the gift of time (a 2023 reflection)
Content note: discusses death, having kids
Time keeps moving, whether we like it or not.
My nǎinai [1] — my mother’s mother — passed away this year. It wasn’t the first or the closest death in my life, but she had raised me as a toddler in China while my parents worked to create a life in America. Beyond those years, I knew Nǎinai mostly refracted through my mother’s stories — as the mother that my mother didn’t want to be.
I waited for Nǎinai to visit my dreams, as the dead sometimes do. She never did, so I went to her.
A few weeks after her passing, in the middle of the night, I opened my voice notes and listened to an hour-long conversation with her from 2019. It was the only serious adult conversation I’ve had with Nǎinai, which she had let me record because we both knew there wasn’t much time left. She told me about her difficult childhood, her happiest memory, who she thought her real father might have been. She asked about my future plans — Why not have kids while your mother is still healthy? Why not find a husband soon, someone responsible who can take care of you? Why not find a stable job while things are still good? Her voice cracked with awkwardness and emotion, weighted with the earnestness of wanting a good life for me and the anxiety of not knowing how to help.
I had reassured her, at age 27 — I still have time to have kids. Maybe in 5 to 7 years. I want to meet a good partner first. I want to start my own business first. I want to work hard and make something of myself first.
Listening to my answers four years later, I realized nothing had changed. I was once again jobless, still single, still childless, still hoping to work hard and make something of myself. I was still in my origin story, waiting for my hero’s journey to begin. I was still telling myself I still had time.
In my 2022 reflection, after a meat grinder of a year, I declared that “my body carries a mind pulverized and made anew. You’d be forgiven if you thought you were talking to the same person.”
A few sentences later, I shared my plan to write a weekly newsletter for winter 2023. I only ended up writing one issue.
All in all, 2023 was a good year in a good life. After the chaos of Covid and Twitter, I gave myself the gift of time — a year to pursue my own creative projects, while I still have enough savings and no responsibilities. I finally started making work that feels true to me, that I can be a little bit proud of. I started learning how to code again after almost a decade. I released my first app in the App Store. I started making Tiktoks despite being camera-shy. I made new friends who made me feel seen. I finally started using my Chinese name, Kelin, after wanting to do it since high school. I reached out to collaborate with people I admired. I chose to work with two interesting startups. I started to say no to things I didn’t want to do. I spent months with my mom because I could. I finally fixed my bad knee with physical therapy. I froze my eggs, twice, in a gamble to give myself more time.
I could, if I wanted to, call this year a success. I have, after all, avoided my biggest fear — of wasting a year with nothing to show for it. I also avoided my second biggest fear — of retreating to the safety of a full-time job because I couldn’t deal with the unknown. I know I should be grateful, and I am. I am still alive, healthy, financially secure. I’ve satisfied enough of my Maslow’s needs that I can focus on self-actualization.
And yet —
I don’t want to call this year a success, because I’m afraid that will mean this is all there is. Most days, I wake up knowing I’m meant for something more.
On the other days, I can barely get up out of bed.
I know these things take time. This was a year of foundational changes, many different and necessary breakthroughs that I have to believe will add up to something bigger. I made a lot of mistakes and learned from them. I see the opportunities for the next year.
I’m old enough now that my future no longer seems full of endless possibilities, and yet young enough to fight for something better instead of resigning myself to the default. There must be more. I have to make it into more. I’m running out of time.
Footnote
[1] Nǎinai (奶奶) in Chinese is usually used for the father’s mother; the mother’s mother is a wàipó (外婆), the “outside grandmother.” My family didn’t like the distinction, so didn't use it.