Or also known as Daughter of the Nile.

In a small local store in Taipei, thousands of comic books lined up upright on shelves and along the walls. For the price of about 15 cents, the little me could read one book in the store. Borrowing them to take home was more expensive. Like many others, I spent many after-school hours here sitting on one of those small stools only fit for small children.

Daughter of the Nile was one of my favorites. In it, I traveled to Ancient Egypt through Carol Reed, a 16-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed American teenager who time-traveled back and met pharaoh Memphis. My first memory of Ancient Egypt, though fictional, was adventurous, exotic and romantic.

As an adult, I saw Egypt through museums. About forty years after Carol, I finally stepped into Egypt. Just like Carol, I time-traveled back as I walked inside temples and pyramids built around five thousands years ago. The feeling of standing in front of ancient history was incredible. It was one of my most memorable trips.

Having hitting my 50s and taken a false-retirement, it’s clear to me that there is a limit to how many more big trips like Egypt I can take. Health, time, and money are all limited. Travel requires all of them.

My earlier traveling strategy had been simple: a new city, or even better, a new country, each year. A big trip and a couple of small ones in a year. I wanted to step on every continent at least once and visit as many countries as possible. The bottom line was to be a global citizen and open to meet everyone everywhere. That was very much my vibe.

But now, my travel goal has evolved with age. With a good amount of traveling under my belt, breadth is no longer in play. (I may never make it to Southeast Asia, India, or any of the safaris.) With a healthy sense of the scarcity of being alive, I want to travel for the experience that will make the deepest impression on me, like sailing in the Aegean sea or time-traveling in Luxor.

I love this about being in my 50s. It’s so true that with age comes better clarity on knowing and balancing what I have with what matters to me. Can’t wait to decide where I want to visit in 2027.

For America’s 250th, I went on a two-hour sunset sail in the Boston Harbor and loved every minute of it. If I love it so much why don’t I do more of it.

I can count the number of times I’ve been on sailboats with one hand. Some people I knew grew up with boats. In my twenties, a friend of my ex-boyfriend took us out in a small sailboat in the Boston Harbor once. His pastime was a world I didn’t know anything about.

Then though a girlfriend’s friend, we went on a three-day sailing trip in the Aegean Sea. The boat could sleep six comfortably. Because her friend was a Greek, we got to visit the local hidden island and beach gems without crowding with the tourists. I can still visualize the turquoise water and white sand, taste the fresh mediterranean salad he made on the boat, and feel the warmth from our chatters, the sun and the ocean. I fell asleep above the deck under a sea of bright stars and woke up by a quick dip in the water. It is still one of my favorite travel memories.

After that amazing trip, I looked into sailing in Boston. A coworker took me to the Community Boating of Boston on the Charles River. He might have been still learning; during the time we were on the water, I felt on my butt twice. I couldn’t commit to the boat times which were during the day while the sun was out during the summer. In parallel, I looked into what might it take to live on a boat. Gotta buy the boat, which could be upwards of a fancy car payment, and rent an expensive spot to park it. All were not trivial for me. That ended my investigation.

Then almost twenty years later, here was this sunset sail, reminding of a love that is still part of a world I don’t easily get to but want to learn more about. There are challenges. I’m not comfortable in the water even years of swimming lessons. (Life jackets?!) I’m not part of any boating club, don’t know any boat people, and would just like to be a passenger not a sailor. (Working on starting to go to the gym and break my exercise-less routine soon!) Generally, I’m just not sporty.

As I continue to take a curious and experimental mindset with my life, I should do more sailing. (Or skating at Frog pond, Boston). Or hiking like in the Acadia National Park, Maine.) It’s easy to live my life doing things I usually do and feeling productive and fulfilled that way. But time, energy (good health), and resource is limited. The balance between being open vs. precise, explorative vs. love is ever more important.

Let’s fill life with more love. Don’t always take the comfortable non-sporty path.

My friend wanted to visit Prince Edward Island for Anne of Green Gables. Remembering that little girl (in the Little House on the Prairie), I gladly joined her.

To set the mood for our Anne day, we watched Anne of Green Gables during which I had to admit that I had never seen her before but was very glad to meet her finally. Anne is creative, spunky, and energetic who cherished her kindred-spirited friend Diana and held grudges on her eventual love Gilbert. The whole story was very sweet. I couldn’t help but fell for Anne and all her dramatic chatters.

