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Two hours of scream-singing Backstreet Boys songs healed my inner child and my outside adult.

This past weekend, I went to Backstreet Boys: Into the Millennium at the Sphere in Las Vegas.

I was really excited about it, because it was my first BSB concert. Millennium is one of my favorite albums of all time (there are NO SKIPS, though, to be fair, I sometimes stop before the last track, “The Perfect Fan”). And I’d heard that the Sphere itself is an experience.

Saturday night exceeded all of my very high expectations.

Singing “I Want It That Way” with 20,000 strangers felt like a form of therapy. Screaming like a 13-year-old when the Boys first appeared on stage was genuinely cathartic. Bopping along to cheesy pop songs transported me straight back to 1999. Realizing I knew every word to songs I haven’t heard in decades was wild. I don’t think I stopped smiling for the full two hours.

My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest — in all the best ways, if that’s a thing. I told R that I don’t remember the last time I experienced that much intense, pure joy.

And from what I understand, I’m not alone. This tour is making millennials lose our damn minds. I’ve thought a lot about why.

—

Before Everything Got Heavy

On the surface, it’s easy to explain. Millennium came out in 1999. A simpler time. Pre-9/11. Pre-social media. Pre-constant terrible news. The world felt smaller, slower, more understandable… and our lives did too.

There was a shared monoculture. Everyone knew these songs. Everyone watched the same TRL countdowns (I didn’t even have cable and somehow still absorbed the boy band culture). Going to this tour isn’t just nostalgia for a boy band; it’s nostalgia for a time when the world felt more synchronized and connected.

Now, most of us live in algorithmically curated little bubbles. No wonder there’s a loneliness epidemic.

The Teenage Version of Ourselves

I think this tour is tapping into something deeper: a longing not for the past itself, but for the version of ourselves that existed before everything felt so hard.

Late childhood and early adolescence are when music fuses to memory, identity, and emotion, and these songs imprinted on us during those formative years. When emotions were loud and unfiltered and occasionally nonsensical, like some of Max Martin’s lyrics. Music wasn’t background noise; it was identity formation. You didn’t just like a song. You felt it in your body. You built entire inner worlds around it.

You were obsessed. You played that CD on repeat on your Sony Discman and let it become a part of you.

Revisiting that music doesn’t just remind us of who we were. It returns us to that version of ourselves, before adult responsibilities set in and stayed.

Millennial Exhaustion

Millennials came of age into irony, detachment, self-deprecating coping humor. Being “chill.” We learned how to intellectualize our feelings instead of actually feeling them. We learned how to laugh things off. How to keep moving, how to be productive even when we were exhausted. Ugh, especially when we were exhausted.

And now here we are, late 30s and early 40s, deep in the squishy dog shit of adulthood.

Careers didn’t quite turn out the way we were promised. Systems feel rigged. There’s constant pressure to optimize everything. Our bodies don’t bounce back the way they used to. Some of us are navigating aging or sick parents. Some are raising kids. Some are doing both. And layered on top of that is the general chaos of the world right now. It’s a lot, and it’s non-stop.

So for two hours, we didn’t have to be resilient, productive, or self-aware. When the opening notes of “Larger Than Life” hit, we collectively reverted to our screeching teenage selves, and it felt like a deep sigh (scream?) of relief.

Big Feelings, No Irony

Back then (“back in my day” lol), sincerity was allowed.

The pop music of that era was unapologetically earnest. Big feelings of devotion, longing, heartbreak. Full-volume emotion. Yes, it was corny. The youths today might call it cringe. But it made us happy, SO HAPPY.

That night, we got to scream the lyrics to “The One” and mean it with our whole chests, without judgment, because everyone else there was doing the exact same thing. Just feeling all the feelings and becoming the purest expression of corny teenage selves.

Collective Nostalgia

What’s especially powerful about this tour is that it isn’t a private moment of nostalgia. It’s communal. I’ve seen TikToks of people calling this concert “millennial church,” and honestly, if what I felt that night is what religious diehards feel every Sunday? Ok, I get it.

Nostalgia usually happens quietly, alone in your car, or late at night with headphones on. A song comes on and suddenly you’re 13 again, but only for a minute, before real life intrudes. But a concert at the Sphere turns remembering into a shared ritual.

There’s something deeply comforting about that collective remembering. About realizing you weren’t alone then — and you’re not alone now. (omg, do I now truly understand cults?)

Validation

This one surprised me, but it feels very real: this tour retroactively validates the teenage era of our lives.

There’s something profound about seeing a venue full of grown adults scream-singing lyrics that were once dismissed as teenybopper nonsense. So much of what we loved as teenage girls was minimized and categorized as too emotional, too silly, too cheesy.

Yet here we are, decades later, filling the Sphere every weekend, after fighting for our lives in Ticketmaster queues. Proving that those feelings counted, that they mattered, and that they still do.

—

I don’t think most millennials actually want to go back to 1999.

We don’t want to relive dial-up internet or low-rise jeans (shudder) or the specific flavor of insecurity that came with adolescence. What we want is relief. A break from constant decision-making and pressure of modern life. 

