Running My Own Race

(Tuesday, April 1, 2025)

It was hard to fall asleep last night.

I accidentally clicked on LinkedIn, and what popped up immediately was a shiny career update from someone I’ve intentionally cut out of my life.

In my early twenties, she treated me with side-eyes and made fun of the nerdy version of me behind my back. The worst kind—because to most people, she appeared jolly and kind. When someone who pretends to be good turns out to be cruel, it feels even worse than someone who’s just openly mean. At least own your brand. 

I know it wasn’t easy for her to climb into that elite world, and maybe that’s why she made sure I never felt welcome in it. The social circles, the coded norms—I didn’t belong, and I never wanted to pretend I did. I’ve never been interested in performing class.

This is all so outdated. So not worth my time now. But it did bother the twenty-year-old me—feeling like an outsider, like a clown sometimes.

So I cut ties. One of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Still… when I saw her update—her new title at a bigger, fancier company—I felt it: that sharp little sting.

For a second, I thought, Did I waste the last few years? Did I waste my MBA?

For a longer moment, I asked myself: Why couldn’t I stay in one company for seven years like she did? Why didn’t I genuinely like everyone? Why wasn’t I more socially motivated—up for anything, smiling at everybody like she always seemed to be?

I watched the clock creep toward midnight.

And then I remembered something I’ve learned over the years: Don’t trust your mind too much at night. Don’t think too hard, don’t make decisions, maybe don’t even believe yourself fully. Everything can look different in the morning—including how you feel.

To bring myself back to reality, I thought: For all those “Why couldn’t I” questions, the answer is simple. Because that’s not me.

I shouldn’t care how much money she makes, or what her title is, or how happy she looks in filtered photos. That’s her life. Tant mieux. 

We’re not friends. We’re not even meant to be in the same chapter anymore. So I’ll let her live her life, and I’ll live mine.

The only job I have is to live my own life.
Focus on myself. Be myself.

—

This morning, I went for a run in the park. A lot of people passed me.

I had a scraped knee from another run earlier this week—it’s still bleeding, and every step hurt. But the pain was on the surface, not deep enough to stop me. So I kept going. Just slower.

And I thought: We all have to run our own race.

As a runner, you can’t care who’s passing you. Or who’s behind. It’s useless to care. Everyone’s running their own route—fast, slow, with bleeding knees or pristine legs. The only thing that matters is that you keep moving forward, in your own rhythm.

I’m not behind. No one can ever truly be “behind” anyone. We’re each living a life that only we can live. And we’re in constant motion—making progress in ways that can’t be seen from the outside.

It might sound individualistic, but I’ve come to believe this more and more.
I don’t know the nature or purpose of life.
But I do know I’m trying to understand the nature and purpose of my life.

—

Last Thursday night, in a bar thumping with EDM, I found myself holding my tenth beer when someone from school asked me what I was passionate about.

He’s a young Irish doctor. His dream is to join Doctors Without Borders. He’s learning French to be able to work globally.How inspiring.

I looked amazed, and he turned to me and asked, “What are you passionate about?”

“Hmmm,” I said, tipsy and thinking for a beat. “I don’t know. The career services advisor at my MBA program once told me—”

He cut me off. “I’m not asking what they told you,” he said. “I’m asking you. What are you passionate about?”

I did a quick mental search.
Career paths. Volunteer work. Creative hobbies. Nothing stood out.

I’m excited about the new job I’m starting. But I can’t say that’s my life’s passion.
I love art. But not in the way an artist does.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m afraid… I have no passion.”

He was about to respond, but then someone else—much drunker—crashed into our conversation.

Still, I’ve been thinking about his question ever since.

Can I be passionate about simply living my life?
But then—what about life makes me passionate?

Do we even have to have a passion?
Does it need to be something fixed?
Or can our passion change over time?

I don’t have the answers.
At least not today.

But I’d like to find out.
While I run my own race.
While I live my own life.

Cleaning it up

(Friday, March 28, 2025)

Wednesday night, Valérie had a friend over for dinner. Thursday night, I went out with classmates from language school. So Friday morning, before heading off to her leadership training, she said, “We’ll have a nice dinner together tonight—to catch up.”

That felt unexpectedly nice. When your host notices your absence and wants to catch up at the end of the week, it makes you feel like you matter. We still had our long breakfast conversations each morning, but those aren't quite the same as winding down together over dinner.

Nina, Valérie’s 16-year-old daughter, has been crying almost every night since I arrived. She’s also been skipping dinners, so once again, it was just Valérie and me at the table.

“I don’t want to overstep,” I began gently, “but I’ve heard Nina crying every night. I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.”

Valérie sighed. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She explained that Nina had broken up with her boyfriend—again.

“She’s done this so many times. They break up, get back together, break up again. I’ve tried to help, but I think she needs to process her emotions herself.”