L. M. Montgomery had always wanted to write and created the beloved Anne of Green Gables when she published her first Anne novel in 1908, which was translated into 40 other languages. “What a small big world it is! And how far little red-haired Anne has travelled!” - Green Gables Heritage Museum.

A simple island get-away turned into an unexpected writer reset. I’d been low on my writing energy preoccupied by settling on a different life path, moving again, and getting back to work. Learning about Montgomery and Anne with an E while traveling with another writer revived something in me. Finding like-minded role model who had struggled with writing but persisted. Being understood and seen by a writer friend with whom I could let out anything about writing and life.

The long weekend in PEI was not short of typical vacation adventures: road trip with 80s music, beach and lighthouse, bottle houses, potato museum, and tasty sea food. But PEI 2026 will always be the inspiration to live life as brave as I can (Anne), be confident and persistent in whatever I choose to do (Montgomery), and be thankful for all the kindred spirits in my life.

This week, I came across a post from an acquaintance: “As for me, I’m trying to stay confused, open, experimental. I do a lot of things I don't continue with.” That really resonate with me.

I’ve moved internationally five times; three out of which were my own decisions. In the last 36 months, I’ve taken two language, philosophy, and several writing classes because I was curious. I tracked down my roots back to the 1800s. I’ve retired and un-retired. I went from living on my own to living with families.

Clearly I might be confused. But imagine trying to stay confused? That sounds like freedom. I’m sure I’ll keep tweaking my life; that’s how I’m built. I’ll stop “labeling” or describing my current phase of life (encore years, chapter II, etc.), say I don’t know and I’ll try a lot, and just be, be confused, open, and experimental with no regret.

AT gave me a BIG writing assignment this week: write an opening scene of 5 to 10 pages, and come up with a working title.

Instead of Novel 1, a working title gives the novel life. After listing options, I decided on the eighth phrase, which is abbreviated as OHTO (so I don’t jinx it). For both my memoirs, I had a strong feel for what I was writing about so it was easy to decide on their titles. Here I’m still early in the creative process. When I finish writing, we’ll see if OHTO still feels right.

#

I’m living through an opening scene in my own life. As you must be thinking, un-retiring is quite another big decision and it is. (My dear cousin pointed out to me that moving internationally is not a tiny experiment as I had described in my earlier post. I’m giving it the proper weight.) I have been reflecting and reframing this point in time to myself and it’s closure.

When I was a teenager, I moved to the US with my parents. Unlike people who decided to come to the US later in their lives or for graduate school, I didn’t decide to leave a happy life with a large loving family and friends. I remember my birth place as nothing short of perfect to a child.

Years later, every time when I visited my birth place, I looked for relatives and friends I knew, visited places I had been, and ate the street food the I missed. To the young adult me, this all seemed just for fun.

Last year, I opened a box of old letters that I had received during the first three or four years of living in the US. I reread them again which were filled with longing from and for the people on the other side of these hand-written letters. (I made carbon copies of my own written letters.)

When my American friends asked me about the move to the US, I always laughed it off. “Oh, it was easy for a kid. Kids are very adaptable.” Now I realized, deep down insides, I might have been dramatized by the International move losing everyone and everything I knew overnight.

In some way, were my moves back unavoidable? (I have done this international move twice now.) Part of me always wanted to go back, to reclaim my rightful place in it.

So blessed, I moved back. During my year or so living there again, I followed my heart and did what I wanted to do with reconnecting with family and friends, completing my family tree, learning Taiwanese and Japanese, eating local fish and fruits, travel around the island and go to Japan again.

As I spent more time there, I learned that some people in my memory had long moved on, grew up, and were living their own lives. A cousin or close friend from my teenage years doesn’t mean we would have anything in common now.

I feel at peace when I look at the family tree. It explains where I came from. No matter what I do, I will not be able to see my grandparents again. The past is the past. But the tree is also a vehicle to meet and build new relationships with the newer generation.

The affection I have for Taiwan is rooted in a child’s emotion. I’d been grabbing on to the past for more than 35 years. This year, I took out all the old letters, read them again, scanned and recycled them.

Seeing my past actions, I wouldn’t say I would not move back again, which is totally okay. Life is not a straight path. Even though I'm back to work, the current working title of my life is still Encore Year/Chapter II; work is not a good indicator for my current mindset and phase of life. When I visit or live in Taiwan again, I hope to look forward in addition to the past.

