The Grown Up Kids

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There’s a song that goes “I can see my whole life when I’m with you,” and isn’t that the truth about so many beautiful things—a quiet sunrise, a bellowing laugh with a sibling, a hand from a partner you love and trust, a warm plate of home cooked food that awakens the most ancient parts of your being, a knowing hug from a parent after a hard year, a good friend who feels like coming home.

I spent the holidays with a smattering of closest friends and family, completely ensconced in their warmth, their love, their back-and-forth-and-this-and-that, their laughter that fills my soul with unspeakable peace, ease, and joy. Anne traveled in Jean Claude in a near sleepless, frosted winter drive from NY to Ann Arbor to spend Thanksgiving with us for her first Family Thanksgiving. We slept in the same room and made sweet, sweet chit chat (and the occasional—ok maybe more than occasional—doom scroll click clack) falling asleep together night after night. We made hundreds of jiaozi (and, importantly, taught Anne how to fold them like an authentic Chinese—out with the gyoza, in with the jiaozi!) to feed our twenty beloved guests, all progressively stuffed from one hot dish—and one hot buttered libation—after another, courtesy of Choctor Gao and Cocktail Extraordinaire Deedz.

We stomped and sat in the blistering snow as we watched Michigan get pummeled by OSU in the Big House (nevertheless GO BLUE!) as we tried to keep our toes from fully detaching into the beds of our frozen shoes. We helped Marilyn move rugs from here to there and then back to here again. We watched The Godfather on the new 80” TV, which, although cartoonishly large, is the only proper way to watch such a masterpiece. We filmed content for our aspirational vlogs (Anne’s less aspirational than mine, in that hers is). We daydreamed business strategy and exchanged salacious gossip with Louisa and Lama. We got metaphorically and literally gassed up on Yemeni chai with Kasey as we spun out on our existential crises. We laughed feverishly while spilling allllll the hot boy tea with Elie and Maddie while being assured by Dana, their mother, that plenty of women have kids in their forties. “It’s normal.”

This, followed by a week in Stephen and Melinda’s care, who came home with coffee that I Most Definitely Wanted but hadn’t thought to ask for, who called me every day after work out of habit (and/or to make sure I hadn’t burned the house down), whose friends gave me counsel on topics of my life that even I’m bored by, who continuously remind me as an active practice of their lives how much love and care I’m nourished by.

…

And, finally, although certainly not the footnote, traveling to Istanbul to meet Ehsan and his family in what feels like a whirlwind fantasy of both everything that I had desperately hoped for and also somehow had already known the truth of. The overflowing warmth and love and thoughtfulness and laughter between Ehsan, Leili (aka Mommy), Parisa, Simin, and Nafese, and the same with which they enveloped me was nothing short of a Christmas miracle—a miracle in meeting souls who give you their heart and mirth as you give them yours, not as an obligation of formality, but from the shape of their character.

Each morning, Mommy would have, in addition to meats and breads and delectable Turkish delights, a large plate of unseasoned vegetables comprised mostly of cilantro, a rotating selection of miscellaneous lettuces, and, her favorite: sprigs of mint. And each morning, she would pull off the tender tips of each (saving for herself the brittle, coarse bits), and offer it to me, to Simin, to Parisa, to Ehsan—a wordless bid of love that was both quotidian and casual, and yet felt heartfelt and profound.

Though Mommy and I had no overlapping language, I was touched by the myriad of ways that we all wordlessly cared for each other in the small, everyday moments that constitute the most profound language of all—an inviting smile, gregarious laughter, scanning to make sure no one was swallowed by the crowds of the bazaar or the masses of the streets, sharing the best parts of your food with each other (as Ehsan would say, never trust anyone who doesn’t share the food from his plate), a hand on the elbow to usher others first, and animated conversations amongst ourselves, translated back and forth by Ehsan when needed so that no one stood the odd woman out. All of this, again and again, and then again and again.

Each of these moments felt like I was coming home—proof of the beautiful fact that love and all of its bountiful promises exist as simply and cleanly as the double helix of our DNA, if only we’re so lucky to find it.

One night, while walking home from an enchanting Christmas boat tour filled with bottomless meats and spreads and baklavas and cauldron upon cauldron of Turkish tea, I watched as Ehsan and Mommy walked side by side, talking and laughing like two old friends for whom no time had passed since their last meeting, rather than a mother and her son split across continents. As I took in the ease of their conversation, the palpable bond of their relationship that somehow transcended child and parent, the genuine joy of their laughter, Simin knowingly walked up beside me and asked “aren’t they cute? They talk twice a day, every day.” And with that, I understood the source of how, despite all of Ehsan’s problematic hot takes and pathological obsession with his “favorite kind of C” (I’ll let you figure that one out), I’m able to know the warmth of his being, to hear the love in his laughter, to feel his thoughtfulness in our friendship, despite all of his sardonic protestations otherwise. Some things are simply in the blood, and bless the women who pass it through this world.