“The tall guy who was here last week?” I asked. I remembered the sound of soft laughter and kisses from Nina’s room just a few days ago—now replaced by muffled sobs.

“Yes,” Valérie nodded. “He’s a wonderful boy. Respectful, thoughtful, smart, positive… and madly in love with her. But Nina keeps pushing him away. She tests people’s limits—friends, siblings, even him.”

“I’m her mother, I’ll always stand by her,” she said. “But she can’t keep doing this to people.”

I felt even more sorry. As someone who’s pushed people away before, I knew this wasn’t what Nina wanted. I see how sweet she is. Sometimes pain wears the disguise of distance.

Trying to lighten the moment and connect, I said, “I was a very difficult child for my parents.”

That one line cracked something open.

Valérie was genuinely surprised. From what she knew of me, I seemed like a dream child. I had moved to the U.S. alone, built a life, started a company, had a strong academic record, and now was here in Lyon—reading, writing, running, doing yoga, learning French, making friends. She thought I was confident, warm, engaging. The idea that I could have been “difficult” didn’t fit.

So I told her.

—

At 16, I chose to attend a strict, rural boarding school far from my city home in China. The decision was part ambition, part impulse: the school was known for sending students to China’s top universities. And I had a crush on my desk mate from middle school who said he was applying.

He never ended up going.

The school had nearly 7,000 students, all tightly regimented under military-like discipline. We studied from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., six days a week. Everything was scored, ranked, and compared. The dorms were rough, the bathrooms worse. I avoided drinking water to avoid using them. Showers were in a separate building, which no one used.

As a city girl, I stood out immediately. I spoke Mandarin instead of the local dialect. I dressed better. I was “other.” The local students bullied us outsiders, especially girls from big cities. My food and money were stolen. The class president targeted me publicly. My dorm mates gave me the worst bed—near a broken door where icy winter air poured in. I wore every piece of clothing I had to sleep, and still froze.

I cried every day. During class. Walking across campus. In bed at night. I even tried to sneak out of school by lying to the guards and climbing the fence, planning it in detail. I hated everything—the bullies, the dorm, even the air.

Still, somehow, I placed in the top 15% on our first exam. I hadn’t studied. I was too busy crying. That caught the attention of my chemistry teacher—a kind, awkward man with a metal tooth and a constant smile.

He pulled me aside one day and said, “You’re not even paying attention, but you still did well. Aren’t you curious what might happen if you actually try?”

That single question shifted something.

What if I fought back in my own way? Not by reacting, but by achieving—outperforming the mean girls academically, and, I’m ashamed to admit, trying to be thinner than them too. Those were the only two things girls seemed to care about in that environment.

What followed was a dangerous spiral—of obsessive studying and starvation. I buried my emotions. I smiled all the time. I read that smiling could make you happy. It didn’t work for me.

But the studying did. Books became my escape. Control became my comfort. I stopped caring about clothes, friends, anything else. I wanted out. And I would earn my way out.

After the college entrance exam, I never looked back. I skipped the farewell party. There was no one I wanted to say goodbye to—except one boy I secretly liked, who I later learned had planned to confess his feelings to me that day. I wrote him a separate thank-you letter, years later. Quietly. Just for myself. 

I got into one of the best foreign language universities in the country. Everyone else saw success. But I knew I was a mess—still trapped inside the shell I’d built in high school, while weighing only 35 kg (77 lbs) at 172 cm (5'6"). .

I was chosen for an elite translator program. I felt constantly behind. My English and French lagged. I was anxious, starving, overwhelmed. Outwardly, I seemed confident and carefree. My friends said I was inspiring. They didn’t know I was playing survival as a chameleon, hiding everything.

I didn’t know what “mental health” was. Neither did my parents. But I knew something was wrong, and I needed to breathe.

During my second winter break, I asked to visit New York—to “practice English.” Really, I just needed to escape.

It was my first time abroad, second time on a plane. I forgot how seatbelts worked. A kind British family sitting next to me helped out and chatted with me the whole flight. They even gave me their nephew’s contact in NYC.

It was snowing when I landed. But I felt warm.

Times Square was chaotic, loud, packed—but it felt like freedom. No one knew me. I could just be… me. Not perfect. Not pretending.

A one-month trip became six. I volunteered at soup kitchens, helped my off-Broadway Airbnb host organize parties, and even tutored a woman I met at Starbucks.

The “old me”—the curious, fearless, joyful child—started to return. I dropped out of my Chinese university. I was ready to start over.

In 2014, I arrived at the University of New Hampshire. That was the beginning of my new life—and my American dream.

—

As I spoke, Valérie’s expression shifted constantly—shock, empathy, admiration.

And I hadn’t even gotten to the next chapter: Yishi.

She already knew about the company from our previous dinners. But last night, she understood something deeper—why it still hurts so much.

She looked at me carefully. “What you’ve done is an amazing success story. You don’t need to avoid telling the ending, you need to change your relationship with failure.”