For two hours, this tour offers a suspension of all the bullshit we have to deal with every day.

You don’t have to be impressive or self-aware or emotionally regulated. You don’t have to explain yourself.

You just get to sing “Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely” — ironically, not alone — at the top of your lungs and mean it, without apology.

Millennial nostalgia isn’t about believing the past was better. It’s about acknowledging that the present is heavier. And this concert made me remember what it felt like to be wild and free (… reaching out like you needed me).

Distance, desert, beach, ocean, mountains.

We’ve been away from home since the first week of December.

We’ve made an annual tradition of driving from Denver to San Diego sometime at the end of the year — last year it was for Thanksgiving, the year before it was for Christmas. This year, the timing of our San Diego trip revolved around a holiday party in Phoenix. And since we were already on the road, why not Crested Butte too?

We drove 2722 miles to get here. Actually, I drove 2722 miles — R had last-minute retina surgery the week of Thanksgiving, so him driving wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

I’ve learned a lot in 2722 miles and 2.5 weeks. Oh no, it’s another post about sharing things I learned (or re-learned)!

I can do anything, and it’s even easier when it’s enjoyable

For one, I proved to myself that I am capable of anything. Thirteen hours from Denver to Phoenix, with a 3am wakeup, is not for the faint of heart. But for two, it wasn’t that bad because I love spending time with my husband and doggo, even if it’s just sitting in a car staring at the road, singing along to whatever was on the radio, and asking each other random questions as they popped into our brains. This next thing shouldn’t be surprising: quality time is my top love language.

Novelty really works my brain, especially when I’m driving

Any time I had to navigate a neighborhood or parking lot I’ve never driven through, your girl was STRESSED. I don’t know what it is about the last 50 feet of finding a place — despite Google Maps loudly announcing “turn right, and your destination is on the left” — that makes me lose all sense of direction. The number of times I yelled something like “This right?? THIS ONE??” in panic on this trip… Same with finding a parking spot. It’s like my brain sees the empty spots a half second too late. But I managed. Because, again, I can do anything. Even if it takes me longer. Even if I park crooked. Even if I have to get out and re-park while pretending no one saw. 

Routine keeps me grounded

I (re-)learned that I need some sense of routine. I’m not a super regimented person, but there are certain routines I have at home that get lost when I travel. So I often start a new routine, just to give my days some semblance of grounding and structure. I know some people use exercise as their routine — thus the existence of hotel gyms — but I am not one of those people. I’m more of a “routinely support a local business” kind of gal, so my go-to is a daily visit to the local coffee shop. Our routines were Peixoto in downtown Chandler, Coffee Cycle in Ocean Beach, and Camp 4 Coffee in Crested Butte (Rumors is a close second).

Familiar scents comfort me (maybe I was a doggo in a past life)

Routine and familiarity go hand in hand, and as it turns out, familiar smells are really important to me. I usually just live with the hotel shampoo and soap. This was fine in Chandler. But when we got to San Diego, I HATED the smell of the shampoo at our rental, and certainly couldn’t live with it for a week. I figured if I needed to buy shampoo and wasn’t restricted to travel-size, might as well splurge and buy what we use at home. And let me tell you: the first shower with familiar scents made me feel like a brand new person. It wasn’t just comfort—it was familiarity. It made me feel like myself again.

As much as I like to travel, I get homesick

The two-week mark is when I really start to miss home. My bed, my pillows, my shower, my cookware, my smells… As much as I dream of a digital nomad lifestyle, I’ve learned that I need a base that feels truly like home where I can reset for a bit. 

The ocean is a healing force

If you’ve been following along, I’ve had a pretty good year, all things considered. There wasn’t much I had to “fix” or release, but damn the ocean washing over my feet fixed everything in that moment. There’s something about any body of water that is reenergizing, but the ocean in particular calms me deep in my soul. The salty air, the range of blue-green hues, the sounds of crashing and gushing water, the bubbling sea foam, the predictable unpredictability of the waves — it all washes away any bad vibes. Add a bouncing Kona-pup romping around on the sand, and every day at the beach was bliss. The drive to Dog Beach in San Diego was worth every minute. 

Cooking on a trip is a stretch

It isn’t that I dislike cooking, or that I don’t want to do it when I could be exploring new places instead, but the mental load and limited resources make it so hard to cook! If we’re driving to our destination, we pack a kitchen knife and small cutting board in the event we want/need to cook. This is because the knives at the rental will be dull af (I have experienced this 100% of the time). But we sometimes don’t end up needing those things at all. Figuring out what to make with a limited or nonexistent pantry is a chore. Going grocery shopping is a chore. Cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, with pots and pans that are damaged to hell, is — you guessed it — a chore. I did manage to make eggs for breakfast every morning in San Diego though! And so far, I’ve made pancakes and chili (not together) in Crested Butte. If anyone has meal suggestions, I would love to hear them. 

I’m sure there are more lessons learned, but I’ve been too busy driving to write them all down. 

Happy holidays to you and yours, and I’ll catch you all in 2026!

I’m less employed but more myself.