Now, let’s think about the opening scene.

During my first meeting with my writing mentor AT, I told her how puzzled I was with my writing mind, how giving it all the freedom (time) in the world, it didn’t write.

AT said, it makes perfect sense. When you have work, you have to sneak in writing between work, meal, reading, and everything else. It’s like you’re having an affair with writing. It’s hard to get. It feels special.

AT talked about the mindset too. When she goes on a writing retreat and there is structure, with classes and instructors, she writes. But when she goes on a spa or beach vacation with friends and an open calendar, she never writes. She wants to relax. When I was in another country, she offered, I was trying to soak in the new culture and experience life. Of course, I didn’t write.

I looked back to the personal projects I’d done in a year and half: classes in three different languages, family tree research, and traveling. Plus reconnecting with family, taking care myself, and spending time with both old and new friends. It was true that I spent time on other things that were important to me too.

AT also pointed out that when I declared to be a full-time writer, I gave myself enormous pressure. Meanwhile, now that I’m back to work and writing becomes a hobby again, my mind probably feels more free to create and do whatever it wants.

An alternative theory from a friend was related to momentum. Now that I have a job, I’m busy with a structured routine. The busyness motivates me to keep busy, so I want to do more, to write.

I can relate to all that was said. I’m surprising many friends by un-retiring, but working again did restart my writing itch. I do well with structure. I now believe my brain likes a balance of both analytical and creative work to thrive.

As for living life, I’ll continue to give myself the freedom to tweak my life and conduct both small and big experiments, to retire and un-retire, to travel, move countries, and stay put.

#

My first call with AT went well, but, at the same time, felt so short and barely enough was said. Straight to the point, AT asked me to think about:

• What gets me fired up about this novel?

• What does my main character want?

• What is my goal? What is my weekly word count target?

The goal question was the easiest to answer: I want write a draft of a novel this year and my weekly word count target is at a jogging speed of 2500 words per week (according a list provided by AT). This was my goal last year. The first two questions are harder. I’m not yet happy with any of my answers yet.

I’m glad that I have a mentor to chat about writing and check my compass while I travel down this path of novel writing again.

Here is a quote I read this week that I’ve been thinking about that I want to leave you with:

“What I learned from him, in short, is that a writer must take infinite pains—if he writes only one great story in his life, that is better than writing a hundred bad ones—and that finally the pains the writer takes must be his own. (P.29)” - Gardner, John, On Becoming a Novelist, Open Road Media, 2010.

Of course, I the one who is gotta type. Check back in a week.

I am restarting my novel writing by working with a writing mentor.

My friends celebrated with me as I hit 50 and retired. The new life plan was simply to write. After I changed everything in my life, moved to a different country, and freed up 40 hours a week from working to write, I didn’t. Time, as it turned out, wasn’t critical for me to give birth to a novel. I’d done as much as I could to nurture my dream. The plan didn’t work; I went back to work.

My friend said I was ruining her dream of retirement. “Why wouldn’t you want to sleep to whenever every morning?”

The funny thing about life is that it’s not predictable or a straight path and that’s why it’s so fascinating. Being busy with work again, the writing itch came back. Reflecting on when I wrote, the support I had (taking classes with instructors), the routine I had (working), the influence I had (reading a great novel), and the environment I was in (being in the US) seem to matter more. I can’t explain how my writing mind works but I’ll take it.

I’ve been preparing for my first conversation with my mentor AT.

Many little unrelated ideas listed in my new notebook. Part of me questions my goal to write a novel. A mentor is not a magic bullet for moving stories. There are already so much content in this world. Can I add something worthy of existing?

To that, in Writing Fiction, Janet Burroway has this to say, “Whenever I ask a group of writers what they find most difficult, a significant number answer that they feel they aren’t good enough, that the empty page intimidates them, that they are in some way afraid. Many complain of their own laziness, but laziness, like money, doesn’t really exist except to represent something else—in this case fear, severe self-judgment, or what Natalie Goldberg calls “the cycle of guilt, avoidance, and pressure.””

So I’m following my gut back to my old scribble notes here and there. The family I had started with Annie, Ah-Ying, and Ah-Mei. The friendship and bone I had imagined between Violet and Isabella.