We talked the rest of the way home, Simin and I, about family—hers and my own—and its meaning and importance in our lives, feeling kindredly spirited as we walked in tandem beside Ehsan and Mommy who filled the streets with laughter (and shoutout to Parisa trailing somewhere nearby lol).

I find myself humbled again and again by the people who stand by and with me through life, who show me the path and walk their walk so that I might be a little bit less afraid to walk mine.

From the words of Alina Baraz,

Is it me? Is my intuition wrong, or does it feel like coming home? Cuz it’s almost like you speak my language.

I hope we are all blessed with those most special souls who “speak our language”, and (!) that we trust our intuition to recognize those who don’t, and offer them peace, even if they’ve robbed us of our own. To everyone who helped me end this year better than it started, I can see my whole life when I’m with you.

On to 2026, the best yet (or so help me God)!

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春节: Part I

June 13, 2024

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PART I: Beijing, February 2024. Printed for daddy’s day, June 2024.

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Scotland, from a million years ago

February 6, 2024

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Almost ran off a cliff, fell into the gravity of a time-bending book festival on the Isle of Mull, gorged on the Scottish delight that is blood sausage, witnessed in the love and union of Camille and Gwen, met *the* Highland cattle, shared time and space and laughs and life’s deepest ruminations, and, as always, photographs with friends, old & new alike.

November, 2022.

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A love letter

March 25, 2022

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In February, one day after my 30th birthday, I received a package in the mail. I opened it to find a small wooden box, small but sturdy, with a chunky, lego-like heart magnetically affixed to its detachable lid. Underneath the lid was a digital screen with instructions on how to configure this “love box,” which I would soon come to learn is an ethereal portal to capture love notes, buzzing with energetic anticipation as new messages wait to be opened.

After a *difficult* year having extinguished the last of my spiritual reserves, splitting from a love I thought would last a lifetime, and slowly, helplessly watching myself wither into a vacuous casing of my former self, family and friends rallied to show up for me in ways that I neither felt deserving of, able to reciprocate, nor previously imagined possible. From my hard-ass mom offering her most tender shoulder to cry on and attentive ears to listen as I recited the same frustrated incantations over and over again, to Dean who created boundless space to hold me during grief, lifelessness, and utter despair, continuously brining me back to myself after years of slow decay, to my brothers, who gave me faith in myself, in the life I’m pursuing, and hope for a beautiful future, to my dad, who infused in me the strength, tenderness, and care that we are capable of, to my dearest friends, Lisa, Kasey, Nick, Haley, Tessy, Carolyn, Andrea, Louie, who buoyed me when I was sinking with strong and understanding hearts, an abundance of warmth and laughter, and a feeling of home, to the Dream Maker’s circle, a group of 16 women with whom I explored the depths of my being and reimagined what a thoughtful, unapologetic, “big” existence could be, to new community who has shown me the grace and power of friendship, and of what is possible when we care for each other, even when it isn’t easy or convenient.

So it came as little surprise, but with an ever melting heart, that I received a literal love box at my door for a momentous year—momentous for bringing me to my 30th year, and for seeing me through my darkest hour. What came as a bigger surprise though, was to learn that it had been sent by my dad (after rejecting my mom’s appraisal of it as “just a gimmick” no less)—my dad, an upbeat and supportive but altogether unemotional person, who would prefer to shoot the shit about work and fitness regimens than feelings and sentimental ruminations.

Over the past month, I’ve received dozens of love notes, the overwhelming majority from my mom, who sends me heart littered love notes, uplifting greetings, and empowering mantras, among a myriad of other loving digital mementos. Scattered between these notes have been messages from Anne, Neal, Michael, and, of course, my dad, who, unlike all other authors, sends his notes anonymously, on a black background, bookended by a series of red hearts that fill the borderless screen.

