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Three years ago today, I wrote a post recounting my first eighteen years. I talked about my childhood, and what I thought I knew about myself at the time. Remarkably, I was pretty close. But what I didn’t realize was just how much I would grow in the years since. While I can’t say if college has been the most transformative period of my life, I do know that I’ve learned more about myself in these most recent three years than in the prior eighteen. I’m still not quite done with college, but I do stand on the verge of the next chapter of my life. And so once more, I look back and reflect.
With the power of hindsight, I can confirm that my initial, tentative ruminations about high school were a bit exaggerated. I literally grew up, but not as much as I thought. Three years ago, I thought I’d come pretty close to the person I would be in adulthood. High school certainly brought me out of the awkward shell of middle school and treated me to experiences of responsibility, leadership, pride, love, loss. But what I realize now is that the experiences only provided the framework for future experiences. At 18, I still had no idea who I wanted to be, what I liked to do, and exactly who I was.
At 18, I wanted to be a doctor. Heck, since I’d been a little kid, I wanted to be a doctor. I thought that that was the life I wanted, to help people feel better and to make a difference in the lives of as many people as possible. And so I embarked upon that path quite seriously, choosing courses that were only really useful for pre-med students. But I realized pretty quickly that my motivations in choosing this path were less grounded in fact and more in some deeply-held fancy. By spring semester of freshman year, I still had not committed to any of the pre-med obligations that required more effort. I didn’t want to do research, and I didn’t really want to do any other extracurricular involving science. I justified this by doing something I actually liked, teaching, which I chose as my summer experience after freshman year.
I thought that my love for teaching was a sign that I was meant to be a doctor. Since high school, I’d been tutoring and teaching as a side-hobby. Even to this day, helping others by teaching is something I enjoy. It was natural to think that that love was perfectly transferable to a career in medicine. But the summer after my freshman year, which I spent teaching several SAT classes, I realized that there was one major practical similarity between teaching and medicine that I couldn’t stand – I realized that I didn’t like repetitive tasks. One week that summer, I taught the same math class about geometry three times in a row, and it was dreadful. I taught a total of five classes that summer, all with identical curriculum, and that experience almost robbed me of all my love for teaching. While I liked helping others, I definitely did not enjoy doing so in a overly structured, repetitive way.
And so I returned to Yale in the fall with serious doubts about my chosen career path, but it wasn’t until a weekend at home that I finally decided to change course. That October, I went along with my parents and my brother to his pediatrician, who spoke to me briefly about her career. She told me two things: one, that, as a Yalie, I had the opportunity to truly pursue as many paths as I wanted and two, that her career choice included a long and difficult journey, and that if I wasn’t absolutely sure I wanted to be a doctor, I’d only be miserable several years down the line. Her second point resonated with me, because I really wasn’t sure at that time. Her reminder of the seven years of further schooling and training that awaited me filled me with dread. I knew I would be unhappy if I forced myself through that. Shortly thereafter, I dropped the medical career from my mind.
This decision coincided with another major event, as I entered 2010 as president of the Chinese American Students Association. I’d mentioned three years ago that I probably wouldn’t find another activity or another group that meant as much to me as marching band did. CASA comes pretty close to that status. But more importantly, my year as president showed me the first glimpses of what kind of work I would really enjoy.
That year, I could never stop thinking about CASA. I was always planning what we could do next, worrying about the things that could go wrong, thinking about what we could do better. I obsessed over every detail and managed the board and our events with fervor. Whenever we had events, I had to know where everything was, what everyone was doing, how everything looked. It was the same fervor that I had when I was drum major back in high school.
But this time, the experience was more real. Instead of motivating and leading a group of high school performers, I was planning and executing events, building a team out of ten busy Yalies. In the process, I discovered that I loved all of it. The planning, the details, the teamwork – I was engaged in a way I’d never before been engaged. By the end of my term, I knew what I would want to do with my life. I discovered that I loved building things; not physical things, but ideas, projects, events that resolve problems. I loved working together with a group of people to build things.
More than anything else during my time at Yale, CASA gave me a sense of ownership. I was legitimately and justifiably proud of the nine other board members. From them I learned patience and compromise, I learned about trust, I learned the limits of my abilities and how to find the best in others. Most of all, I had an experience that I could cherish and remember forever. I truly hope that I was as good a leader as my board members deserved. Many of them went beyond my expectations to deliver a level of commitment and ability that made our year a success.