I nodded. I already knew that.

“I also think you’re grieving,” she continued. “It was your baby. It’s in the past now.”

I knew that too.

What I didn’t know—what I hadn’t thought about—was what she said next.

“You need to clean it up.”

I looked at her, confused.

She pointed to her stomach. “There are still pieces from your past—resentments, grief, guilt—that don’t serve you. Like your anger toward unethical people you dealt with. It’s time to clean it out. Close the book. Let it go.”

Then she told me about her grandmother, a Holocaust survivor from Auschwitz. She never spoke of her experience until she was in her eighties—when she was interviewed for a documentary. She died two years later.

“You have to clean it up, Lin,” she repeated.

And I will.

I know I will.

Just like I always have.

Walking Away (Reflections on Yishi)

(Thursday, March 27, 2025)

I’ve really gotten to know my host, Valérie, over the past week and a half. She’s a beautiful woman in her fifties—tall, with a model-like figure, shiny, flowing brown hair, and an ever-elegant smile.

Every morning and evening, we spend a couple of hours chatting at the dining table while we eat.

Unlike Louis’s mother, who turns her home into a Michelin-worthy experience, Valérie doesn’t care much about organic ingredients or culinary perfection. She’s a casual home cook—raising three children on her own may have been her culinary and life training. Her food is simple but cozy, homey, warm, and relaxed.

Over breakfast and dinner, we talk about everything—starting with Lyon, the news, our work and travels, and expanding into our families, our pasts and future plans, even politics. (Thankfully, we’re aligned—and we’re both very open-minded.) I enjoy being around Valérie more and more. I feel like we’re on the same emotional wavelength.

This morning, she started a training course to become a leadership coach—someone who helps leaders grow not just in tactics, but in emotional intelligence. Before she left, we talked about leadership—the disconnects between feeling and thinking, between capabilities and EQ—and how those gaps often lie at the root of ineffective leadership. EQ, we agreed, can be developed endlessly. IQ? Not so much, but it doesn’t matter.

I took a spoonful of cereal, and my mind drifted to my experience building Yishi—my Asian-inspired oatmeal and pancake mix brand that, at its peak, was trending in 5,000 grocery stores nationwide, including Walmart and Whole Foods. 

Until last July, when we shut down—right in the middle of rapid growth.

The mistakes we made. The mistakes I made.

Yes, we were deeply unlucky:

• Endless supply chain delays and price hikes from COVID

• Labor shortages that caused our co-packer to cancel production without notice

• Oat prices skyrocketing in 2021, just as we launched nationally

• Two major manufacturing accidents, each resulting in six-figure losses and PR nightmares

• An unreasonable co-packer contract locking us into dangerously high volumes and frequencies

• Sky-high costs from all sides—sometimes just to make a basic improvement (the final UPC change killed us)

But the mistakes I made as a leader—those may have mattered more:

• Hiring the wrong people, believing hard work and eagerness could substitute for readiness

• Paying team salaries we couldn’t afford, while I took just enough to survive

• Saying yes to ideas I didn’t believe in, just to support the team

• Letting tension with my co-founder get to me

• Being too optimistic. Too bold. Then, crashing into doubt and losing confidence completely

Just to name a few.

Of course, we did many things right. And whenever someone made a mistake, we’d say, “This is education. We paid to learn. We won’t make that mistake again.”

But those lessons came with real, lasting costs. And I couldn’t raise the funding we needed in 2022 or 2023.

What followed was a string of layoffs, painful cost-cutting, and a daily grind of trying to raise money while inventing new, creative ways to grow profitable revenue.

Every day, I was at war. I didn’t allow myself to feel, or reflect. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Just execution. Do. Don’t think. 

The last three team members—including me—worked without salaries. We built the most efficient model we could. Our bank accounts dipped below zero weekly. Still, we clawed our way to real progress.

In our final 12 months, we doubled sales while cutting costs in half. We were almost profitable—a rare feat for a tiny 7-figure business in national retail.

But it was just a little too late.

The early mistakes had already pushed away investors. The co-packer contract penalized us for not producing. And we had no inventory left.

Products, money, time—we ran out of all three.

In the final few months, my family sent money to help pay vendors. I got cast for a food entrepreneurship TV show—to win funding—but had to drop out because of debt collections. I nearly begged the investors who never liked us. (Side note: begging rarely works. FOMO works better, even for the exact same business.)

Some people were on the phone with me every day, trying to help.

But after countless sleepless nights, I decided: it was time to throw in the towel.

You have to know when to walk away.

After five years building Yishi, I missed my family. I couldn’t stand seeing my boyfriend stressed anymore. I wanted to relax on a Friday night. And embarrassingly, I was broke. After never paying myself a meaningful salary and only pouring more and more money into the business.

Practically, I told myself: We had no product left, only a mountain of co-packing liabilities. It’s time to walk away.

