the gratitude – the gratitude, which got me through this year so much more easily than I could’ve imagined. In Singapore, even in this past year, there was so much to be thankful for. All the stuff I wrote about above, the activities I did, the people I met, and the things I saw. The otter gangs and the weird monkey-cat-squirrel thing (a ‘civet,’ supposedly). The stunning view of Marina Bay Sands that never got old, no matter how many evenings we passed it. The way how, even though I missed having seasons, it was also pretty nice to feel the sun hitting my shoulders as I walked out in a tank top every day. The ease with which I could access the sea, from Labrador Park to Punggol to Pasir Ris to East Coast Park, and, of course, Sentosa. The marvel with which I attended my first post-pandemic symphony concert (I cried, overwhelmed by how far we’d come since a year ago), and the glee with which I attended my first Singaporean standup comedy show (I laughed, proud at how many ‘local’ jokes I understood). The fact that the government’s pandemic management meant we barely had to worry about the actual virus.

Living in Singapore during the pandemic allowed me to live my life to the fullest in a way that I never would have done otherwise. I’ve written about this before, but I believe that living life to the fullest means leaning into all of its highs, all of its lows, and all of the seemingly mundane moments that we tend to try to escape. In my pre-pandemic life, I was traveling nearly every other weekend, hopping from weddings to conferences to volunteer trips to grandparent visits like nobody’s business (“How many vacation days do you get again?” I frequently got asked). For the first time in my life, I was forced full stop; to be (relatively) still, to listen, to learn, and to appreciate what was right around me. There was no escaping when I was angry or sad or even bored; no trip to look forward to that would ‘reset’ my mind. I would have to deal with it.

To my surprise, it all turned out okay. With time, the thirst for travel was replaced by a daily fullness; even without trying, I found that life in Singapore often gave me so much satisfaction, so much joy, and so much peace. Everyone says that Singapore is convenient to live in, too convenient, too easy; that Singaporeans are spoiled, and that’s why they complain so much. But I will say this: in a year where there was so much to complain about, the persevering grit, the collective sacrifice, and the matter-of-fact spirit of this island nation made Singapore a place I was so proud to call – if only temporarily – home.

I’m writing this with the weirdest mixture of disappointment and determination, tinged by a hint of deliria that comes as a result of the 3.5 hours of sleep I got last night. If things had gone according to plan, which I had stubbornly refused to abandon until the last possible moment, I’d be at Changi Airport right now, settling into the first of several Fontainebleau-based Zoom classes I’d be taking before boarding my flight to Paris for a final MBA semester on our France campus.

Instead, I’m sitting at a cafe in one of my favorite places in Singapore, the Flower Dome, occasionally glancing up at Marina Bay Sands as I try to sort out this mixture of emotions running through my mind. Last night, I stayed up until 4AM to listen to Macron’s announcement of the France lockdown, as if hearing it myself would somehow make the resulting measures seem less formidable. All month, I had administratively prepared for the move: securing my visa, finalizing housing, booking a flight. All week, I had mentally prepared for the move: scheduling the farewells, packing my belongings, doubling down on my plans to move even if there was a lockdown. And all day yesterday, I had emotionally prepared myself for the move: savoring my “last” day, memorizing my favorite memories, reflecting on Singapore and all it’s meant to me through one last cable car ride.

And then, last night, I finally gave up.

People keep asking me what finally changed my mind, and I can actually tell you very clearly what it was: immediately after closing the Youtube stream of Macron’s announcement, I opened my Telegram to multiple messages from my friends and classmates in France, all with the same message: “Don’t come.” I had been talking to people all week about the imminent lockdown, trying to visualize life in French lockdown and preparing for the worst. Through the past several days, I had been continuously blown away by the generosity of my classmates and friends: the offers to call and talk through what life would be like, the honest opinions given with my best interests in mind, the consistent trickle of real-time intel for every rumor that was heard about details on the restrictions. What I appreciated the most, though, was the space people gave me to make the decision that was right for me: as I stated my priorities and my goals for moving to France, my friends didn’t try to convince me to stay. Instead, they told me that they respected and understood my decision. Despite the teasing “Are you still going today?” that I got almost every hour, I never once felt judged for pursuing what, by all means, might have been considered an unwise move.

I’ve thought a lot this year about community, about what it means to build one, be a part one, to desire one. One conclusion I’ve had is that, while we constantly roll our eyes at FOMO – both those of others and of our own – maybe…just maybe, we actually need FOMO. In fact, I believe community and FOMO are two sides of the same coin; like Harry and Voldemort, you can’t have one without the other. The fear of missing out is driven by a need to belong, and a collective need to belong is what creates a community. Imagine, instead, a world where no one cared about belonging: you might have a group of independent individuals all of whom are immune to FOMO, but, as a result, lack a strong need for community – in which case, a community might never be built.

It’s this community that led me to where I am right now: yes, so very, very, very disappointed that I’m no longer headed to France, but also determined to stay resilient, confident that I’ll bounce back after this one day I’m giving myself to wallow. It’s the community that helped me to think through my decision, patiently listening to me ping pong back and forth for weeks and weeks. It’s the community that supported my choices, delicately stepping back once my mind was made up. It’s the community that gave me the strength to admit defeat, clearly nudging me to recognize that after a certain point, I was just being stubborn and maybe even foolish. And it’s the community that’s risen up today to catch me in my disappointment: I’m overwhelmed by everyone who’s checked in, offering up everything from being a wallowing buddy to providing a listening ear to places to to stay to encouragement about my new decision. My community has done the best job of expressing empathy – “I’m sorry you can’t go” – while cheering me up – “…but I’m happy you’re staying.”

I had my heart set on doing both campuses as part of the INSEAD experience, and until last night I was convinced that I could still salvage my 2020 MBA. I wasn’t able to maximize the campus exchange part of this program, but I genuinely feel like I’ve hit the jackpot in finding this gem of a community both here in Singapore and in France – and, after graduation, all over the world.. For all the times I felt FOMO, it has been more than worth it to have built this network of friends, friends whom I can rely on – sometimes even before I realize I might need help. Even though this year has been strife with changes, emotions, and quite frankly, disappointment, I’m incredibly thankful for the relationships I’ve made this year and the community we’ve built together.