By the time I turned 20, I was already much different than I was at 18. I don’t think I changed much outwardly, but inside, I felt extremely different. I was more confident. I was more aware of my own abilities and limitations. I better understood my relationships with others. I built friendships that were the most solid I’ve ever had. At 20, I was somewhat prepared to tackle the major life decisions and problems that faced me in the coming year. Later, when I arrived back at Yale for senior year ready to decide how the next chapter of my life would begin, I would begin the process of truly understanding myself.
I spent that summer in Chicago, working on a business strategy project at Sears. From that summer, I can identify a few experiences that would define not just who I am today, but the trajectory my life will take from today onward. The first was a practical one: Sears’ headquarters were about an hour-and-a-half to two-hour commute, one-way, from where I lived in the city. Almost every day, I would take a bus for about ten minutes, transfer to a subway for about 45 minutes, then transfer to a shuttle for another 45 minutes. I had always been a very impatient person, but I learned to managed this two-hour commute everyday without much complaint. I occupied myself with a book, or a magazine, or, often, my own thoughts.
Professionally, I solidified my occupational decision. Continuing from my experiences with CASA, I was given the opportunity to work on a project in a way I really enjoyed. I researched and analyzed data, built and debated strategies, and ultimately delivered a solution to executives. By the end of the summer, I knew what I wanted to do after Yale: business strategy. Again, I re-discovered my love of the process of building ideas, from the research and planning to the execution and delivery. And so when I returned to Yale to decide that next chapter, I focused on opportunities that would allow me to do what I enjoyed.
But the most important thing I learned this fall was just how much I needed my family. For three years at Yale, I’d grown more distant from them. Like many of my peers, I was eager to strike it out on my own. I was eager to do it all myself: succeed or fail, love or loss, simple or complex, I wanted to do it independently. As a consequence, I became quite irresponsible about checking in with my family, with keeping them up-to-date with the comings and goings of my life. I was so consumed with my own present and future that I sacrificed the bastions of my past. I began to take them for granted.
It all began when my mom reported to me something Andrew, my 8-year-old brother, had said to her. At the time, I had an offer to return to Sears full-time post-graduation, so I could very well have returned to Chicago in 2012. Knowing this, my brother asked my mom “Does this mean Tim won’t visit us as much?” When my mom told me what Andrew had said, I felt a wave of emotion hit me. Up until then, I’d told everybody that I didn’t care where I was, as long as the opportunity was a good one. But at that point, I knew I couldn’t bear to leave my family. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my growing brother in New Jersey as I began my life in another timezone. I couldn’t bear the prospect of being that missing brother in Andrew’s life, who practically disappeared when he was 9. I realized that, more than anyone else in this world, I cared most about Andrew. This wasn’t a new thought – I remember making this declaration and realization in the past – but I’d forgotten, after three years of Yale, just how much I loved him.
Naturally, I also thought about my parents. Again, up until this fall, I’d been irresponsible. I rarely called, thinking my monthly trips home was enough to catch up and chat. I would briefly discuss my plans and thoughts with them, but always with the lingering thought that I knew better in the back of my head. But a simple truth quickly became evident: the single greatest factor in shaping who I am today was not marching band, or CASA, or any summer experience; it is my parents. From them I learned caution, introspection, trust, love. I learned how to approach decisions and how to make them. I realized that they were the reason I could be myself as I decided what, and who, I wanted to be. Nobody else in the world knows me better than my parents do. Nobody else in the world will be there for me even if I fail. I realize now that I had taken for granted their unyielding and unconditional support as a safety net, and they don’t deserve that. They deserve to be an active part of my life, to help shape my decisions, to help guide my actions.
As such, I made location a priority as I planned for post-graduation. I needed to be close to home, not because it was more convenient, but because that was where I could be the brother and son that I want to be. But I think the core of my new motivation was still Andrew. I want to watch him grow into a teenager. I want to be as constant a presence in his life as I can be. I want to be a major character when he writes his memories when he eventually turns 18.
In the end, I got my wish, both personally and professionally. I know now that I’ll be working as a consultant in New York City, doing work I will enjoy, while still playing a role in the lives of the only people in this world who will always be there for me.
And so, on this twenty-first November 12th I’ve seen, I stand ready to tackle the next chapter of my life. I didn’t talk a lot about my personal relationships here, but those thoughts are best left in private. To the friends who I hold closest to my heart: you know who they are, and I know you’ll all stay there as we move onward with our lives. To the mentors I’ve been so fortunate to gain: your advice, leadership, and good example have been invaluable. To all of you: the past three years have been a remarkable journey, and I’m excited for what the rest of my Yale experience will bring.
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Wow, so deep… and cute.
Happy birthday, Tim.
There, I said it :)