I made a joke early on in my pottery journey, as I explained glazing to a friend. “They will be brighter and shinier after getting fired! … Ha, the same could be said about myself”

Anyway, I knew that had to be the title of this post.

It’s been one year since I got laid off. For the third time. And this was the layoff that I think changed me the most. My first layoff shook me to my core. This one shook everything loose that wasn’t my core. 

This time, I didn’t panic, didn’t spiral, didn’t scramble, didn’t doomscroll job boards or scattershot my resume at the internet. (Ok, maybe a tiny bit, but I caught myself before I fell into the abyss. Is this… growth?)

Instead, I did the opposite. I slowed down and gave myself grace. And I let that shit go.

I thanked the universe — truly, genuinely — for forcing me out of a toxic relationship I’d been trying to “fix” with grit and over-functioning. I knew that job was draining my soul and was not the best situation, but it wasn’t until I was severed from it that I realized how horrible it was. I had never worked harder at a job, I had never given a job more of not just my time and energy, but myself. And for what? To treat me like trash to be discarded, which they eventually did.

Hindsight is 20/20. A cliche for a reason, as it turns out.

Then I got a little… spiritual? Not (entirely) in a woo-woo way, but in an “accept what I cannot change” way. Getting laid off became a blessing in disguise for me — and I say that with deep awareness that this isn’t true for everyone.

What I didn’t know at the time was that 2025 would become my year — a whole year! — of rest and rediscovery.

I started asking different questions. Not “What’s next?” or “How do I fix this?” but “Who am I without a job title?” and “What do I actually like to do when no one is watching?” So I began to rediscover myself — not by reinventing, but by remembering.

A list of what I’ve learned and tried and did, in no particular order:

• I started writing on Substack(!!!).
• I fell deeply in love with pottery.
• I partnered with an old coworker-turned-friend to start a podcast.
  I rediscovered my love of drawing (well, doodling). 
• I revisited my cookbook collection and cooked a lot of new recipes (though still fewer than I aspired to).
• I set up an LLC and learned all the annoying business things around that.
• I learned how to drive a stick shift.
• I tried my hand at gardening.
• I began learning how to taste wine and coffee with intention.
• I got a record player and now listen to full albums again.
• I nourished my relationships — with friends, family, and of course Kona, my sweet pupperoni. 
• And I learned how to be with myself without immediately turning that into productivity or feeling guilty for not doing “more”. 

None of these things made me more employable, but all of them made me more me.

Along the way, I found my voice — not my corporate voice, not my “manager ready” voice, not my “please promote me” voice. But my actual voice. Unfiltered, unoptimized, no mask. Just me.

I stopped contorting myself to fit into what I thought I was supposed to be, especially in a professional sense. I stopped optimizing. I stopped squeezing every ounce of myself into work and leaving nothing for the rest of my life.

When I zoom out, I see this clearly now: everything I did this year pointed me back to my core values.

When I read Dare to Lead by Brene Brown, I did the values exercise, the one where you’re only allowed to pick two. They’re meant to represent who you are at your best, and they don’t change depending on context. Your personal values and your work values aren’t different values. They’re just expressed differently. 

The two I landed on were curiosity and joy. And I think I nailed it. Somehow, without consciously trying, I spent the year living them.

Curiosity showed up in learning new skills, in tasting things slowly and deciding if I like them, in asking myself who I am, in wondering what my life could look like if I think outside the box. Joy showed up in making things with my hands, in meals with friends, in laughter, in choosing presence over optimization (breakfast without checking emails? Amazing!).

This year wasn’t about becoming someone new. It was about returning to the best version of myself. The version of me who leads with wonder. Who does things because they’re interesting or delightful, not because they’re useful or profitable.

Early in the year, I realized that our jobs get the best version of us. We give our energy and creativity to work in the name of passion and dedication, and our loved ones get whatever is left over. That realization stopped me cold. And even darker was recognizing that in this late-stage capitalistic hellscape, there often isn’t anything left over at all.

Today, I know who I am outside of my job. I know what fills me up. And I’m far more intentional about protecting that version of myself — for me, and for the people who actually get to share a life with me. (And that includes you, dear reader! I mean it!)

I really am brighter and shinier after getting fired.

Figuring out what I like is a skill and a tool for learning who I am. (Wow, that sounds like an identity crisis.)

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I actually like. Seems weird, right? How do I not know what I like?

Not in some grand philosophical sense, but in an everyday kind of way: the wine I sip, the coffee I drink, the music I listen to, the clothes I wear, the snacks I reach for. What I realized is: I often don’t know why I like or dislike something. For example, I’ve been really into Sicilian wine lately, and I can’t articulate why other than “It’s interesting because it tastes like volcano.” And I definitely can’t describe why I like one Sicilian wine over another. They both taste like volcano. But I like one more than the other. Shrug.

I’m realizing this isn’t just about wine — it’s about taste itself, learning to understand it, and finding the vocabulary to describe it.