Current mood: a faint excitement with a wait-and-see vibe.

“I go to work every day at Cafe X,” I said to my aunt, half-jokingly. I could still hear my grandmother saying, “We have coffee at home. Why don’t you drink coffee at home? Are you lonely?” Well, grandma, something is soothing about leaving the house every day and having a routine that includes the outside world.

Taipei has a high density of coffee shops. In some neighborhoods, there is one or two every block. Starbucks is here. Louisa and Dreamers are well-known chains. But what I love the most are the small independent cafes, each with unique characters and personalities.

The smallness here is unimaginable in Boston. A cafe famous for its scones has three small round tables with six seats. The sitting area is about a decent-sized walk-in closet. The scone flavors include original, Earl Grey tea, taro, lemon, matcha, berries, etc. The scones can be served warm with a scoop of whipped butter. The shop imposes a one-hour limit on sitting if there is a line outside. Luckily, I can go during quieter hours and avoid the lines.

Besides pastry with coffee, books and coffee are often paired together. In downtown, a bookstore and cafe were converted from a townhouse. The old architecture with its wooden window frames, skylight opening in the middle, and stone facade let me imagine life fifty or sixty years ago. On the first floor, the books focus on Taiwan, its history, culture, and people. On the second floor, world history and culture. Then, on the very top floor, a reading and meditation space. The owner hopes to create a space to inspire more reading and book buying. So far, I have enjoyed the books I bought there and will go back again.

A classmate suggested we meet at a cat cafe in an old converted Japanese-style home. I was required to wear socks to prevent damaging the wooden floor. The cats, at least six of them, roamed freely. They could be petted but not carried. These cats were beautiful with shining and healthy fur, relaxed and unafraid of humans.

Other cafe themes include a shop filled with anime figures and posters (with a no-talking rule), a gramophone with a full wall of old records (Frank Sinatra was playing when I was there), or a West Elm-style high-end living room ambiance.

We can’t talk about cafes without discussing coffee. Typically, Americano and latte are on the menu with the lowest price points. But specialty cafes often have at least twenty or so (a whole page in small fonts) coffee beans that one can choose from for a hand-made dark coffee drink. Taiwan also has local beans, but I was told that the quantity is fairly small. The price of these can buy a proper meal at a night market. Starbucks can’t top these.

I write best in a cafe. I have found a cafe within walking distance that I like. It’s big enough that I don’t have to worry about not having a seat or waiting in line to get in. It has wifi and outlets, doesn’t have a maximum sitting time, and offers simple, healthy meals. Plants stand in different corners. Wooden square tables and sturdy chairs line up neatly. I love the vibe of being surrounded by other people who also type away in front of laptops. Often, different languages are spoken. Friendly servers recognize me and give me the discounts.

I feel good about sitting here for four to five hours a day. And you know, sitting still, or butt in a chair as some writers affectionately say, for a long time is a required step for writing.

I started an outline for the nth time. The new document is simply called Novel 4. The beginning has two sisters separated by an ocean.

What will happen next? I’m eager to know.

The great thing about math is that it can quantify the intangibles. For example, a person’s life may be expressed in numbers. Often, these numbers are part of our first easy impression of someone.

Age is probably the most common measurement we think about of a person when meeting someone new. How old are you? Someone somewhere always asks. Typically expressed in years, there is no reason why it cannot be in months or even minutes to make us feel more significant. I’ve not run into ageism professionally yet, but I expect fewer opportunities as I get older. All online dating apps ask for age as well as height. Some people habitually lie about both, presenting a virtual image that’s younger and taller. I was asked about my hair when I mentioned I was almost fifty. “Do you dye your hair? You don’t have a single white hair.” I don’t, and I’m content and comfortable with soon hitting fifty.

Money has a lot of numbers for us to think about—net worth, debts, credits, gains, salaries, and expenses. Unless famous, these are numbers that we grade ourselves in private. Sometimes harshly. They show how successful we are and how far we still must go. Right now, I’m fascinated by what it takes to retire and what lifestyle I want. Single or not, everyone has to figure out what’s enough.

The numbers that I show up as zero are for husbands and children. I stand by myself as one, while a small number of friends - research shows we only need three to five close ones - makes me very happy. My parent-friends are always counting teams. There are two of us and one of her. We should be fine! Or, we are having a third and will soon be outnumbered. Behind taking care of a family, it's about the hours of sleep, play dates, and trips to the ER.

