Movement

For longer than I can remember, I’ve been on the move. My first steps were at the Honolulu International Airport; since then, I’ve run on Jackson Hole’s hiking trails, Vienna’s cobblestones, Los Altos’ anti-gravity treadmill, and yes, the occasional Dunkin’. I drive a hydrogen fuel-cell car, so my life literally runs on moving charged particles in more ways than one—it’s electrifying.

When I can’t move exactly how I’d like to, I’ve learned to trust the process that creates new, exciting alternatives. Rolling along in a boot on my knee scooter for four months after my first foot surgery, I still did the cha-cha slide at formal and performed for choir. I haven’t played soccer for almost three years because of the initial injury, but I’m the luckiest intramural indoor-soccer team coach because I get to see my friends crush it on the court. Being part of the fun in a way I never would’ve imagined makes it even sweeter. And while I wish I could run up Half Dome instead of looking at Ansel Adams’ iconic picture of it on the wall in front of the anti-gravity treadmill at physical therapy, this forced static motion reminds me to appreciate the baby steps in any larger journey—and I would not have met such a spunky geriatric crew if I were running at Yosemite.

This need to rapidly adapt has also taught me the value of balancing the deliberate and spontaneous, the explosive and quiet energy in how I move. Whether running through campus GoProing our principal on a golf cart for a rally video or curating LancerHacks workshops, I love seeing pieces of objects and ideas leap out spatially—recalling where information is and what comes after it on a page or in the next frame. I love early mornings and late evenings when I’m one of the few people left running around campus, treasuring and marveling at what’s usually overflowing with energy but has come to rest.

My life is pretty happening, but the aggregate of all my experiences is key to who I am. In trying new things, I am unwilling to miss anything or anyone because it’s the commitment to that multiplicity that keeps me grounded. I religiously watch SNL (live or YouTube) every weekend. It inspires how I create community and conversation. I admire its ability to take essentially any situation, ranging from generic to outlandish, and build something new that speaks to people, making us all laugh more or think differently.

And then there’s the connective tissue that strings together my life’s moving parts (unlike my dysfunctional foot).

Ironically enough, I’ve always lived in the same house, grounded in routines like weekend omelettes with my mom, dad, and little sister and accompanied whether leaving or coming home by neighbors’ dogs moving through our backyard.

M. C. Escher’s Metamorphosis II on a wall in my room, a hand-me-down from my mom’s dorm days, reminds me daily of the organic beauty, power, and progression of change—and the curiosity of modern art.

My favorite shoes—embossed, rose-gold Birkenstocks bought with my first paycheck—comfortably support my every move (yes, I wear them with fuzzy socks in the winter, and yes, that’s perfectly acceptable).

I’m still holding out for the long-promised California high-speed rail, but for now, I’m a Caltrain regular—#217 almost every summer morning and evening, to and from work the past two years. I’ve met political-campaign staffers, tech bros, tourists, nappers, and Giants fans. We’re all disembarking at different stops and charting different life courses but on the exact same path for a few brief moments. Our lives are a unique and ever-evolving but shared journey in the bigger story of the human experience. More than anything, the exploration of this notion keeps moving me along into new frontiers. I can’t wait to see how, where, with whom, and for what I move and am moved next.