As a child, I spent my hours night and day belly down in my room in a sea of pastels, acrylics, fabric, needle and thread. Not understanding much of the world around me, drawing out my inner world into crafty productions became, quite literally, my creative way of adjusting to reality. Whether my inspiration was calm or rage, the stamina I had to create felt bottomless. After being born premature, I was thrown into becoming-adult also premature. Throughout my childhood, my family relocated countries every three to four years, which meant that in my schooling I was always being pushed back or pushed forward depending on local education systems and standards. Sometimes by age, sometimes by merit — a word I am reluctant to use as the standardised measuring of a child’s performance makes me deeply uncomfortable. When we moved to the Philippines in 2010, I was 16 and was eager to commence the end of my secondary education. My desire to finish high school never became a reality. While it was fortunate for a foreign transplant such as myself that most schooling was delivered in English, the local education system then ended at year 11. My options were to either undertake year 12 at an international school, at a cost well beyond my family’s means, or dive right into a bachelor’s degree. Naturally, the more economical pathway and the one that would accelerate my education became the logical choice. I was also fortunate that I had support from my family to pursue art. I took on a degree in visual art and design, majoring in painting. My inner child was pleased. I refined my skills and became immensely proud of how my studio training gave me the power to create anything I wanted. This is not to say that all my work was very good, but the space to create was very welcome.
Studying art is a privilege. It’s expensive and indulgent. I had done very well in my painting practice by the time I finished my degree, and was awarded Best Thesis. But as the time came to undertake work placements and plan for my career ahead, I realised that my childlike desire to lay on my belly on my bedroom floor making things without end did not leave me with much competitive edge in the job market and I became terribly afraid. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I were less afraid. I wonder why the path of becoming a full time artist was not one I was able to consider. Over a short period of time, I found myself competing for graphic design jobs and slowly but surely letting go of my tactile mediums. Of course, there was excitement in this as well. In pursuit of newness and career building, I let go of my self-identification as an artist and became a designer. Internships and first jobs passed, I persisted but felt vacant inside. I enjoyed the practice of design, but I was never engulfed enough in types and grid systems for a graphic design practice in its own right to satisfy me. Especially not when I found myself falling under the branch of comms and marketing. I’ve now spent enough time in those spaces that I hold an authentic respect for those who do it well, but I knew it was not for me. This is when things started speeding up. With a fire of fear lit under my ass, I pondered a pivot. I was always interested in and curious about social change, looking at the world around me and wondering how I could make it better. At the time, only having been exposed to design in the context of advertising, I felt the urgency to gobble down on a new field of study. Having a parent who broke a cycle of poverty and another who had the chance to pursue study overseas, education was of utmost importance. After I had failed a number of (stressful) scholarship applications, my parents were still adamant. And with additional support from extended family, they were able to put on a plane to Melbourne, Australia, to commence my masters in international development.
From a lot of time in therapy, I learned that striving for excellence is one of my key creative adjustments (read: coping mechanism) in moving through the world, having felt deeply insecure about my competence in the professional sphere after completing my art degree. And while it would be an understatement to say that completing my postgraduate studies was a struggle, it would not have appeared so on the outside. I was hugely ambitious. For my capstone project, I started an initiative for Southeast Asian diaspora communities. This led me to meeting some of the most influential people who have helped propel me in my career. Like most international students, obtaining fulfilling employment did not come easy, but my tenacity and growing network enabled to start my own design business (working specifically with social sector organisations and for-purpose businesses). Again, this gave off the impression of confidence and entrepreneurialism. The truth is, I was underpaying myself, charging an average of $20–25 an hour for my time while also making significant cuts when invoicing because I became depressed and took longer to complete things than I thought I should have. The optics on the outside were terrific however. So much so that I was eventually poached by a university entrepreneurship program to work as a marketing coordinator (eventually becoming their creative producer and brand manager). I ran towards this opportunity (read: offer of stability) like my life depended on it. At the time, it felt so. Stability, however, did not immediately translate to the shedding of my scarcity mindset. Again, I gobbled down twice as hard and said yes to everything I could. My networks were ever increasing, and I discovered a talent and interest in public speaking and facilitation. Being in the education and startup sphere, opportunities to be in the front of the room were aplenty. I don’t think I was ever qualified enough to speak on many of the things I end up speaking on, but I had the confidence of a early-twenties self-proclaimed CEO who had just had their fiver logo printed on a hoodie.