Health-wise, steps have become a common measure enabled by trackers. Everyone knows that 10,000 steps are the daily recommendation. Less common is the number of pills taken daily. I realize the importance of this measure from my 96-year-old grandmother and 70-something dad. I have seen both of them arranging their pill boxes cautiously and precisely. Embedded in these pills is the hope that one will continue to live healthily. Right now, I take two, but if the number goes up, I would be happy that whatever maladies I have and will have are treatable by modern science.

For schizophrenia, a key measure is the number of hospital stays. I was at McLean hospital once. Others I met there had more. Our goal is to stay out of the hospitals. Going to the hospital is trouble escalating out of control. Going back repeatedly and often, like going through a revolving door, is usually a bad sign.

Social media brings us a count of friends and followers. I don’t care much about them. However, opposite to that, I treasure the contact list for my holiday card, the guest list for my housewarming, and the friends at my dinner dates with whom I don't mind being embarrassed in front of and sharing stories of how I poured my heart out on my blind date. Yeah, we don’t want to chase queen status on social media. These popularity numbers are fuzzy and not to be taken too seriously, in my opinion.

I could go on and on about all the kinds of numbers when I think of my life. What about you? It’s fun to play this game.

Finally, I have a unique number in mind for life: the number of words, pages, and books. Imagine we can all put our lives in words in books. What would our books say? Are our lives eventful? Are we wordy or concise? What would we include and leave behind or leave out?

Numbers have no judgment, but people do. Their simplicity should not be the only way we see each other. Being a single mid-age woman doesn’t always mean being sad. What's essential is the life that happened, the story in the book. Let's be curious about each other beyond simple numbers.

For my single friends, one can be an equally powerful and whole number as any others. We may be defined often by being one, but don’t forget that our lives comprise many small and large happenings that make up the “one.”

When I was 36 and very single, I was hit by the narrowing of the time window to have my biological children.

My first thought was I am a woman living in a modern time. I could logically separate being single and being a mother. I decided to become a single mother. I charted my basal body temperature daily for a couple of months. I took folic acid my girlfriend recommended when I remembered. I reviewed numerous profiles at a reputable donor bank in New England and got the sperms I needed. I had an IUI once, which failed. It is not necessarily an easy path for couples who try to get pregnant together. Doing it alone and failing felt devastating. I realized that I did not want to go down this path alone. So my journey to single motherhood ended abruptly and quickly.

During this time, I found Selfish, Shallow, and Self-Absorbed: Sixteen Writers on the Decision Not to Have Kids. The writers in this book talk about how there isn't one way to life. There were different scenarios for women not to have their kids. Some had decided not to have kids; some didn’t because time had passed, and some gave away babies. “We,” the childless women, were thought of as selfish.

Now, at forty-something, I am content without my biological kids. This peace comes from a few factors. For one, I’m glad I had a chance to do something about it even though I failed. Another good reason is my brain doesn’t react well to high stress. I would pass on the gene of schizophrenia. Then there is the time and cost of raising a child alone.

Reflecting on my single life, the desire to have a small family and care for someone is replaced with a profound realization of having a life that may be better suited for me, and the time for this quest has passed. I’ve long moved on.

I’m not noble like others who decide not to contribute to the global overpopulation problem. However, I’m where they are. When I see my married friends with children, my life can feel selfish or self-centered though no friends or family has told me that. I live my life, for the most part, for myself. A Taiwanese saying describes this well: feeding one stomach feeds the whole family. This is, in a way, a privilege.

With this privilege, I’ve channeled my energy toward my writing and community. I want to not be selfish through these other means while I lead a different life from that of a wife or mother.

A side note, unlike fertility, dating has no biological timeline. If I wanted to, I could date until I was 90. I could still have children, just not biological. I’m neither expecting nor avoiding it, but simply not worrying about it until the situation presents itself.

On another side note, a girlfriend recently told me that wanting a child might be the most selfish decision she had ever made. It was what she, as a woman, wanted in her life. She had decided to bring a baby into this world and made that the purpose of her life. I had never thought of it that way.

That’s just it. Life accepts all kinds of decisions and paths. Like the shitty first draft when I start a writing project, I can only write down what my inspiration takes me. No assumptions. Like driving at night in the dark, even though I can only see as far as the headlight, I will make it to my destination.