I’ve started thinking of taste as a skill, not just instinct. You can train it, notice patterns, and get better at articulating your reactions. With wine, it’s paying attention to acidity, sweetness, tannins, viscosity, booziness. With coffee, it’s noticing which notes I like — fruity, floral, chocolatey, nutty. With music, its melodies and harmonies, lyrics, instruments. With clothes, it’s what textures (soft, not itchy), colors (jewel tones), and silhouettes (TBD depending on the day, honestly) make me feel like myself. With food, it’s figuring out which flavors I crave and why. The more I practice noticing, the more I can describe what I’m experiencing. And I definitely need to learn the vocabulary, as if I’m learning a new language. There are SO. MANY. WORDS. to describe taste — have you ever looked at a flavor wheel?

I also realized how much taste reflects identity. Our preferences can be a window into who we are: our curiosity, our values, our personality. That wine that tastes like volcanic rocks? It mirrors my willingness to explore. That small-batch pour-over I can’t stop thinking about? It reflects my bougie side, lol. The song I listen to on repeat? I’m a sucker for catchy pop tunes. That hoodie I keep reaching for? I choose comfort over fashion, every time. Even the snacks I choose — sour candy over sweet cookies — probably reveal something about how I approach the world, though I’m not entirely sure what yet.

But taste doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Culture, marketing, and social norms shape what we’re “supposed” to like. Think about the stereotype that bros love beer and women prefer rosé. That dudes love rock music and girls love boy bands. Sometimes those patterns line up with real personal preference (I do love rosé!), but sometimes they’re the result of expectation and reinforcement. Over time, those expectations can seep into how we see ourselves — and probably influence our preferences too.

Recognizing this has made me more curious about my own tastes: which ones are truly mine, and which were handed to me? Do I actually like this coffee, or do I like it because it won awards? Do I love Japanese denim, or do I only like it because it’s supposed to be The Best? (The answer to both is yes, I genuinely like those things.)

I’ve also realized that while I’m easily influenced to try something, I’m not easily influenced to like it. For example: Dubai chocolate is fine, but I don’t love it. Quarter-zips offer the stabby discomfort of a zipper without any of the convenience of one. But I’ve loved matcha since before it was trendy — how hipster of me.

Taste isn’t static, and that’s part of what makes it interesting. What I love today might feel different a year from now. Figuring out what I like isn’t about arriving at a definitive list — it’s about paying attention and experimenting without judgment. It’s noticing patterns, revisiting old favorites, revisiting old not-favorites, and being open to surprises. 

A fun fact about me is I regularly try foods I used to dislike, since taste buds (and taste in general) change. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised! A non-exhaustive list of things I used to hate but now love: peanut butter, pickles, dark chocolate, Manchego cheese, peaty scotch, olives (but ONLY Castelvetrano olives, for now). 

In the end, learning to like is really learning to know myself. Taste isn’t just about pleasure. It’s a tool for reflection and a way to express identity. So I’ll keep tasting, trying, noticing, and naming — whether that’s wine, clothes, food, music, hobbies, or anything in between. Because figuring out what I like is more than discovering preferences; it’s discovering me.

He taught me how to tip well and talk back, among other things.

Today would have been my dad’s 76th birthday.

Every year, our only tradition is a steak dinner — nothing fancy, just something he loved. Sometimes we go out, sometimes we stay in, but the point is the same: we remember him. Tonight I’m making ribeye and baked potatoes, and we’re opening a good bottle of red.

I think of Dad often — how can I not? And it’s usually when I realize I do something the same way he used to, or the way he taught me. There are things he taught me on purpose, but there are others I learned from observation.

Here are some of those things.

—

How to Tip Well

When I was a teenager, Dad and I went on a father-daughter date, just the two of us, to get dessert at Komegashi Too, a little Japanese restaurant at the Jersey City waterfront. 

We both really wanted tempura green tea ice cream that evening. So we walked in, sat at the bar, had our ice cream and a good time. When the check came, Dad tipped 100%. It wasn’t much since all we had was two desserts, but it was 100% of the check. I was confused, because wasn’t 20% “the rule”?

He said the staff works hard, it still took some time and effort for them to bring out our ice cream, and we took up two seats at the bar. Besides, the extra money meant more to them than it did to him — they were working, and we were having a good time.

That was the day I realized the entry fee for a night out. And he never made a show of his generosity, either.

How to Have My Own Income (and therefore, my own independence)

My first summer break since going off to college, I decided I needed a summer job. My mom asked me if I was sure, I worked hard all year and could use a break.

Yeah, but I also wanted my own money.

The way I remember it, Dad convinced her to let me do what I wanted — I was his stubborn daughter, after all. If I worked to make my own money, no one could tell me how to spend it. And it would teach me what it takes to make money. 

What it took was six hours a day on my feet, making coffee for cranky undercaffeinated customers and getting through a lunch rush on the register, all for $8 an hour. I don’t even remember what I spent my first paycheck on, but I remember him being proud of how pleased I was with myself. I earned that check, all $300 of it, or whatever meager amount it was.

He taught me to make my own money and not have to rely on anyone to make it for me.

How to Appreciate Nice Things

Dad was a blue-collar man, but he still liked nice things. Nice things that happened to be expensive.