In more recent weeks, the frequency of these notes, in particular from my parents, has waned. This is perhaps because I’ve been traveling but perhaps more realistically, I had thought, because the novelty had worn off. But today, as I frantically hurried to wind down the work day with a frenzy of messages and to-do lists, I heard my little box buzz in urgent commotion. I hastily ripped off the lid, expecting to read a sweet scribble overlaying an endearingly kitschy background, before getting back to work. What I saw instead, I instantly recognized as my dad’s calling card—no author’s name, black background, white text, adorned by red hearts. The message read “Hi Sweetie! I’m listening to a podcast the dream hunter. I realized that through your life, you have been your own dream maker to be where you are! Keep dreaming and dream big! And you are our dream! ❤ ❤ ❤ [ ❤ ad infinitum]”

(Beat)

My relationship with my dad has been far from perfect throughout my life, often times far from intimate, and certainly complicated by life’s messiness, and subject to its mistakes and lessons. Yet, or perhaps for this reason, this message hit me deep in the gut, for its beauty, its simplicity, and its recognition. So many women, myself included, suffer the violence of men in their lives, whether it be at their physical hands, or the more silent cruelty of their thoughtlessness, carelessness, selfishness, ego, inability to express emotion in healthy ways, if at all, and so on. To say that the same has not been true of my dad, albeit in what feels like a far removed past, would be an omission of certain realities, as would saying that it hasn’t complicated my relationship to myself, to men, and to being in partnership with them. And so to read these words is to mend wounds accumulated over years of self-doubt suffered at the hands of indignity after indignity. It is to feel relief and protection from the constant onslaught that the world, including those I’ve most foolishly cherished over myself, would have me believe is my lunacy, my misstep, my deficiency. It is to feel solid ground under my feet, so that I may stand tall in my conviction of character and self, without judgement or reprieve. It is to be nurtured and honored, truly, by the love of a man who means so much to me, after facing the brutality of those about whom I had believed the same.

2022 has been the year of the divine. Manifesting my deepest intentions, finding community in women who possess and radiate the undeniably divine, and rebuilding a life that finally feels like my own. I cannot believe in the coincidence that, despite speaking very little with my dad about this journey, he writes about being a dream maker (the literal name of the women’s group with whom I continue to work), and about dreaming “big,” a mantra repeated in this same group. I cannot believe in the coincidence that he writes this to me after months of committing these very ideals to my life—unbeknownst to him— sometimes faltering, but all the more proud. In a year that continues to surprise me, I’m overcome by a deep feeling of awe and alignment, one that’s supported by the big love around me, engulfing me as it pushes me forward.

To more big love in 2022 and beyond,

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Panic & Peace

January 21, 2022

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1/16/21

I’m sitting on the plane to Puerto Rico, on a flight that’s two hours delayed and counting, after a previously delayed flight, a missed connection, a lost evening with wonderful women, a 14 hour day spent lazing around the Newark airport watching the sun drenched halls swell and empty crowds of travelers through buzzing food courts, frantic bathrooms, and frenzied departure gates. I’m moving between feelings of panic and peace. Panic—I’ll have spent 24 hours in a grungy travel stupor during what was supposed to be a journey of ultimate zen and spiritual awakening // where did I go wrong in life to be here, running through Newark airport to catch an already departed flight, on my way to meet a group of strangers // am I gonna have to spend the night in the San Juan airport if there aren’t any cars around when we land // why me next to this guy whose leg has been shaking furiously, dare I say vengefully, sending the bench of conjoined seats into violent reverberation.

And yet at the same time, peace—the miracle of being young and alive (!) and ready for my Linklater moment spent in a sleepy San Juan airport, feeling the texture of life as everyday annoyances dissolve into veils of romantic charm // the magical pursuit and possibility of manifesting the deepest recesses of my soul, some not yet discovered, others buried under years of neglect but ready to re-emerge, even if not yet under the embrace of the warm sun and Atlantic waves but instead next to the whirring engine of an idle plane in the blistering snow // how did I do everything *right* in life to be here, committing to myself, to community, to other women of color, fighting my way back to myself after years of prioritizing an ethos that was not my own // what may look like a plan gone awry is actually just life, pulsing, surging, beating with energy, and how beautiful and freeing to remember that it’s a gift to be lived, to be shared, to be explored, in all of its glory and quotidian, its messiness and imperfection.

So I sit with panic and peace, and remind myself that neither is right, neither is wrong, but both are intertwined in effortless yin and yang. They are feelings, thoughts, beautiful manifestations of our minds, electric current that allow us the miracle of meaning, inviting us to engage, observe, ask, listen. And as I do, I’m able to see what has been and what will come—a year that has brought me to my knees, that will undoubtedly shift between panic and peace, heartbreak and joy, despair and hope. But through it all, may I have the grace to move through this world with patience, kindness, and forgiveness; may I have the fortitude to know myself, nurture her, honor her, and grow into her with clarity. And above all else, may I have the strength and courage to love, love, love, even in the face of darkness.