For this peaceful mind, I’m grateful to live my life every day with gratitude.

I felt like an imposter.

After Becoming Whole was published, concerned readers emailed me for their son, daughter, brother, or sister, asking for help. At the scariest moment, a young man killed himself between his father’s second and third emails telling me about his night drives alone in the dark, which was getting longer and longer.

I had no idea how to stop a simmering suicide. I didn’t see his death coming from his father's polite but anxious first email. I didn’t know where he was, what he was thinking or doing, or his mental state.

I wrote my story on schizophrenia, hoping to help people. Friends and parents have told me that they found it hopeful. But what then? What can one do after feeling hopeful? I felt short-sighted and useless when facing these readers with real-life problems and unable to offer concrete steps to tackle their life-and-death challenges.

The second book, I’m With Me, didn’t get many eyeballs. The story might be too familiar and predictable, and one reader said frankly, “The story itself is very interesting and sometimes even inspiring. The writing is very basic, however. A teenager would have no problem with this book. A quick, uplifting read but not an exemplary piece of literature.”

I read online somewhere that a writer can ballpark her success by the number of book copies she sells: 50 vs. 5000. If an author sells around 50 copies, that probably means that she has the support of all her friends and family. If 5,000 people buy a book, it cannot be an accident. I’m neither here nor there, having hit the 500+ mark.

In recent months, I’ve been questioning my desire to write. I may be no good at this, as a storyteller or at life lessons. Is it worth me putting all my energy and money into it?

Why did I write my memoirs? I wanted to share my take on life, living with schizophrenia, being a single woman, and being content. But as I embark on a new writing project, a novel this time, I struggle with my intent.

Why write still? I am realistic about knowing that I am not a nature. Well, I enjoy storytelling. I stop breathing when I read a book (or watch a movie) that puts me in a new world or shows me something beautiful, dramatic, or heartbreaking. I had always wanted to create something original, but now I aspire to create stories that resonate with others in addition to having something to say.

Letting imposter syndrome sits in me, I leverage it to figure out how to improve myself. First, I’m going to read the shit out of this year. (Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them by Francine Prose.) Learn new words. (Today’s word on Instagram @vocabulary.daily.words is soporific.) Write, write, write (when I’m ready again). And maybe take classes (like a real creative writing and literature program.) Yes, I’ve much more to learn about writing, the writing life, and life itself and I’m ready!

In October, I visited my family in Taiwan. Living with my aunts meant I was cared for in the most thoughtful way possible around the clock, which I hadn’t experienced in a long while.

Being Taiwanese, my youngest aunt made sure I had fresh cut-up fruit for breakfast every morning. It was different every day. As soon as they heard that I liked mantou, Taiwanese steam buns, they bought some home from the best mantou shop in the city. We had different fish every dinner after I commented on the broad selection of fish we didn’t have in the US.

I have been debating moving back to Taiwan. Having a huge family there is an important factor. Being such an American, I immediately thought of looking for a place of my own. My aunts and close Taiwanese friends asked, “why do you want to live by yourself? Why don’t you live at home (with my aunts)?”

How much personal space do I need? And why?

As a minimalist, I have been trying to cut out material things at home. I can apply that mindset to my living space as well. A home should be a place that is comfortable and safe, and I have that at my aunt’s place. I have a warm bed, a roof over my head, hot water for showers, and, more importantly, love and care. Personal space doesn’t have to be physical space. It’s a frame of mind.

Will I have more freedom and independence to have my own place?

At younger ages, I used to feel constrained when I visited my relatives in Taiwan. Every time I went out, there would be so many questions. When I wanted to do something, there would be suggestions and objections. But now, instead of feeling a lack of freedom, I understand the intent is love and care. I’m able to balance my wants with their inquiries.

I’ll have more family nearby.

My family is huge; most of my brothers and sisters (cousins) are in Taiwan. When I was in town, they all showed up. Calvin took me to beaches, night markets, spas, and massage places. Chao showed me bookstores, restaurants, and cities with lots of new construction. It was nice to hear them calling me “dear sister.”

When the time is right, I’ll move back with my aunt. Very un-American, I know. I’m at a point in my life where I don’t have to prove I’m independent to be independent. Living with family doesn’t take away freedom. A single one-person household isn’t always smart or economically sound.