And honestly, it might be the best decision I’ve ever made.

Because in choosing to walk away, I finally began to ask: What do I want in life?
Not—how do I prove them all wrong?
Not—how do I fight to the bitter end?

For the first time, I realized:
Maybe this isn’t what I want anymore.
Maybe I don’t have to be the “oatmeal girl.”

Can I Be a Matisse Too?

(Tuesday, March 25, 2025)

Last night, I went to the movie theater again to see Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy—the newest and final Bridget Jones movie.

I loved it. Not because of the familiar gags or the new hot guys she dates, but because it captured something real: the struggles and joys of adulthood—grief, vulnerability, messiness, and the courage it takes not just to survive, but to truly live.

It’s marketed as a rom-com, but it’s really a tearjerker.

I was wiping tears throughout the whole film, while bursting out laughing at Bridget’s awkwardness and Daniel’s eternal devotion to flirting. Oh, the British—somehow they always manage to make me cry and laugh at the same time.

I once read: “Sometimes the healing hurts more than the wound.”

We learn how to survive, but that’s not enough. At some point, we have to re-learn how to live.

I’ve gone through that journey once already. Maybe the second time is just around the corner, the clock ticking. Am I ready?

Or maybe, before that—do I even know how to live?

When I was a child, my art teacher used to encourage me to add bold, contrasting brush strokes to my paintings. But I was always too afraid. I preferred small strokes, gentle transitions, gradual shifts in color.

Ironically, one of my favorite artists has always been Henri Matisse.

And last night, I realized—if Bridget were a brush stroke, she’d be one of Matisse’s.

At first glance, it may not make sense. It doesn’t conform to traditional beauty, it feels too loud, too messy, too raw. But then—its awkward, overwhelmed, neurotic existence starts to win you over. It speaks to the thoughts we keep buried deep in our minds.

The absurdity makes sense. The mess feels alive. The painting becomes more honest, more human.

More liberating.

Can I be a Matisse too?

A Perfect Moment

(Sunday, March 23, 2025)

I was singing on my way home from the movie theater. I had just seen Blanche Neige (Snow White) with a couple of friends from school.

Yes—I have friends in Lyon now.

Having drinks at a cozy, dimly lit bar with people who, like you, are new to a city is always a solid way to build quick friendships. Over a few beers, you get to know each other beyond class and see if you’re on the same emotional wavelength. Over days or weeks, you hope some of these fleeting connections might grow into something lasting—and others, you hope, quietly fade.

We’ve all had this kind of experience while traveling, and last night, I had my first official “friendship drink test.”

I must say—I liked everyone who was there.

Each person had their own story, and each story could easily be its own book. One is determined to start a new life in a new country. One is a free-spirited world traveler. Another is an aspiring diplomat, her impressive academic and professional experiences leading her steadily toward that path.

I love hearing people’s stories. They remind me of how wide and rich life can be.

Last night, they probably heard more of mine. My stories are strange, complicated, sometimes funny and heavy at the same time. One story can take forever to explain. But I shared a part of myself with them. Whether they enjoyed it or not—that’s not really my business.

This morning, after a run, I went to Carrefour to get some groceries—the same Carrefour I visited on my first day in Lyon, where I accidentally annoyed a store clerk. I was secretly hoping she wouldn’t be there. But as I stepped inside, there she was, standing right behind the checkout lane.

I awkwardly smiled at her. And—surprisingly—she smiled back. A small, genuine smile. The kind you give to someone you recognize.

She remembered me. That felt really nice.

This time, I made sure to grab a basket first, and as I walked through the aisles, I noticed her casting an approving gaze from the counter.

Everything was going smoothly. I was feeling proud, maybe even a little excited. I had turned things around! I was going to befriend the lady who had once dismissed me completely.

But then—disaster.

After putting my basket down at the register, I realized: I had no money.

No wallet. No card. Nothing.

Merde.

I immediately said, “Désolée, je n’ai pas de cartes.” (Sorry, I don’t have my cards.) I didn’t know the word for wallet. I looked at her for a second and then quickly started pulling my basket back.

From that one-second glance, I think she understood.

I put everything back quickly. The cookies I had spent 10 minutes choosing. The high-protein yogurt I was excited to eat after running for two hours. And my smiles.

When I returned later with my wallet, she didn’t smile at me again. But somehow—I still found her kind. Maybe she was in a good mood. Or maybe I was.

Coming back from the movie tonight, the streets were quiet on a Sunday night. I was singing along with Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love, dancing between pools of streetlight and patches of shadow, past blooming pink magnolia trees.

And I remembered the first time I came to France. I was on summer vacation with friends, but I had arranged to meet a French guy I’d met in the Copenhagen airport the Christmas before. We had met in the security line and talked until we boarded separate flights. Months later, we reunited in Avignon—a dreamy, artsy town in the south.

After dinner with my friends, he and I went for a walk.

