30 Before 30: A “Life Resume”
About this time last year I came up with a list of 30 things I wanted to accomplish before turning 30: my own personal “life resume” divided into six categories — Challenge, Do, Learn, See, Share, and Visit — with an “expiration” date of my 30th birthday on August 24, 2025.
The inspiration for creating this list came from enduring repeated instances of loss followed by a desire to live more fully, especially as I spend more time in Asia. I realized that even though I’d spent an exciting year in China, I’d still somehow fallen into the mindset of thinking, “Well I can always do that next time” or “I’ll save that for later,” justifying my excuses by explaining “It’s busy season” or “It’s too expensive.” But when is “next time”? What if “later” never comes?
Between January 2016 and October 2017, I lost three friends to suicide. Each of them was around my age and all of them younger than I am now. With each loss came a new round of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance as I struggled to reconcile their deaths with my guilt: how did I not notice? Could I have said or done something to prevent this from happening?
These stages of grief, however, were also accompanied by a new awareness. The second and third time I received the news, I recognized the signs of what I’d gone through before and knew what I needed to do to keep myself sane: stick to as normal a routine as possible. While I felt anything but normal, I was aware that not going to the gym, not sleeping and waking up at normal times, or not leaning on family and friends for support would ultimately prove to hinder the process of acceptance.
October 2017 to March 2019 saw a brief reprieve. This year, however, three friends have died unexpectedly within four months: a fourth friend by suicide, one in a car accident, and another, my friend Steve, due to complications after receiving a heart transplant.
I received the news of Steve’s death the second night of a three-week Princeton-sponsored course I was attending at the Shanghai Peking Opera Company to learn more about this Northern style of Chinese drama. The timing felt tragically ironic: I’d met Steve through a community theater production of Seussical in spring 2010 and learned of his death while my classmates and I were immersing ourselves in practicing for our final performance — the first time I’d be on a stage in three years.
Even though I was only working backstage for Seussical, Steve became one of my biggest fans. He came to see my brothers and me in our high school performances, and came to several of my shows at Princeton despite a long commute and being an active member in the lives of his own children and grandchildren. I met up with Steve for dinner back in May 2018, and visited him again in his hospital room at the University of Pennsylvania in March 2019 where he waited for over 100 consecutive days to receive a heart transplant.
Steve and I had been in touch periodically after I first moved to China, but our messages on Instagram and Messenger became more regular as I followed his Facebook for updates. Most of the time his statuses weren’t what I’d hoped they’d be — that his doctors had found a heart for him — but things that caught me off guard: his reflections on looking out the window from his hospital bed and appreciating the beauty of what he could see or a conversation with a doctor or nurse that made him smile. Even though I’d often message Steve to check in, the conversation would usually end up with him checking in on me instead. He might have had severe heart problems, but he had an abundance of love to give to those who knew him.
On July 11, I asked Steve how he was doing and the next day, he responded, ending with, “No signs of rejection and my new heart is beating 100% on its own…love you.”
Three days later, he died.
I’d noticed Steve’s timeline intro before, but had never really read it until I returned to his profile: “Live each day as if it’s your last, because you never know when it might be.” I certainly didn’t realize that Steve’s last day would come only several days after he messaged me, but then then again, I guess none of us really know when our “last days” will come.
Steve embodied my desire to live more fully. Knowing Steve, he wouldn’t want me or the hundreds of family members and friends he left behind to feel trapped in their grief. He’d want us to celebrate his life: his love of Mickey Mouse, his passion for music, and his ability to light up a room with only a smile. And with this list, I’m hoping to find the courage to do exactly that: to celebrate not only Steve’s life, but also the lives of Audrey, Wonshik, Nick, J, and Juli, six individuals who might no longer be physically with us, but whose light and love continue to dwell in the hearts of those who were fortunate enough to know them.