Being single doesn’t mean being alone. Romantic love is not the only kind of love that exists and fills the heart. Time to consolidate and combine our forces.

Ever since I was little, I could fall asleep anywhere. My dad told me this story that made me realize it was my secret superpower. My dad had stopped at a red traffic light. About five years old, I was sitting in the back of his motorcycle, which was common transportation in Taipei. At the light, another man on a motorcycle next to us turned to my dad and said, “Hey, mister, your daughter is sleeping in the back of your motorcycle. Very dangerous!” After that, my dad used a belt to strap me to him every time we rode the motorbike.

My superpower works during weekends on the sofa at home, on long flights sitting on planes, and on trains while I travel. It didn’t matter where. I could be out in a minute. For the long flight between Taiwan and Boston, I could fall asleep in Boston and wake up in Taipei fourteen hours later. It was fantastic to have this superpower.

Last month when I traveled from Boston to Taipei, my superpower no longer worked, and I couldn’t sleep through the combined 20 hours of flying time. Sitting through the flight, my lower back was hurting. I felt old.

Then I remembered my new superpower. With aging, I’m more comfortable being myself. I don’t drive. I don’t watch sports. I’m single and have no kids. That’s okay. I have a good balance between work and personal life and am surrounded by family and friends. I continue to live a happy life. With aging, my superpower evolves.

One day, I might be unable to walk, read, and eat. Aging is natural. When my body gives out, I know I’ll have wonderful memories of every single one of my superpowers. When I think of them, joy will filled my heart. That is also a superpower.

After learning about FIRE and minimalism, I’m now investigating the idea of slow living.

I find it helpful to think about fast living first. That means jumping from one thing to another without any break, i.e., with a packed schedule. Also, on an individual task level, we tend to associate fast with efficiency. For example, I was proud of walking fast. But recently, I have been making myself walk slower.

Part of me was always attracted to slow living. A habit I have related to this is about time. If I arrive at a dinner at the exact meeting time of 5 PM, I consider that lucky and not just planning. I very much dislike being late. Being habitually 3 to 5 minutes late or always cutting it close horrifies and stresses me out. The only way to “always” be on time means I’m always early. I give myself plenty of time to get to a place and include time for the unexpected, which doesn’t usually happen, but I don’t mind.

The second habit worth mentioning is related to day-to-day transportation. Instead of traveling in a car which is usually the most direct way to move from point A to point B, I prefer taking public transportation, i.e., the subway or the bus. I quite enjoy the slower journeys as much as the destinations.

As I think more about slow living, and I am still learning about it, it seems to be about giving myself the freedom and space to take in the current moment for as long as it needs. Instead of quickly reading a book to get to the ending, I savor each sentence a bit longer. Wondering around in the neighborhood without purpose while living and breathing without checking off any items on my to-do list.

Of course, I’ll have to think about this more. But I recommend walking slower, relaxing our bodies, and taking it all in a bit more. I don’t want to live my life always in a hurry and miss the roses.

On a dating app, a man told me he was devoted to philanthropy work somewhere far, in this case, in Yemen. I had already chatted with a few men with this line of messages recently. If it were true, he would have much more important things to worry about than long-distance dating, which I wasn’t interested in. I was clear with the dating app: my dating radius was 50 miles, but I understood the apps were not omniscient if someone tried to game the filter. If it was a scam, I spotted the setup.

Dating apps are not designed to be used for a long time, like more than a few years. Eventually, over time, I saw most of the desirable matches for me in my area. Once in a while, I would be pleasantly surprised when someone new, most likely a recently divorced man or someone who just moved to Boston, joined the app and showed up in my feed.

Meeting new people was not a chore but using dating apps started to feel like it. As more people became familiar with dating apps, I found it harder to meet someone of my interest, and the pool of men grew to include anyone off the street.

The last draw broke the back. I matched with someone from Connecticut based on his profile who said he lived in San Francisco, bragged about his many real estates in New York City, and mistaken me for living in Brooklyn. Shortly after that, I matched with another man who had the same exact profile description as the first man. The scam alarm went off pretty quickly in my head. I grew uncomfortable with the increasing number of potential scammers on these apps.

I had to decide: Do I want to meet people through dating apps? The noises were louder than the signals. I decided meeting people without dating apps was the way to go, whether through some other types of apps or in person. I have outgrown the first and second generations of dating apps.

I felt lighter.