I was a bit more practical — maybe too practical. I saved my money for a rainy day, a rainy week, maybe a rainy decade. I treated every purchase like a high-stakes decision instead of something meant to bring joy.

Dad convinced me to enjoy my hard-earned money. He didn’t tell me to blow it all on frivolous things, but he wanted me to understand that life is short and pleasure counts. That sometimes the thing you really want is worth it, even if it’s not the cheapest option on the shelf. An iPod Nano, in blue, for example. He reminded me that music mattered to me, that I’d love it every day, and that working hard is partly so you can have the things that make life feel good.

Well, he’d be proud that I have some really nice things now, and I didn’t wait for a monsoon to spend that cash.

How to Love Music

Life’s better with a soundtrack, and I know I got my love of music from my dad. I don’t think there was ever a silent car ride — at least I don’t remember one. There was always music playing, and more often than not, some singing along too.

When his schedule allowed, he drove my friends and me to school in the mornings. After Dad passed, one of those friends reached out and told me she’ll always remember him belting Enrique Iglesias in the car. How specific, and how accurate.

From him I learned that music isn’t background noise; it’s memory-making. It sets the tone for a day, it sticks to you. I’ve tried to carry that with me — starting my mornings with a song that makes me feel awake, or alive, or just a little less rushed. And I still sing along to everything in the car.

How to Drive… Er, How to Know Your Limits

He tried.

He started with the basics — mirrors, signals, both hands on the wheel. We drove around an empty parking lot for me to learn how to control my speed and turns. There was a lot of braking. A lot of deep, fatherly sighs.

At some point, I think he realized (1) I was going to pass my driving test and be a competent driver someday, and (2) he didn’t want to get frustrated with me, so he wasn’t the person who was going to get me there. So he did the smartest thing possible: he paid for driving lessons. 

That might’ve been the real lesson: knowing when to teach, when to step back, and when to outsource to a professional for the sake of the relationship.

How to Care Quietly

He wasn’t someone who announced what he was doing for you. He just… did it. Filled up my tank without mentioning it. Moved my car before the street sweeper came. Bought extra cases of water at BJ’s because he knew I’d take one back to school. Picked all the mushrooms off his plate and put them onto mine because he knew I loved them.

None of it was loud. It was just his way. What I understand now is that quiet care is still care, just delivered differently. It’s love in shorthand. It’s attention disguised as ordinary tasks.

How to Be a Smartass and The Art of Talking Back

My dad had a gift for talking back — the quick comeback, the one-liner that cut straight through the nonsense. He didn’t tolerate bullshit, and he didn’t sugarcoat things. He could cut through a conversation with one sharp sentence and then move on like nothing happened.

When I went to Singapore during one of my school breaks to visit my aunt and grandma (his sister and mom), Grandma kept giving me shit for wandering around on my own. I basically told her that I was there on vacation, I came home for dinner, and therefore I was going to do what I wanted — so who cares? She complained to my dad, and he just said, “What do you expect? She’s my daughter. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

The irony, of course, is that he absolutely hated when I did it to him. Anytime we argued, I’d storm off to my room and toss out a final “It’s not fair” or some other dramatic last word. And without fail, he’d call after me, “You always have to have the last word, don’t you?” (Fun fact: this is why my parents wanted me to be a lawyer.)

Whether it’s in my blood or something I picked up from watching him, I know how to stand my ground. I know how to speak up for myself with a little bit of edge. It was never about disrespect — it was about knowing my voice and using it.

—

These are the lessons he left me with, the ones that keep revealing themselves over time. I didn’t realize I was paying attention back then, but it turns out I was taking notes the whole time.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

A reminder that good things often start with what’s left.

I stood there, fridge door wide open, and stared at a Costco-sized tub of kimchi.

I had bought it because it was a deal, and “we would eat it!” And we did eat it. But there was still so. much. left. Because, again, Costco-sized tub.

Kimchi never really goes bad, so it probably would have been fine living in the fridge for a bit (or a lot) longer. But I didn’t want it taking up precious space anymore, so I did what many Asian grandmas would do: I made it into soup.

And that’s when it hit me. For millennia, people — and let’s be honest, mostly women — have been doing this exact thing: taking what’s on hand, refusing to waste it, and turning it into something comforting. Not out of trendiness or moral virtue, but because they had to.

Before “zero waste” and “farm-to-table” were hashtags, this was just life. The art of stretching. The daily creativity of feeding people with whatever was in your kitchen.

What I made that day was kimchi jjigae. It’s what happens when kimchi gets really fermented and a bit too funky to eat raw — some people like it that way, but I find it too sour. You toss it in a pot with onions, tofu, and pork, and let it simmer into something new. The Costco kimchi I was tired of looking at became lunch and dinner for two days. And I was so pleased with myself — being able to make a delicious meal that lasted us for days out of whatever we had on hand.

