My jogging buddy

When I lived in LA, I went to Trader Joe’s by myself. I went to the gym by myself. I sometimes went to the movies by myself. I ate mostly by myself.

As I did my daily 5,000-step laps with dad this evening, I realized that he has become my jogging buddy. 

When the rain had became drizzles, we strolled the quiet end of the neighborhood. Our conversation varied from what I’d watched to what I’d written. He listened and sometimes gave me his observations. 

And before I knew it, he’d announced: that’s the fifth lap now. 

Okay. I’d say.

And we slowed down a little as we sauntered back, carefully avoiding the occasional dog poops of the dog owners who have enough money to own labradors but not enough ethics to clean up their dogs’ residues.

The only downside for me is, now I need to find some other chunks of time to listen to podcasts and audiobooks. Because my dad would be the first one to ditch me, also known as the lesser consistent of the two.


Yours truly,



I can’t believe we’re already in November. Two months later, 2018 would be officially behind us.

I wonder what I have achieved exactly in 2018 other than being exhausted by logistics, getting fucked over by administrative bullcrap and now fallen sick thanks to the germs from my hometown. Homecoming kiss has never been so contagious.

I’ve never felt that I’m running against time as I do right now.

Hamilton’s Non-Stop echoes in my ears:

  • Why do you write like you’re running out of time?
  • Write day and night like you’re running out of time?
  • Every day you fight, like you’re running out of time?


As I dragged my bone-tired body out of bed today, I’d slept for some 13 hours yesterday including a three hour nap later in the afternoon. And yet, I still felt dizzy. I skimmed the side effects of the drugs that the doctor prescribed me yesterday.  Drowsiness, check. Lack of energy, check. Double whammy, check.

I vow that I will take good care of my body so I can run faster, write more. And yet, right now, on the second day of November, I can only take it slow. One step at a time.

Lesson learned: Take care of your body so it will take you further.


Yours truly,


Competitive Yoga

I had a meltdown just a few days ago.

I gave my friend a call in that darkest hour of my soul. My friend, who has a braver older soul, felt drained hearing me out that evening.

“No. It isn’t self-doubt.” I heard myself arguing. “I have no problem knowing my ability. But I just doubt whether people can see it.”

“It’s still self-doubt.”

He’s right. I just didn’t know whether I would really be able to kick start my business when I move back to Shanghai, whether I would find someone I want to date, whether I would be able to support myself being an entrepreneur.

My poor friend listened till the wee hours. He didn’t try to give me solutions. When we met yesterday  at this exotic Moroccan restaurant known of its plush cushions and healthy couscous, I let my guard down.

“Sign up for a yoga class.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know anything you do you start at the top. This time, find their entry level class. Sit with yourself. Be with yourself. Have no expectations. Set no bars.”


“I wish I could start it much earlier. It’s not that I want my body to be more flexible. None of it. But it makes me more receptive of me as I am and be okay with it.”

“I’ll try.”

“Remember, there is no such thing as ‘competitive yoga.’ If you find yourself gaging for air it’s not yoga. It’s torture.”


Yours truly,