How do we live the best life that we possibly can? One that surpasses our wildest dreams, one that leaves us bursting with gratitude for every breath we take?
For a considerable part of my existence, that very important question never even crossed my mind. Let’s rewind to the 1980s. For two years of my childhood, my six-person family lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment, one of the thousands dispersed across the mean streets of Manhattan. Since I was one of the younger members in the familial hierarchy, I was small enough not to need a bed, though I slept incredibly well on strategically-aligned sofa cushions. (It turned out to be a useful skill: Decades later, I have no trouble snoozing on overnight trains, or while squeezed into the part of an airplane that is laughingly known as a seat.)
My Thai immigrant parents worked four jobs between them. For their superhuman efforts, they lived hand-to-mouth and month-to-month, just a few steps above welfare. Since the age of nine, I have worked in some capacity in each and every year of my life – nights, summers, weekends, tutoring, waitressing, camp counseling. The very first job was as mother’s helper: like an almost-baby-sitter, I kept toddlers entertained and well-fed while their parents worked in another room, and pocketed $3 for every hour on the clock. I’m tempted to romanticize how mighty the dollar used to be, but even then, it was below minimum wage.
Attending private schools, mostly on full scholarship, turned my world upside-down. Whereas my parents were struggling to survive, my high school classmates were the offspring of congressmen and banking giants. But despite being afforded more opportunities than most, they worked exceptionally hard towards even greater accomplishments. With all due respect to institutions that I’ve attended, my high school classmates are collectively the most brilliant group of people that I’ve ever encountered. There was the notion that success doesn’t happen overnight: those who aspired to join the Ivy League created roadmaps even before freshman year, hiring tutors to boost their grades in honors-level classes and joining extra-curricular activities that would flesh out a resume. Effective planning seemed just as important as effort and execution.
It was there, in a gleaming seven-story tower in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Manhattan, that I realized that the best lives don’t happen by accident. Sure, chance plays a part in every great success story: In “Outliers,” Malcolm Gladwell draws attention to the fact that Bill Gates and the inimitable Steve Jobs were both born in 1955, and that many other tech moguls were born around the same time. But self-determination and effort must also be critical factors, or else every product of that era would also be shaping industries.
In my adolescence, it dawned on me that if I wanted a better life – for myself, for my parents, for any future family – the first step would be to plan for it. Then came the inevitable hard work, which involved all-nighters, bouts of frustration and a fair share of missed steps - all in the name of journalism, my chosen field. But by age 21, I had been published in the New York Times. At 23, I interviewed Robert Redford from his log cabin for a cover story of Rolling Stone Bulgaria. In reporting from 15 countries (and visiting many more), I’ve been first on the scene after harrowing terrorist attacks, documented a chocolate fashion show and toured an Olympic facility with a future gold medalist.
That’s not to say that I have all the answers. There are days when I wonder if there’s a zero missing from my bank account, or how I can meet a friend for dinner when I have a late-night deadline. But I no longer conjure up polite ways to decline invitations to coffee, just to avoid spending $2 on a beverage that I can very well brew at home. I no longer share a shoebox-sized bedroom with three other people. When I crawl under the down comforter that’s sprawled across my bed – I actually have one now! – I don’t toss or turn or agonize, “What’s to become of me?” the way that Eliza Doolittle does in the movie musical “My Fair Lady.” That’s better than I imagined, and the best part is that the story remains unfinished.
So here’s the deal: This is going to be a space where we figure out how to live the dream. Let’s analyze the paths of the exceptionally talented (Tina Fey fans, get ready!) to see if we might follow in their footsteps. Let’s interact with those who have wisdom to impart, be they ordinary septuagenarians or world-famous pastry chefs. Let’s extract unconventional lessons from the unlikeliest of places, and leave no stone unturned. In other words, let’s all be our own versions of Oprah – may she reign forever. Thoughts and suggestions are always welcome, because if I have one addiction, it’s e-mail.
Here’s to living the best lives we can: the ones we deserve and are meant to live.
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