And now, what we all came here for, a photo dump of the last few months, of people I love and people who have held me up (notably including myself!)—new and long-lasting and ever growing, including Tessy, Haley, Andrea, Carolyn, and Louie who aren’t pictured but ever present! Must remember to take more photos 🙂

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Tysm

November 29, 2019

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This is the first Thanksgiving that I’ve spent alone, as in, completely alone. The circumstances for this are complicated (ok not that complicated), but aren’t depressing nor worth explaining. Also, not really the point of this short blurb of a post. The point, actually, is this: though this Thanksgiving was spent alone, uncelebrated, I have so much to celebrate, so much gratitude for the people in my life, who give me meaning and hope, laughter and warmth, who make this really weird, random chaos of existence make sense. And so maybe there was no turkey or cranberry sauce, stuffing or pumpkin pie this year, but there was a turkey bundt cake (in the likeness of, not made with or flavored as, though I would’ve enjoyed that too) that a most precious bb had left on my doorstep. There were messages exchanged with said precious bb and a few most dear friends. There was a face-time call with DD, who’s in Washington DC with our Aunt Anna and Uncle Mike, with my dad, who had just gotten home from a Thanksgiving lunch before heading to the hospital for a long, sleepless night of work, and with my mom Stephen Dean and Melinda who were in the thick of a multi-hour car ride from Southern California to slightly less Southern California and delayed by monsoon-like downpour on the 5. And then there was me, walking through the deserted Palo Alto streets that on any other day are bustling with techies and students and families and long-time Palo Altians who are probably sick of us all. Me, washing dishes and tidying my frigid, messy apartment. Me, fighting my way through Thanksgiving day crowds to stock up on, contrary to everyone else, groceries for everything but Thanksgiving.

And though these events were disjointed across towns and states and countries, I’m moved beyond words, thankful beyond comprehension, for all of these people I’m so lucky to share in these moments with! Though I may have been alone, though I may have only eaten eggs and english muffins today (sacrilegious, I know), I’ve celebrated a million times over, and am absolutely full full full <3.

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Something Real

October 16, 2019

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Was it Something I Said

October 4, 2019

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I don’t want to live in a big empty house, with big empty walls and big empty things.

I want to live in a house that has laugh lines,

That sags and sways but is waiting for you, day after day with open arms.

I want to live a life full of love and life, joy and heart,

More than being “a great employee,” “a great innovator,” “a great [insert generic noun here],”

I don’t aspire to have statues of myself for strangers to look at some day in the remote infinity of time,

I want to live. I want to be alive while I’ve got the chance.

I want to be remembered through the hearts of people whose lives I’ve had the joy of sharing.

I want to have fun; laughing, sharing stories, hugging, playing.

I want to work, too, but not for the sake of securing approval and having status, but for the sake of contributing to something that is worthwhile, that means something! (And I guess, that *also* includes making infinite jiaozi)

I want to be someone I would’ve admired when I was a kid, when I was a naive college idealist with my head and heart in the clouds, when I’m looking back at my life, wondering where all the time went.

I want desperately, more than anything, not to waste this life; to have the courage and wisdom to know how to not waste this life.

Because this, even in its most abstract, is what feels real.

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Dd (and summer)’s coming!

June 4, 2019

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Found out last week that my little big brother, Deedz, is gonna come live with me this summer while doing an internship out here in the Bay! In anxious anticipation for his arrival–for what will be frolicking in the sun, binge eating cookies by the bucket, conversations about girls and boys and art and tech, bellowing laughs that fill my tiny (but less tiny than the last) apartment’s walls, and an infinity of other Gao-like traditions–I’m posting a few overdue pictures from my latest trip to NY this past spring; pictures that bookend the passing of spring and usher in an always-welcome summer, that serve as witness to Dean and my trip to visit Deedz in his Brooklyn enclave.

Pictured are an incomplete but nonetheless full assortment of things and people and places visited during these few days–old and dear friends, my brother’s ridiculously well-adorned grad student apartment, and, of course, the endless insta furnishings, for your insta pics, at the insta office. How meta.