Boundaries was a word entirely foreign to me. I dreamt of work and was alert to my phone notifications every waking hour. Work became me. The end to this era was a predictable one: I burnt out. That was in the beginning of 2021, and often I still feel like I’m in recovery. I had ventured far from the social change work that I wanted to pursue, and even further away from my art — I became jaded and didn’t even know what any of those things meant to me anymore. I still possess a deep respect for those in the hustle, startup founders, and people who are endlessly hungry. They’re breaking and making as they go, some creating nifty inventions and innovations making our world better. But I knew for myself, in that space I would have been misplaced. It’s difficult to write about this period of my life because again I became highly doubtful, insecure, and terrified. I knew that I had amassed a significant set of accolades (I creatively produced a number of successful events, forged partnerships, won a federal grant, was perceived as a mentor to many) and built an influential network of people around me that I knew would be fine but I wasn’t sure how to harness them in paving a path that felt authentic to me. I took a short break, and put my foot back on the gas pedal (not yet fully recovered). I accepted another similar role, thankfully in a more resourced and balanced environment until eventually, a job opportunity came up for a ‘Senior Social Designer’ working in a social innovation non-profit consultancy for a role in partnership with an international development organisation. The path felt illuminated.
Before I skip forward to my new chapter in social innovation, it’s also worth noting that in 2021, I undertook my yoga teacher training. Since my late teens, yoga became a significant part of my life. I was depressed for most of my teenage life and despite my reluctance to seek inner peace, yoga bathed me with light. Having done ballet as a child, the movement practice that yoga offered was highly compatible to my physical ability. And having been a heavy smoker from my late teens to early twenties, the practice of moving at one’s own breath was much more palatable to me than any form of cardio exercise (most would leave me with the sensation of my stomach being turned inside out). I also sought excellence in my yoga teacher training. So much so that I felt wildly confronted that my teacher provided me with feedback to an essay I had written suggesting that it was more academic than my peers’ and that I did not engage or reflect much/enough on my own personal experience. I had formulated what a good piece of writing ought to look like in my own head, and at the same time, I was so socially adept and comfortable that I did not see myself as someone who would have issues with being vulnerable in the face of others. Regrettably, the truth was that I learned and became very adept at performing. I would grapple with any risk of being less than stellar. This essay feedback really bugged me at the time. I’ll park the yoga thing for now and return to it later on.
I was successful in my application for the Senior Social Designer role and I was over the moon. It felt like all the seeds I had planted and energy I had invested career-building had paid off. I knew I had a lot to learn, in terms of familiarising myself with a new discipline, but I had done that a few times in the past and believed that I would breeze it with grit and charm. While I will not devalue grit and charm, I was wrong in my belief that it was all I needed. Suddenly, I had entered a space of incredibly self-aware, intelligent, creative, kind, passionate, authentic, and passionate people who approached their work with utmost integrity. It’s strange, over a year on, to still have maintained that view. I felt incredibly fortunate, spent much of my time in awe, respect, and fascination. However, a deep fear and insecurity began to arise within me. Social innovation work was not something I could put red-lipstick on for and simply perform. It became clear to me that much of the work was to take place within. My first year in this role was challenging. I was challenged to go deep, rather than fast. I was challenged to question the status quo, unlearn my learned helplessness in the face of broken systems, and reflect on how I show up in the world in support of others. I won’t go into defining what the day-to-day work entails, but I will say (at risk of waxing lyrical, but I do mean it) that most of what the organisation I work for publishes and publicly shows is only a small fraction of the care and depth that is invested into each of its initiatives. Outside of projects, we invest time in looking after ourselves, each other, and our practice. Often, I’ll find myself in conversations with folk in the team about how unique it is to be able to be in and do this work. There was no shortcut to me learning the ropes, and I am still learning, however, I witnessed an interesting change within myself. In my previous occupation, I became very good at teaching founders to make hyper-glossy pitch decks and to present themselves and their businesses as much more than they were (after all, trust the hungry not the proven). I still think I somewhat agree in trusting the hungry, but I’ve been challenged to rethink what is worth being hungry for. Suddenly, my appetite for big dissolved. In conversations with close confidants and peers where I’d previously be eager to discuss my big shiny project of the hour, I caught myself quietly muttering that I’m really valuing going deep and putting care into building a practice.