My train of thought continued down the track of other “reimagined leftovers” foods. Of course, I thought of fried rice first — the ultimate leftovers food. The sad leftover carrot from the bunch you bought for something else? The random quarter of an onion in the fridge? The scraps of leftover chicken that aren’t enough for a full meal? The bag of frozen peas you forgot about at the back of the freezer? Add some leftover rice (better than fresh because it’s drier and thus better for frying), a bit of soy sauce, and an egg, and you’ve got dinner. Fried rice is resourcefulness turned into comfort food.

Every culture has its own version of this kind of ingenuity. In Japan, extra rice can be shaped into onigiri. In Spain, leftover chicken or fish becomes croquetas.  In Italy, yesterday’s bread is soaked and turns into panzanella. In Mexico, stale tortillas transform into chilaquiles. In Cuba, leftover beef is shredded into ropa vieja (literally “old clothes”!). In Hawaii, Spam became a staple after World War II, when imported meat was scarce; now Spam musubi is a cultural icon and proof that what begins as survival can evolve into identity. Across continents and cuisines, people have been practicing the same instinct for centuries: don’t waste, just reimagine.

It’s proof that good food doesn’t have to start from scratch. It starts from what’s left. And in many cases, those dishes become culturally iconic.

All of this feels especially relevant again. The vibe right now feels a bit like the early days of COVID lockdown — everyone staying home, cooking with what they had, googling “how long does x last in the fridge.” Between layoffs, inflation, and grocery prices that make you want to puke, everyone’s trying to make things last a little longer. The old ways — the scrappy, make-it-work ways — suddenly look a lot like wisdom.

While it can sometimes be stressful and overwhelming, there’s something satisfying about being able to look at what’s in the fridge and make something delicious out of it. It’s like a personal episode of “Chopped” but without the curveball of having to use an ostrich egg.

That’s where creativity happens: not in abundance, but in constraint. There’s an art to turning a few mushrooms, some small carrots, and half a lemon into something edible, even delicious. (These are things in my fridge right now. I will be making soup.)

I’ve thought about how we as a modern society have rebranded all of this. Meal prepping and batch cooking are just different names for “cook once, eat twice.” Sustainability and zero-waste are things your grandmother called “using what’s in the pot.” They weren’t doing this with the intention of saving the planet. They were doing it to save their money while feeding hungry mouths.

Our mothers and grandmothers might not have called it resilience, or creativity, or sustainability. They just called it dinner.

There’s comfort in that — in knowing that when things feel uncertain, when money’s tight or plans fall apart, we can still make something nourishing out of what remains.

There’s some deeper thought here that extends beyond food, but I’m too hungry to dive into that.

Turns out the best compliment abroad is being mistaken for a local.

Everywhere we go, people assume we’re locals. And we take pride in it.

This summer in Crested Butte, a couple seated next to us at dinner asked how long we’ve lived in town. (And if R owned the bookstore, which made me laugh — because Arvin, the actual bookstore owner, is also a brown man.)

Last winter in San Diego, people at Dog Beach asked if we lived in the neighborhood or if we had to drive to the beach.

Anytime we’re in Maui, people ask us for directions or recommendations on where to eat or snorkel.

It happens so often that we’ve stopped being surprised. We get it, we can blend in almost anywhere. But on our recent trip to Thailand and Japan, the feeling of being local took on a different weight. There, blending in wasn’t just about familiarity or ease; it was about perspective, humility, and realizing how much being “American” stands out overseas… even when you wish it didn’t. Especially in these times. 

We noticed quickly how easy it was to spot the Americans. Not just by accent, but by volume, by the way they (we…) occupied space. There’s a kind of cultural footprint that follows Americans: the loud confidence, the need to be accommodated, the assumption that English will get us anywhere. And because R and I never want to be this kind of stereotypical American (it’s embarrassing af!), we found ourselves softening our voices, overcompensating with extra politeness, and hoping everyone assumed we were Canadian or Australian. In our hotel lobby in Tokyo, we witnessed a group of people getting frustrated by the language barrier, and they loudly complained to one another about it. We shook our heads and muttered to each other, “The staff probably hates American tourists.”

When people asked where we were from, I hesitated. (And then we said New York, ha! I feel like that makes it a little better.) It wasn’t shame so much as awareness, the kind that shifts between self-consciousness and reflection.

Then there were the other moments that felt like a compliment. When a hostess in Tokyo spoke to me in Japanese, after speaking to two other parties in English. When cab drivers in Bangkok tried striking up conversation with me in Thai. When I blended in just enough to be mistaken for someone who belonged. Those moments weren’t about pretending; they were about moving gently enough through a place so people didn’t brace against my harsh American presence.

I realized that sense of blending in feels good not because we’re “passing,” but because we’re paying attention. We’re trying to be respectful and assimilate into the communities so graciously hosting us. Blending in isn’t about hiding; it’s about respect. It’s about noticing the rhythm of a place before trying to sync with it. It’s about curiosity instead of dominance, listening instead of leading. I caught myself shushing myself on the Tokyo Metro, where train passengers ride in silence (or, at most, whispers) to their destinations. I happily said “sawadee kha!” (hello) with a Thai smile to everyone, even after leaving Thailand. We caught on that everyone walks on the left side in Tokyo, so we trained ourselves to do so as well. We noticed everyone said “khop khun kha” (or “khop khun krahp”, thank you) to us with their hands together, so we made it a habit to do the same.