A few random details about the trip, for posterity:

DD, Dean and I tried to do as all the NY things, namely hours of endless walking, eating, subwaying, and endless pursuit of lox.
I met Lisa’s boo, Dom, for the first time, and Andrea’s, Taylor, for the second. We celebrated Lisa’s tenure at Bloomie’s, as she was soon to pivot into a new space, with small pastries that were more satisfying to look at than to nom nom. I melted in the warmth and love of seeing these two best friends of mine and their lives with these most beloved partners! The night wound down with Taylor & Dom watching Seinfeld while Andrea, Lisa and I watched Benito Skinner’s horoscope parodies on insta on the next couch.
We helped Deetz shop for his house party, a soirée that was thrown with his downstairs neighbors/owners of the house who were moving to the West coast because Ken, the husband, is starting a design architecture firm in Portland.
Dean and I walked around all afternoon and evening Saturday, before returning back to Dd’s party, dessert in tow. During this walk we: got big gay ice cream directly followed by serious consideration of yet more ice cream at Davey’s, got Bahn Mi at St. Mark’s, bopped around the East village and LES and Chinatown, got the best motherfing maple coffee I have ever had, bought a tub of banana cream pudding for the party, talked about some serious things and some not so serious things, cried (me), laughed so hard it hurt, talked, listened, held hands. Relished in these most special moments–the banal, the everyday, but still somehow the most magical, the most meaningful, the most Real and Important.
Saw friends from college! Mike and Melanie! Both of whom I haven’t seen in years, but who live in NY and came to Dd’s party. I was so happy to see them and was reminded of all the things I love and miss about college/in my life: all my RC weirdos–weirdos because they defy convention, weirdos because they haven’t grown out of their idealism and integrity, weirdos because Melanie brought a big plastic dildo-like back scratcher that she and Mike found on a trash can on their way over, something I could only imagine myself or an equally weirdo friend doing–who remind me of my humanity and community, from which I have felt to varying degrees estranged since college.
Met Dd’s friends from school and Dean’s friend from the bay, an interesting, eclectic, and funny bunch. Talked with a few, laughed even harder with a few others. Met Malcolm, enough said.
And lastly and least notable, spent a lot of time at work; made and drank a lot of hot chocolate and matcha (by far the most notable perks of the NY office).

Dd and his cutie, but not well pictured, apartment

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Still Life

February 18, 2019

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S/o to Jack Henry Robbins for this gem of a lazy groove

I just visited my parents, on an epic 36 hour trip to Texas. Epic, for how many conversations, how many laughs, how many nibbles, how many hugs and kisses and laying-in-laps were exchanged in such a short time! 15 cups of tea, 4 meals, 2 walks, 2 runs, 1.5 movies, 1 bike ride, 1 joy ride in my dad’s “GT-R”—according to him, a “once in a lifetime opportunity,” at which my mom scoffed and sighed, somewhat playfully, before eventually obliging by piling into the driver’s seat.

But what is really once in a lifetime, the occasion really worth cherishing, is spending time with my parents. And witnessing, feeling how our relationships change with time, how they ebb and flow, like watching the sun shimmer and float on the breathing ocean surface—so beautiful it’s hard not to stare and smile. Picking up with conversations we’ve had thousands of times, yet each time somehow new and not quite like the last. Sharing thoughts we’ve shared before, but hearing them differently now with time and new experience; sharing thoughts we haven’t shared before, and smiling because there’s still so much to learn about this person! This person I’ve known and loved my whole life, this person who is home, comfort, and familiarity, but changes and evolves just the same as myself.

It’s 4:38 am. I’m in the Abilene airport. I’m tired, but so, so happy.

__

I walk into my Palo Alto apartment, not many hours from when I left it Saturday morning. It feels like I’ve been gone on an expedition to the stars and back, but the physical evidence brings me back to earth: the same flowers I had bought earlier in the week greet me when I walk in the door, smiling as if they’ve been waiting.

I take these photos around noon, 2/18/19, in a state of delirious calm. I make a salad, cook some vegetables, make some hot chocolate, pull things from the shelves, unpack groceries I just returned from getting. And turn to see this chaotic spread of beautiful mess and clutter. A beautiful mess that feels like home, because it’s sunflower oil left over from the holidays with my family, eden soy—my preferred brand of soy milk because Marilyn convinced me of this years ago—apple cider vinegar that I yelled at her for buying too much of, Kirkland brand Himalayan pink salt and tellicherry black pepper that our whole family has gotten into the habit of buying en masse, the same, but new greenpan pan we’ve used at home for years, a wonky cutting board Marilyn sent me from Williams Sonoma, a felted wool trivet Stephen and Melinda got each of us for Christmas. The sun’s beaming in through the windows, and I feel so good, as I look onto this beautiful mess of my home.