While I was diving into this new world, I also began teaching yoga. I had held off starting teaching for as long as I could predominantly for the fear of being an imperfect teacher. I had created a brand in my mind for what kind of yoga teacher I wanted to be. I imagined how I would speak and detailed in my mind the kind of effect I wanted to have on my students. Safe to say, this was a major fail that led to nowhere — literally. Eventually, by chance, I ran into an old friend who works at the bouldering gym I used to frequent. He asked if I had completed my teacher training because they were looking for a substitute teacher. My tenacity said yes to the opportunity. I knew I needed the kick in the ass to make a start, so I took it. I was terrified and my first few classes were clumsy. But I enjoyed them! Eventually, I got a permanent spot on the teaching roster and much like my experience in doing social innovation, I learned that a teaching practice is not one that one starts being totally good at. My clumsiness became a door to an embodied understanding, and the experience of simply doing it (while also attending classes as a student) was the only way for me to understand what teaching yoga is. I had previously thought that a teaching qualification was it — finito. Nope. Wrong again. And my yoga teacher who critiqued my essay was onto something. Teaching was never about mastering the history, theory, and philosophy like it was an academic degree. It was never brand building. It is and always was a pathway of exploring and deepening my own search, my own practice. And so I was wrong, and that’s okay. When I’m ready, I intend to write more about my experience teaching, however, the main thing I wanted to convey here is that shit takes time, discipline, and dedication. The experience itself is the teacher.
Now, every so often I accept offers to speak publicly, judge competitions, and host panel conversations. In fact, I did one today on career building, which is likely why I felt compelled to write all of this. Usually, I come into these things excited and nervous. I’d typically get such a high from the thrill of being in front of people, holding space for inspiring discussions, and for my ego to reap the applause and compliments. Again, this is not an experience I would discredit. There is something very magical about it. Today I felt differently. Before coming on stage my heart rate did not shift. On stage, it was a routine procedure; I was present to my guest speakers and I worked to tailor the conversation content with what I thought the hopeful and hungry early-career hustlers wanted/needed to hear. I think it went well. Content, I left straight after as I had to return to my work. On the tram ride home, I questioned how flat I was feeling and I was reminded of a question one of my panellists asked me when we had dinner earlier in the week in preparation for our session together. “Why are you doing this? What motivated you to be involved?”. I was slightly taken aback by the question and I did not know how to answer it. In response to him, I provided a reasonable explanation about my ongoing connection to the hosting organisation, the joy I obtain from being involved in these things, and then I expressed to him that I didn’t feel so sure (obviously still masking enough of my uncertainty to ensure that he felt safe going into a public-facing conversation facilitated by me). And upon reflection, I really did struggle on stage today. I performed well enough that I satisfied the brief of what the conference asked for, but I have personally been so challenged by my own hunger to succeed in my career that I found myself terrified of misleading other young people towards the kind of striving I subjected myself to. In my career I was challenged, yes, by the difficulty of finding the path itself, but mostly challenged by the process of dismantling my own mental model for what I was striving for. I led myself to believe in so much of the optical gravitas that a career ought to be defined by, so much at the expense of my health and happiness. I understand these things are not unimportant (and striving works!). An external projection of success can be a useful communication and connection tools when practiced with awareness. But one of my panellists spoke about living authentically, and I wished I had sat with that and probed deeper on what that meant to her. I wondered in my own heart what that has meant to me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it (evidently, still writing).
In writing this, I’m not really in the business of providing any advice. I’m thinking out loud and processing my own thoughts on ambition and striving. I’ve caught some momentum for myself, a lot out of the fear of failure and being insignificant. I’m not sure I’ve totally cracked that one, but I’ve found myself decelerating. I’m reflecting more on what it means to do good work, and what it means to do good by me. The same guest speaker who asked me about my motivation for participating in the conference spoke today about the importance of play, and the joy of pure play without any attachment towards garnering popularity, success, or financial gain — how it’s so important to maintain that in support of one’s wellbeing and also in nurturing our ability to thrive in our work. And I don’t mean thrive in a smash-your-KPI’s kind of way, but really creatively and authentically thrive. The child who was belly-down on her bedroom floor making things was prematurely plucked out of her play in pursuit of completing a bachelor’s degree at 20, and she did it and more. Over the past 9 years, she hustled. I think she’d be proud of where I got her today. Now, I think I owe it to her to take my foot off the gas pedal, step off the stage, and spend more time drawing on the floor.