The streets were dim and quiet, the streetlights soft and golden, flowers lining the road. He sang for me, and then held my hand to slow dance.

I knew it might be the last time I’d ever see him. Some things don’t need a future to be beautiful. His voice, our simple dance, the flickering streetlights—they were enough.

In that moment, I felt like I was dancing on a cloud.

I didn’t want anything beyond a kiss. I walked back to the Airbnb and rejoined my friends. They were surprised to see me return so early.

But I knew—I had already had the perfect moment.

Now, thinking about it again, I smiled.

The power of a perfect moment lifted me once more.

And for a second, I felt like I was walking on that same cloud again.

Push

(Saturday, March 22, 2025)

It’s Formula 1’s Chinese Grand Prix weekend—and it’s a sprint weekend—so of course, I had to watch.

Yesterday morning, I started working with the F1 sprint coverage playing in the background. As soon as the broadcast began and the familiar intro music played, it hit me. It was the most familiar thing I’ve felt since arriving in Lyon, more than the Hacheir Parmentier.

Why do I love F1?

F1 makes me feel like I’m part of an ongoing story. It makes me feel connected—to friends, to all the drivers and teams, and to something bigger. I also love how the sport works. It’s the ultimate team effort: even the best driver won’t make it to the podium in a bad car. If the strategist messes up a pit stop or tire change in unpredictable weathers, the leader can fall to the back of the pack within mere 30 seconds.

I deeply respect the drivers. They have to be both physically and mentally tough—always pushing. I think of Romain Grosjean jumping out of the high flames of a burning car. George Russell losing 4kg in one race at the brutally hot and humid Singapore Grand Prix. Daniel Ricciardo, fighting for a seat with a big smile and reminding us to “enjoy the butterflies,” after heartbreak after heartbreak.

My favorite driver is Oscar Piastri—quiet, focused, the calmest of them all. That kind of emotional control is something I truly admire.

But sadly, I don’t think I have anyone to watch F1 with right now.

Today is Saturday. I had a lot of time to read. I picked up The French Ingredient again and read about the author’s early entrepreneurial journey. Every word of her roller coaster experience reminded me of building Yishi. My eyes felt sore and my throat tight as I flipped through the pages.

She wrote:

“I was on a roller coaster ride—at one moment thinking, Forget it, this will never work, the next feeling euphoric because we had booked a client or gotten some press. Then rinse and repeat. Utter despair and regret when another bill arrives and still you don’t have clients, then sheer elation that one person out there (other than friend or family) has discovered that you exist.”

That was exactly how it felt building Yishi. Each day came with dramatic highs—like being on top of the world—and crushing lows that left me feeling helpless. I’d give everything I had and still not be able to turn some things around.

It’s been six months since we shut down, but my body still freezes and my chest tightens whenever I think about Yishi. I’m afraid to go there. 

It’s all still so fresh. So complicated. So raw. Sometimes even shameful. I don’t even know where to begin to share it.

I know what I’ve learned. I know how it’s shaped me and moved me forward. I know there are so many beautiful, meaningful memories tied to it. But somehow, that only makes it harder.

It’s like the aftermath of a long-term relationship ending. The scar is too fresh, too tender to touch. And so, we bury that part of the heart for a while.

But like an F1 driver, I have to push.

I promise myself: this trip won’t be an escape. It will be a journey—of forgiving, of believing, of healing.

There will be one step forward, two steps back, and that’s okay.

The Past and the Future

(Thursday, March 20, 2025)

Today in class, we had an exercise on hypothèse. We had to complete a sentence starter using the hypothetical tense. I chose: “Si j’étais une technologie, je serais…” (If I were a technology, I would be…). A question I’ll probably never need in real life, but still, I played along.

I said: “Si j’étais une technologie, je serais une machine à remonter le temps.” If I were a technology, I would be a time machine.

Immediately, the American girl sitting next to me turned to me and asked: “What would you change if you went back?”

Without thinking, I said, “Nothing. I wouldn’t change anything.”

Did I love every moment of my life while I was living it? The times I was beaten as a kid for stealing 10 cents from my parents to buy snacks after school. The nights I cried on the intercity bus, dreading my return to a rigid rural boarding school. The loneliness after moving to the U.S. alone, missing home. The numerous heartbreaks I endured, and the guilt of giving them to others. Just a fraction of my personal encyclopedia of misery.

Do I really want to live through all of that again?

Well I think so. Maybe that’s what life is about—to love, to unlove, to meet new people, to say goodbye, to experience, and to feel everything fully.

I’ve never been good at un-loving or saying goodbye, but I know this: The people who have left my life are still a part of me, and the people waiting for me afar bring me comfort as I explore the world.

And I know I’m lucky to be able to say that I miss my childhood. I miss being the happiest, most carefree tomboy, so loved by my parents and grandparents. Everything back then felt stable, effortless.