And maybe that’s why I love travel so much. It reminds me that identity isn’t fixed — it expands, contracts, and blurs at the edges depending on where you are and how open you’re willing to be. We pick up new vocabulary and habits along the way, adapting to the norms of wherever we are in the world.

It’s a humbling, humanizing practice in perspective — a reminder that wherever you go, the desire to belong is universal.

Notes on nostalgia, noise, and what still feels like home.

We went home to New York this past weekend, to celebrate our tenth(!!!) wedding anniversary. Every visit back home is always a whirlwind, running all over the place to see friends and family.

The difference this time around was more downtime than usual — in the form of commuting on the subway. Sure, we’ve taken the subway in the eight years since we’ve left, but not as often as we did this past weekend. (If you are curious: Fort Greene, Harlem, Hamilton Heights, East Village, Midtown West, and a bonus PATH ride to and from Jersey City! On a weekend schedule!)

I need to sit with some of these thoughts a bit longer, because I think there are threads to pull. But I’m feeling quite tired and my brain has been scrambled eggs lately. So for now, enjoy my half-baked thoughts — more so observations than deep thoughts, really — and let me know if there are any I must expand on.

— — —

In many ways it felt so much like home, like I haven’t missed a beat. In other ways, I felt like a stranger navigating a new place. Not because I didn’t know where to go or how to get there, but the things I was seeing and what I was feeling were… different. Which is totally fine and expected; we should all be evolving, and NYC and Jersey City are no exception!

—

It made me really happy to see the Chinatown mainstays of my childhood are still alive and well. We had breakfast at Big Wong on Friday, and it’s the best congee in the world, idc what you think.

—

The subway is one of the few things left that doesn’t have a premium experience you can pay for. Experiencing Disneyland with a “fast pass” vs without one are two very different experiences. Not on the subway! Everyone pays their $2.90 fare and you get what you get, whether that’s a quiet ride or jam packed with a hundred sweaty strangers. You can’t pay an extra $100 to ride the train without the sweaty strangers. And there’s something so beautiful about it being the great equalizer. 

—

What struck me as weird was how many subway ads were for tech companies. The friend dot com ones were especially weird, they totally creeped me out (Friend is a wearable device that, to my understanding, is an AI chatbot that lives inside a necklace? No thanks).

—

Growing up in the NYC metro area taught me a kind of practical problem solving. It trained me to be more adaptable and resilient. The train I’m on is being rerouted? Gotta figure out how to adjust. There are delays and I’m smushed on a subway platform? Gotta suck it up like everyone else. There’s a thread here about how dealing with a little bit of friction isn’t the worst thing. Something about what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but like, not in a toxic way?

—

Along the lines of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger or something… I realized I got desensitized to a lot of things at some point. How loud it is. How smelly it is. How generally gross it is. It was the first time since moving away that volume of the normal city sounds (sirens, cars, subway trains, jackhammering, people shouting, etc.) jarred me, and I was surprised by that. I adjusted by the end of the first evening, though.

—

I don’t miss commuting. At all. Sorry. I know it would have been slightly better on a weekday and not a silly modified schedule and weekend service routes (getting around on Thursday and Friday was way better than Saturday), but the trekking through humid subway stations, dodging people and pigeons and poop, going up steep stairs because your train tracks are located in the seventh layer of hell, the people playing games on their phone at full volume without headphones, did I mention how smelly the city is…

—

—

I confidently navigate throngs of people, the game of Frogger while crossing the street, labyrinths of transfers between subway lines. If I walk in the wrong direction, at least I do it with conviction (and subtly turn around after pulling over to the side to check my phone or tie my shoe or any other reason to stop and pivot). I find it interesting that I move through life so confidently like this in some aspects of life, but not in others. Something to marinate in my brain and untangle at a later time. 

— — —

Every time I go back to the East Coast, I think I’ll find it different — and it always is — but the bigger surprise is realizing I’m different, too. A little slower, a little softer (the number of times I wondered aloud, “Have I just gotten soft?!”), more appreciative of peace and quiet. But it’ll always be home to me, no matter where I am in the world.

A reminder that rest doesn’t need to be earned.

This weekend, Husband and I got our flu shots and COVID boosters. We knew there was a good chance we’d be knocked on our asses for at least 24 hours afterward, so we planned ahead: ordered enough Chinese takeout to last a few meals and made sure the fuzzy blankets were on the couch. He called it scheduled server maintenance, aka planned downtime.

Even though I knew I’d likely feel shitty, I declared, “Even if I feel fine tomorrow, I’m still going to potato.”

If I didn’t feel sick, Past Amanda would’ve done laundry, organized something, maybe finally gotten around to writing that thing that’s been sitting in drafts (and/or this post). Rest, in my old vocabulary, was a backup plan, not a first choice.

I think a lot of us — especially those wired to be responsible, ambitious, or perpetually “on top of things” — have learned to see rest as something we have to earn. You rest after the work is done. Or you rest because you’re sick, or burned out, or on vacation (and even then, probably not fully).

