[Written 21 September 2022, at the start of the 2nd year of my MBA]

I. 

In the winter, there was a snowstorm. It fell through the night, a torrent that howled onto our roofs and streets. I slept through it undisturbed, and woke up to another sight – familiar roads turned extraordinary, cars heaped over like piles of sugar, tree branches limned in white. The aftermath was stillness, a hush. Here and there, footsteps broke the pristine snow, marks on a fresh slate. Snow plows hummed their way down the street, dutifully driven at an early hour. It was my first snowstorm, ever.

Later, we gathered on the roof deck to make a snowman. The winter sun was setting, an orange ball in a gauzy gray sky. We piled the snow as best we could, but it was too fluffy and did not stick. In the end, it was but an excuse to fling handfuls at each other, laughing and stomping, again, and again. A feeling came upon me from long ago, the tactile amusement of being a child at play. It was a surprise, and yet not, like easing into the sea on a hot summer day: the cool water a shock at first, but then something comfortable. And so it was – a simple, wholehearted pleasure that coalesced into sudden and transcendent joy.

II. 

In Spring, around March, I felt increasingly anxious, looking around at classmates and seeing how the majority seemed to have already secured summer internships, but I had not. I had chosen to pursue opportunities that came later, either through networking with uncertain outcomes, or companies that recruited just-in-time. I was feeling weary, longing for the stress and frustration to be over.

Then, my executive coach Cory, said something that cut through the noise. She said, why not consider my time in MIT Sloan as a playground, instead of a proving ground? This jolted me. I realized that I had squashed some of my interests into a box and hidden it away – such as my curiosity about food and agriculture in growth markets. Coming from an atypical pre-MBA background, I had felt a subtle, urgent pressure to take classes and activities that were “good for me”, instead of more unabashedly from my heart. 

I also felt that I was interested in too many things – tech, Web3, food and ag, entrepreneurship, growth markets, social justice. How could I string these into a coherent story, or narrate them compellingly to recruiters? I thought that I needed to brand myself as “the” person for this or that, so that I could attract and build the “right” networks. Again, Cory challenged this way of thinking: we are complex people, with many interests. My discomfort stemmed from trying to cram these into one story, instead of accepting that I had a multitude of stories, and that this was OK.

In wanting to prove to myself that I could succeed here, I had done myself an injury. I decided, going into my second year, that I would consider my time here as a playground: to be driven by what’s fun, and embrace my journey for the adventure and my companions, not the purported destination or reward – for the future is no one’s debtor, and there is no guarantee anyway. All we have is this present time that is given to us.

III.

Boston is a place potent with raw ambition and talent. It rings on the streets, leaps into conversations, the lean hungry glances in every face. Every so often, you hear of a remarkable accomplishment – a scientific discovery, winning a prestigious competition, a startup that raised millions from a top-tier VC, or even, more simply, a really cool project that you wish you had done. It’s so easy to compare myself with someone else and think: “How dull I am, in comparison”. And there it is, if I pay attention, the beginnings of a trickle of envy and pride in my heart: “How I wish I had done that…am I not good enough?”

With what do I measure significance and worth? This question lies beneath our lives, whether we recognize it or not. Great thinkers and writers have shared their hard-won wisdom, and I’d do well to pay heed. I think of Tolstoy’s short story, “How Much Land Does a Man Need?”, and I’m reminded from his sobering punchline (spoiler alert) that a person does not need much land at all – “Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.” A metaphor, indeed, beyond land: to houses, money, or anything else we labor for, in which lie the seeds of vainglory that drive people to do things that they do not want, chasing a dream that bleeds them out in the hunt.

In May, I received news that a friend from home had passed away. It was a tremendous shock, we had no forewarning. For days after, I struggled to comprehend. “I never said goodbye”, was all I could think, “how can it be that you’re gone?” The last time we met, we watched the opening of the Tokyo Olympics, toasting a goodbye before CX and I left for North America. In hindsight, it was a farewell in more ways than one. It never crossed my mind that there would never be another time. 

It’s strange how, when a person leaves us, we remember the most ordinary things, touched now with preciousness. Looking at the city sprawl from his apartment, the aroma of Big Prawn Hor Fun wafting from their takeaway tubs; the eye-watering French wines that he shared with us; the non-sequiturs at work that became signature inside jokes. At his funeral, we recounted his generosity, wit, and humor, and laughed over stories that celebrated his life. At the end of it all, what was hidden is writ large – his character that stood the test of time; the quiet good that he did, now uncovered and magnified; the camaraderie and fondness that we bear in memory of his name.  At the end of it all, what do you remember about someone? What is it that lasts?

IV.

In this whirlwind of a year, I have found that what lasts often isn’t flashy. After two years of Covid and enforced seclusion in Singapore, it was perhaps even more exhausting to be in an MBA program – lurching into the rhythm of classes, clubs, socials, and recruiting, a kaleidoscope of new nationalities and cultures, sometimes feeling like I didn’t know the steps, or that I’d missed a beat.

I have realized once again that there is the perception, and then there is the thing-in-itself: the heart, or soul, of a person that we sense and love. I’ve found friendship in the expanse of sharing what had erstwhile been merely private: challenges and disappointments, wild hopes and latent fears. It is special to find those with whom I can speak plainly, despite the ostensible and oft-sundering differences that sometimes rage like fire: where you come from, how you look, what you’ve done.

I have seen that there is a veneer, and then there is the reality: Boston, swollen with wealth, intellectualism, and pride, but also poverty, addiction, and despair. In December, I watched “A Reckoning in Boston” with L at the MIT Visual Arts Center. After, we skirted the mushy snow, chilled by the prejudice and alienation experienced by some who call this city home. I think of those who shuffle along Central Square and ask for change, the many shelters that dot my neighborhood, the visible and invisible lines that radiate “do not speak!” “do not touch!” “do not stop!” I wonder what has become of me, that I can avert my eyes and hurry by – and my question must be first inward: how much justice and mercy is there, and how else shall I choose to be?

V.

In New Hampshire, in the White Mountains, on a clear day, I marvel to look down at hills verdant with foliage. Layer upon layer of mountain ridge peeling off into blue waves, the wind whistling and birds wheeling, the attentive sun in its place. There are human voices exclaiming, and a dog or two. We are wide-eyed and loose-limbed, snacking on peanut butter and bananas, winded from the climb up, but exhilarated nevertheless. Confronted by the land’s enduring beauty, some things become clear.

Coming into my MBA, I had sought a career change, and was stressed about finding an internship. Now at the start of my second year, I am feeling the slow burn of finding a job that I enjoy, while others have already settled what they will do in nine months’ time. As I look ahead, I feel my uncertain desires, and anticipate my faltering courage, but I know that the MBA, or my job, is not all there is. There is so much more.

I am thankful for the things that I’ve often taken for granted: being in this time and place, for eyes to see, ears to hear, and legs to walk. For Fall, that is coming and is even upon us, the mountains and lands that beckon, a beautiful city and school to treasure, and friendships to enjoy. There will never be another time like this. What it is, to be alive! Above all, I want to be present, and filled with contentment, wonder, gratitude and joy.