Now, from across the Pacific Ocean, I watch our family group chat fill with updates—how my grandparents are back in the hospital again, how my parents are exhausted from caring for them, barely managing their own lives in the process.

This morning, I saw a photo of my grandmother. At first, I barely recognized her. Cancer has taken its toll.

In my memory, my grandmother was always the strongest woman I knew—working tirelessly inside and outside the house, taking care of everyone, and always doing it so well. When I visited last year, she looked much older than before, but she was still able to care for herself. Now, in this photo, she is lying in a pale blue hospital bed, her face so thin, deep lines carved into her skin. Her eyes barely open. This is the third time this month she’s been hospitalized. My parents and uncles have been by her side day and night, never sleeping more than three hours at a time. They can’t work. Everything looks chaotic and heavy.

So if I had a time machine, I would take myself back to when life was stable, quiet, and simply happy. I would give it to my parents and grandparents, too—maybe they would love to be children again, to be with their parents and grandparents once more. If this technology existed, I wouldn’t care for any others. I could write instead of type, light candles instead of switch on lamps, travel only by foot and by boat.

But this is hypothèse. It’s not real.

In the evening, a few students and I went to a boat bar on the river for drinks. I got to know a couple of them better—one American girl had quit her job as an archaeologist and is studying French for nine months and then will try to work at a coffee shop. Another Australian guy had also quit his job and is taking a six-month break to improve his French before doing the same.

I admire their plans. Big changes are always good, eventually. (And I understand why they’re so insistent on speaking French outside of class instead of English. They have a deadline.)

They reminded me of myself at 19, convincing my parents to let me drop out and move to New York alone. At 26, of quitting my "dream job" at BCG to start a company in the U.S. by myself.

Now I’m in the middle of another big change. Going from being an entrepreneur to working at Walmart doesn’t feel as cool as their transformations, but I’m truly excited. I trust that I’ll achieve so much in this next chapter. Work hard, stay open-minded, be kind.

I feel like I’ve been floating for years—maybe a decade. 

And now, finally, I’m about to land. And that feels pretty damn exciting.

The Mashed Potatoes Dish That Brought Me Back Home

(Thursday, March 20, 2025)

I’m typing this diary while sitting on a rock at the riverbank, soaking in the sun.

The warmth melts my homesickness a little. Maybe it’s the jet lag, maybe it’s the unreliable WiFi and the freezing night air in my bedroom, but last night, I missed home more than ever—even though yesterday wasn’t a bad day.

In fact, it started on a positive note. For lunch, I decided to go to Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse on my own. As I stepped outside, the sun wrapped around me like a hug, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow played in my headphones. I had downloaded my Warm Fuzzy Feelings playlist—fitting for this little solo date I was taking myself on.

This whole trip, really, is a long date with myself. Not just a solo vacation, but something more romantic. I secretly like to romanticize life, though I rarely admit it—it's too cringy for the stiff American business world I’ve been in. The startup world I was in before is messy and exhausting behind the scenes, and the corporate culture I will be joining has no space for poetry.

Les Halles is a covered food market dedicated to the legendary chef Paul Bocuse, the “pope of gastronomy.” With only 15 minutes before class, I wandered through the market, surrounded by a feast of sights and smells—fresh seafood, golden pastries, endless types of cheese. The restaurants inside serve dishes made with the freshest ingredients, and I wished I had time to sit down and eat.

Instead, I ended up having a pleasant chat with a restaurant server who was on his break. He was very friendly, funny, and effortlessly outgoing. He has worked at the restaurant for 17 years as a server, something unthinkable to many Americans. We spoke in a mix of French and body language—something I’ve always been good at when navigating non-English-speaking countries. I promised him that I would go back to the market, at some point. I will live up to the promise.

Once again, Boulangerie Les Frères Barioz next to the school saved me. A simple baguette sandwich—brie, prosciutto, and a single crisp lettuce leaf, all tucked into a short baguette with the perfect golden, crunchy crust. A quick espresso on the side, and I headed to class like a local.

For dinner, my host’s mother made hachis parmentier for us, a classic French dish: a rich, savory ground beef mixture covered with fluffy, cheesy mashed potatoes, similar to Shepherd’s pie.

Louis’ mom has made it for us before, and to me, she is the best French chef I know. She insists on using only the best ingredients—organic, fresh, full of flavor. Her hachis parmentier has the creamiest, most buttery mashed potatoes, and the ground beef is deep and indulgent in taste. Last time she made it, she prepared a small one just for Louis and me, baked in a cute glass dish. When I was working late at my desk in the bedroom, I smelled it browning in the oven, I ran over, asking Louis what on earth could smell that good.

Maybe it was the memory of that dish, bringing me back to Chicago, that made me feel so homesick. Maybe it was tiptoeing back into my cold bedroom after dinner. Or maybe it was today’s class on the futur simple, where I felt behind, struggling more than I wanted to admit.