Rest, in other words, needs a reason.

And without that reason, it feels indulgent. Lazy. Like you’re breaking an unspoken rule about what it means to be a good adult.

We often praise people for doing a lot — not necessarily doing well, just doing more. We even talk about rest in productivity terms: “Rest is important so you can recharge.” We ask coworkers when they’re back from PTO if they’re refreshed and recharged, so they can… get back to work.

While it’s true that rest fuels good work, it’s telling that we still frame it as fuel for work. 

Ew. 

It’s hard to imagine saying, “Rest is important because sometimes you need to not be doing anything.” That doesn’t sound very… ambitious, does it?

When I think about Saturday, I did nothing useful. Not one productive thing, besides walking Kona in the morning, and even that was a struggle. I spent the day rotting on the couch, binging the new Denver season of Love Is Blind (btw, this season is particularly cringe), and napping. I felt so terrible that I could barely sit up to eat.

Yes, I had a perfectly good reason to be completely useless. But I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it — where Past Amanda would’ve felt bad or stressed about “losing a day,” even if she’d technically “earned” a lazy one. There used to be this tension between wanting to rest and wanting to deserve it. 

When we only rest after we’ve earned it, rest becomes another form of productivity — we’re resting because we need it to be productive. True rest is not transactional. It’s not a break between “real” things. It is the real thing. There’s something radical about letting yourself rest without a reason. It interrupts the flow of hustle culture. It reminds you that you don’t need to justify your existence with output.

You’re allowed to be a lump of mashed potatoes on a couch, watching truly trash TV, with no greater purpose than just being. This weekend was a good reminder that I need more planned downtime. You probably do too.

I got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine…

I grew up with music as the backdrop to everything. My bright yellow Sony Walkman was practically glued to me, playing homemade Elvis mixtapes or whatever cassettes my dad left lying around. In the car, it was a rotation between the “oldies” station (pretty sure it was 101.1, WCBS FM; I can still hear the jingle in my head), the popular music station (Z100!), or “car CDs” (usually boy band albums or Burmese songs). When I graduated to a Discman, I burned my own CDs with tracks ripped from Limewire, hoping the download didn’t nuke the family computer. I eventually moved up to an iPod — late to the game with a 5th gen, I think — suddenly carrying hundreds of songs in my pocket.

I carry music with me everywhere. Singing in the shower. Cooking dinner (I use the 10-minute version of “All Too Well” as a pasta timer). Flipping through radio stations and somehow knowing every song, even across totally different genres. Just the other day, I went seamlessly from The Corrs’ “Breathless” to T-Pain’s “I’m Sprung” to Michelle Branch’s “Everywhere”. My Red Rocks concert tees range from The Goo Goo Dolls to Teddy Swims to Anderson .Paak. I’m a millennial who can karaoke to Shania Twain just as well as Linkin Park. If I know it, even halfway, I’ll sing or hum along. Call it eclectic, call it range.

Music isn’t just background or entertainment for me. Music is how I reset. I try to start each morning with something playing, even if just for a song or two. There’s something cleansing about it, like it shakes the mental Etch A Sketch and lets me start fresh. Some days, it’s “Killing In the Name”. Other days, it’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You”. Either way, the music clears my head.

At least, it clears my head when lyrics aren’t fighting for attention. If I’m deep into writing or problem-solving, lyrics hijack my brain. I can’t focus on building my own sentences when a song is telling me a story. But instead of working in silence, I turn to lo-fi beats, instrumental tracks, or songs in languages I don’t understand.  No words to trip me up — just rhythm and beats. Scaffolding for my brain, without distraction of catchy choruses I can sing along to. I’ve definitely typed song lyrics instead of status updates before…

Music tells the stories we cling to, the ones we belt out at concerts, the ones that bring us back to a car ride in 1999. I still remember the first time my dad blasted the Backstreet Boys’ Millennium CD through the car speakers. Twelve-year-old me hearing the intro to “Larger Than Life”, complete with AJ’s maniacal cackle. In the right moment, music and lyrics are belonging. In the wrong one, they’re just noise.

And that’s not just true in my AirPods; it’s true everywhere. Coffee shops use mellow acoustic tracks to make you linger. Bars crank up the bass to make nights feel electric. Restaurants fine-tune playlists to make meals more intimate, or more bumpin’, while supermarkets play the “oldies” to remind you you’re officially an adult shopping for milk and eggs. Music steers the vibe, whether or not we notice.

That’s why music feels so necessary to me: it teaches me to notice what I need. Do I want to feel nostalgic, to be swept in a memory? Or do I need the hum of background rhythm to stay present and focused? Side note: I often get stuck on deciding what my morning tunes are because I DON’T KNOW what I need. But that’s another story.

Today (including while writing this!), I spent hours with music in the background, mostly throwback J-Pop, and I felt more… regulated. Like I’d been tuned, back into myself.

Music doesn’t just accompany us. It shapes us, sometimes with words, sometimes without. The trick is knowing when to sing along, and when to let the lyrics fall away. Maybe that’s not just true for music, but for life too.