So you haven’t heard from me in almost three years and NOW I’m back? I know, I know, so before I go FUCK myself, the truth is that…this email subscription is going to renew and I don’t have an extra $72. I thought of reintroducing the newsletter so many times, but the truth-truth is that my beliefs and values were changing so rapidly that I wanted to stay with them rather than define them publicly, as if I knew where I’d land.

This will be my last newsletter. I’m still hovering, but this is for anyone else midair or peeking at another direction. If even prayers need their wings, couldn’t we use a little thrust, a little lift?

When I started Seven Yrs, the website, the accounts, the newsletter in 2020, I was inexhaustible. The only things I remember from 2021 were working on that project, waking early to photograph and collage, writing for hours between work. It was my everyday for 17 months, then a movie script of mine got optioned, and I intensively rewrote it through 2022. I remain proud, because as my fellow doers and artists can attest to, few take on the sweat, the discipline, the sacrifices. I try not to take it for granted, to remember that effort is something to marvel at. It’s just funny to reminisce because I no longer call myself a writer.

I was raised a workhorse because I was identified as having a lot of potential. Grateful for the gifts, but in U.S. and Asian cultures, it means that one is not loved simply. Like many, I learned that if I could not be loved, I could at least be valued. I’ve stayed a workhorse because while I’m valued out loud, my monetary value doesn’t match my needs. There’s food, but no table to put it on because of the third bed in the living room. I work in a new field and I like it a lot, but it matters little. I no longer call myself a writer, not because of a new passion, a loss of desire to be published, or the near acceptance that I don’t write like I used to. Right now I remember how happy I feel when I write, and yet, I don’t need everyone to know that anymore. I don’t want to work more than I live. I would just like to live even when society doesn’t like that.

I don’t have to tell you that there are wars and that the -isms and the -archies are going as hard as they ever have. Like, isn’t it interesting that when we talk about immigrants, we rave about how hard they work, how they contribute to the economy and even social security, and not just stop at how they’re people who’ve made lives of their own, like you must earn the life you were given? I read between the lines of courageous creatives in 2023, fled AI billionaires in 2024, and bounced onto sorted piles of garbage. I was ready for stability and with a swish of my mane, my best work—but it became impossible to unsee who was overworked and underpaid. When I worked in film, I was once a contractor at $13.50/hr. and felt guilty if I’d return late from lunch. That company was bankrolled by a dad and my boss threw banana peels on the carpet. No wonder I thought I could get used to trash.

When I got my bearings in 2025, I knew my next move then: less professionalism and more heroism. I donated hundreds of dollars to people I never met and never will. I went to town hall meetings and joined Signal groups and picked up lunches in far off parking lots. There was little training and more following the lead of those around you, in fact, it’s best you stayed anonymous, location unknown. I was invisible yet reinflated, smug I still knew how to maximize time, this time for the greater good. Then meetings kept scheduling after going to therapy after 12 hours of working and commuting. Actions were slated during weekends of cooking en masse and grieving premature death. I fell asleep in the back of my car, again, during a Zoom on what to do if an unmarked Chevy Tahoe arrives. A completely different day, I was suspected of being an ICE agent. I thanked the person who asked that.

Most of us do the same tasks for 40+ hours, which is expected, but it’s strange and inhumane. Is it dedication or Stockholm syndrome if your wellbeing depends on how you fulfill repetitive demands? Is it integrity or hierarchy if you help those less fortunate, but not your peers the same way because they could actually succeed you? What is the fucking “greater good” anyway? Does “good” know it’s the lesser one?

So I’ve loosened my tethers. String hangs between laundry, dating, job hunting. All the strife and the striving, and I’m in the same place, wanting the same things as everyone else.

What do normal people talk about? What gets them through the days?

I hug people who piss me off when I understand that now is not the time. I stay for an extra 10 min when my cat decides my lap looks warm after I’ve finished dinner. I’ve heard the plot of every Metal Gear game while washing my face after midnight. I accept burritos, barbecue, and frozen pizza when I’m tired of feeding myself. I sent a text I didn’t have to and received an apology. I make women laugh even when they like men. Back at the office, my friend asked what everyone liked about me and three people immediately piped up. I don’t remember everything that was said, but I remember how enthusiastically they answered.

My 19 year old and 27 year old selves are embarrassed I gave up before getting into Wikipedia. I’m not dead, but I might line dance, read books, race karts, kiss dogs, come back, hop planes, choose wrong, lose games, smoke j’s, be the maid, of honor, a second time, this time, for my mom—and that’s just too much for a storyline. So thank you for reading this one, this was great, but there’s the rest of our lives. I wish you so much strength and satisfaction. Good night, my friend, goodbye!