Either way, my pillow might have caught some warm moisture last night.

I wonder—maybe growing up means that no matter how exciting the world is, a part of you will always belong somewhere else.

The Swans by the Rhône

(Tuesday, March 18, 2025)

Still jet-lagged but unable to resist the pull of a sunny day, I went for a morning run along the Rhône. The sky was a soft, pale blue, the river sparkled under the sun, and the trees lining the riverbank swayed gently in the breeze. Perfect conditions for running.

I moved at an easy pace, taking in my surroundings. Running has always been one of my ways of discovering a new city. In France alone, my sneakers have kissed the beaches of Nice, traced the sidewalks of the Seine, and pressed into the dirt tracks of the western countryside. Now, they’re ready for Lyon.

Lyon seems to be a runner’s city—not just because of its infrastructure, but its spirit. In just two days, I’ve already seen countless runners at all hours: running solo, in groups, some wearing weights, others inexplicably sporting swimming goggles. They move at a noticeably milder pace than the runners along Lake Michigan in Chicago. I wonder if they run longer distances, or if it’s simply the French way—to run lightly, effortlessly, as if floating through the spring morning.

A delightful surprise this morning was the swans. Dozens of them, gliding across the Rhône—bigger than the geese that dominate Chicago’s lakeshore path, with the perfect swan silhouette I remember from childhood cartoons. They moved so gracefully, barely disturbing the water, a few lingering near the moored boats, the Hermès and the Van Gogh.

Of course, I had to take photos.

First Day of School in Lyon

(Monday, March 17, 2025)

Lyon welcomed me with sunshine today—an official warm greeting.

When I woke up, I noticed a small note slipped under my door. It was from my host’s 18-year-old daughter, Nina, apologizing for making noise last night and for accidentally eating my yogurt. Thoughtful, sweet, and surprisingly old-fashioned. Ever since I got a phone as a teenager, I don’t think I’ve received a handwritten note slipped under a door. I loved it. I wrote back a polite reply and slid it under her door in return.

At 7:15 AM, I walked into the kitchen to find my host, Valérie, already preparing breakfast. Freshly toasted bread with the creamy beurre demi-sel (French salted butter) I’d been craving, and a perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg. A lovely way to start the morning—except for one thing. She had also turned on French news on TV, ready to engage me in breakfast conversation… in French. Jet-lagged and barely awake, I did my best—chattering away in passionate but broken French, my natural tendency to overshare completely uncurbed.

I was placed in an afternoon French class, which gave me time to sign up for a cultural activity at noon: a guided tour of la Presqu’île, the historical heart of Lyon.

Our guide, Janine, was the epitome of elegant French womanhood in her 80s—bright eyes framed by perfectly applied mascara, blush precisely matching her lipstick, dressed in a plum-colored suede jacket with fur around her neck and heeled boots. Along for the tour were two other new students: Heide, a German woman, and John, an Australian man. Both seemed about my parents’ age, both on vacation from work. Heide had exactly one week off and chose to spend the entire time at this school. John, a teacher, was on a three-month sabbatical—a perk Australians get every ten years of working. He teaches grammar to elementary school teachers, which might explain why he was particularly good at picking up what Janine was saying and translating it for me whenever I got lost.

The Presqu’île stretches from the foot of Croix-Rousse hill in the north to where the Rhône and Saône rivers meet in the south. It’s the quintessential old French neighborhood—ochre-colored buildings, squares with intricate tilework and fountains, statues of historical figures, and a grand plaza dedicated to an important Louis. Scattered throughout are cafés, restaurants, luxury boutiques, government offices, and cultural institutions. The magnolias were already blooming in pink and white, decorating the lovely streets and making us feel tipsy from the view.

By the time I arrived at my first French class, I was already exhausted from the two-hour walking tour. But the class itself? Surprisingly fun.

Our teacher was a true entertainer. She danced, sang, exaggerated every sentence, and pretended to be a chain-smoking alcoholic to make her stories funnier. (Or maybe she wasn’t pretending.) The students were all lively and unafraid to speak, and their French impressed me. I couldn’t help but wonder why I had been placed in this class. Jet-lagged and slightly overwhelmed, I resorted to mixing a lot of English while attempting to tell my classmates about a disastrous but hilarious trip I once took in a group exercise. Fortunately, they were kind—laughing when I laughed, looking concerned at the right moments. Hopefully, that meant they actually understood me.

Two questions dominated our conversations today:

• Tu viens d’où ? (Where are you from?)

• Pourquoi apprends-tu le français ? (Why are you learning French?)

We also asked each other how long we’d be studying at the school. The answers were often unclear, even in English, because not everyone spoke English. A young Japanese student spoke pas du tout (not at all), while students from Russia and Ecuador had limited English. But somehow, we understood each other better in our very broken French than in any other language.

After class, our teacher suggested we all celebrate St. Patrick’s Day at Paddy’s Corner, an Irish bar not far from the school. It seemed like a good chance to bond, so I joined. We took the train together like a children’s field trip, our heavy backpacks marking us as a group of foreign students. The bar was packed and loud, filled with traditional Irish music and orange and green balloons.

A few beers in, our broken French somehow became more fluent. Everything—every misunderstanding, every badly conjugated verb, every empty nodding and “ouai”ing along (saying yeah to everything)—became funnier. At one point, I laughed so hard I nearly choked. I also got to know two other American girls better; both have very cool stories.

I left the bar early to have dinner with my host family. Two new Italian students had arrived today, young girls who would also be staying in Valérie’s massive apartment.

Dinner was simple but delicious: creamy red-sauce spaghetti with ground beef, the ever-present baguette, and a fresh watercress salad with a flavorful mustard vinaigrette.

Outside, the night was chilly, the stars twinkling over Lyon. Inside, warm light filled the dining room as we gathered around the table like family, sharing stories from our day over good food.

A perfect first day.

Fu Fu Ramen – First Dinner in Lyon

(Sunday, March 16, 2025)

After just a few hours in Lyon, I had already managed to annoy a French lady at the supermarket—an accident, of course, but still an initiation of sorts. Wanting to play it safe for dinner, I went for something familiar: ramen. Warm, comforting, and perfect for both my Asian stomach and the crisp night air.

Fu Fu Ramen was tucked away at the end of a lively alley, almost hidden. I had to double-check my Google maps to be sure I was in the right place, but then, there it was—a cozy little ramen shop. The moment I stepped in, I was met with a synchronized burst of Japanese greetings from the four staff behind the counter. None of them were Asian, but they shouted orders to each other in Japanese with such ease that it made me smile. Strangely, I felt welcomed.

I ordered the classic Chashumen—Bol de bouillon avec des nouilles, pousses de bambou, soja, oeuf, algues, confit de porc et poitrine de porc caramélisée (a bowl of rich broth, noodles, bamboo shoots, soy, egg, seaweed, pork confit, and caramelized pork belly). And, of course, some gyoza on the side.

The first sip of broth was heaven. Deep, savory, soul-warming. Then came the pork belly—meltingly tender, full of flavor. I rarely order pork ramen back home in Chicago, but tonight, I might have consumed more pork in one sitting than I ever have before.

Midway through my meal, I glanced up and did a double take. Sitting next to me was a blond-haired Frenchman who looked exactly like my ex from five years ago, accompanied by his French wife and child. Lyon, it seems, had a sense of humor.

By the end of the meal, I mustered up my best French to chat with the server, who turned out to be incredibly kind. A small but rewarding moment to wrap up my first night in Lyon.

Departure – A Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity

(Saturday, March 16, 2025)

"It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

As I sat at the airport, my thoughts drifting to home, I reminded myself of what my boyfriend, Louis, had just told me before dropping me off.

For months, I had planned this five-month adventure with excitement. But as the departure date approached, excitement gave way to nervousness and sadness—I would miss home, and I would miss him. Fortunately, final exams at Booth and a busy week at my part-time job kept me too occupied to fully process those emotions.

Louis, ever thoughtful, had planned a wonderful send-off with his parents. A cozy aperitif featuring a delicious, naturally lactose-free Norwegian cheese. A lovely dinner: yuzu-sake-soaked chicken with zucchini, preserved lemon, and saffron—a dish of his I adore. The next morning was a whirlwind of last-minute packing and navigating O’Hare amid the chaos of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, where the air smelled distinctly of alcohol.

Finally settled at the Wicker Park Seafood & Sushi Bar in Terminal 1—a family favorite—I felt my nerves creeping in. A long journey ahead: a connecting flight, meeting my famille d’accueil (host family), settling into a new city, all within 24 hours. Wanting something comforting, I opted for the safest choice on the menu, without seafood or sushi: a grilled chicken avocado sandwich with kettle-cooked chips. Then, I pulled out The French Ingredient, a gift from Louis’ mother—an American woman’s memoir of living and entrepreneuring in Paris.

"It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," I reminded myself again, turning my focus to the book.

The dedication read: To all the dreamers.

I got lost in the pages. The author’s story—boarding school, moving abroad, starting a business alone—mirrored parts of my own journey. But her inner voice was lighter, more naturally optimistic, uncomplicated. Maybe, one day, I’d write my own story.

The flights were uneventful and exhausting, as expected. I missed home like crazy. But “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

I had finished my MBA coursework early and carved out this five-month semi-vacation before officially starting my post-graduation job at Walmart. (Still keeping my remote part-time work, of course.)

It’s going to be an adventure.

First stop: Lyon, France. Language school.

I have a suitcase, a few books, my yoga mat, my running shoes, and an appetite for exploring the gastronomy capital of France.

And at 31, I’m staying with a host family for the first time.

I smiled to myself.