As you may have read before, I say I'm from California, but I was acutally born on the East Coast. My dad was a practicing physician before he and my mom immigrated from India in the early 90s. In order to practice medicine in the U.S., he had to go through a residency program here. It was during that time, while my parents were scraping by in a dinky one-bed apartment outside Philadelphia, that I was born. My older sister had to wait several years to join us in America, but once my dad had earned his license, our family was reunited and we moved to California. My parents had the choice to live with extended family in the Silicon Valley, but they opted to move to the Central Valley so they could gain some independence, establish financial freedom, and put me and my sister in a better school district.
I'd say their gamble paid off. We had a home in the suburbs, and both my sister and I went through the education system without too much struggle. I was pretty shy and lonesome, but I made a few important friendships and was as exalted as a so-called “gifted” kid. I never placed much value in that designation—I was just lucky to have a stable enough home life and be excited to come to school and learn. Not everyone had the same experience, and frankly even at that age I didn't understand why I was praised when others around me needed that support and encouragement.
I flew through most of grade school with ease, tried a few sports and clubs here and there. The only thing that stuck for a while was martial arts. I practiced Shito-Ryu for almost ten years with a strict, kind, and funny Filipino gentleman who recounts the story of my dad interviewing him about his philosophy before enrolling me. I enjoyed the mind-body aspect of traditional karate, and it was a healhty way for me to stay active and committed to a craft.
That is, until I found robotics. In high school, I stumbled upon the FIRST ® Robotics Compeition (FRC), and I was immediately hooked into the program. Most of my peers had joined as freshmen, but I only learned about the program at the end of the season, so, driven by a need to catch up to my peers and a genuine hunger for knowledge, I spent the following summer learning all about the various subgroups on the team. Very quickly I realized programming and engineering were of great interest to me, and I decided to pursue it as a career. To this day I still volunteer for the program as alumni mentor.
Stellar grades, meaningful extracurriculars, and some decent essays landed me a spot at UCLA, an opportunity I was neither stoked nor disappointed by, but definitely grateful for. College was the first time I had really moved elsewhere (at least as a fully conscious being), and the first time I had lived on my own in any regard. I definitely got humbled at times. I got a C on my first midterm and struggled on some projects, but my high school experience actually prepared me pretty well, and I basically coasted through my freshman year. I even inducted into some engineering honor societies, most notably Upsilon Pi Epsilon, which became a major part of the remainder of my college career.
Sophomore year was much harder. I was starting to move into my core upper divs, which were notorious for their difficulty at UCLA. There were times in my operating systems and programming languages classes that I truly did question whether I would be able to survive the curriculum, but in hindsight, a bit more help, dedicated study, and occasional fun would have made it much more bearable. Even when it was hardest, I stayed interested and understood the value of knowing the fundamentals, even if it seemed very theoretical.
I spent the summer after my sophomore year working at Symantec. I won't retell that story here, but suffice it to say the experience was life-changing and assured me that I was doing something right— which made it all the more confusing when I returned to classes in the fall.
To my surprise, as soon as I returned to the academic environment after my internship (this is fall quarter of 2019), I started to feel the same way I felt when I was in the trenches of those difficult classes, except I wasn't taking anything remotely as difficult. Something else was wrong, and I didn't know what, and I didn't know how to find help.
As the quarter progressed, my condition worsened until I was exhibiting early signs of depression. My parents noticed when I came home that Thanksgiving, but I refused to confront this feeling of alienation and even finished out the quarter with decent grades. By the time winter break rolled around, though, I was in shambles. I slept at odd hours. I avoided friends and family. My parents tried to talk to me—they even asked me whether I would be able to continue school like this—but I forced myself to continue. That was my worst mistake, and I hope I never betray myself like that again.
Those first few months of 2020 were scary (and that was before the pandemic!). My stubborn drive lasted for about a week and change. After that, I was drowning. I gradually dropped off the face of the Earth, first skipping extracurricular meetings and practices, then classes. I felt my world shrink to the confines of my dim and scantily furnished apartment and further until I could barely leave my bed.
Fortunately, after about a month of this torture, I decided enough was enough. I fought every fiber of my being for just long enough to put my degree on hold, formally leave behind my extracurricular responsibilities, and say goodbye to the few friends I had at the time. I left UCLA in March of 2020, not knowing when I'd be back, but knowing I wouldn't quit forever.
I always joke that I picked the best time in a century to have a mental breakdown. Not two weeks had passed since I moved back home when the lockdowns started. I was at the absolute nadir of my mental health journey, and for a while the only goal I had each day was to do one thing to help myself besides sleep, eat, and dissociate on my phone.
I settled into a routine where my one thing was a walk, and for some reason it really stuck. For about a month or so, rain or sunshine, I would set out along the outskirts of the suburbs and find a secluded place to sit down. I would have my phone and headphones on me, but eventually I grew to prefer giving my brain a chance to sort things out organically.
Though the pandemic didn't affect me as directly as the students I left behind, I heard wind of the widespread PPE supply shortages and wanted to see what was being done about it. I came across online hobbyists, makers, and engineers using whatever materials they had on hand to construct makeshift PPE, and I knew my fellow FRC alumni would be itching to make a difference. Together, we organized about 15–20 people into a task force to address the situation and—over the course of several weeks—3D-printed, disinfected, assembled, packaged, and delivered over a thousand face shields and masks to hospitals, clinics, and elder care facilities in our county.
Having a project that is social, service-oriented, and that employs your specific set of skills is an incredible boon during times of crisis. It didn't solve any of my personal problems per se, but it kept me grounded to the very uncertain state of the world, and it offered me purpose and community when I needed it most. By the time the project came to an end, I wasn't quite ready to return to UCLA, but I was ready to move forward again.
After about six or seven months of leave, I figured I was probably ready to return to school. Everything was online for the 2020-21 school year, so I had to catch up to the times and finally learn how to use Zoom and create a proper work-from-home setup. I actually ended up commandeering a guest bedroom, laying the mattress against the wall, and putting my cheap, college Ikea desk right in the middle of the room.
The school year passed by, and I put up a pretty mediocre performance. It was a pretty hard adjustment for students and professors alike, both logistically and emotionally. I continued chugging along, spending time with old friends, taking interesting classes, and getting outside whenever I could, but my heart still wasn't fully back in it like it used to be. I think there's two big reasons why:
First, at a societal level, COVID changed things. It fractured our society and exposed very deep and messy truths. Supply shortages, labor rights issues around “essential workers,” social and political unrest acrosss the board—the whole collection of problems we faced and failed to address made a lot of people question (rightly, in my opinion) whether the systems we uphold are really doing what we entrust them to do. There was no going back after such an upheaval.
Second, on a more personal level, I don't think I had really done the work to heal from my own crisis. I faced a lot of internalized stigma around seeking professional help or therapy, and the little experience I had doing so was not particularly promising. I fared well facing my mind on my own, but there's only so much you can do by yourself in six or seven months.
There's been a lot of talk in the past couple years about imposter syndrome, to the point where the point has arguably become belabored. I'll be the first to admit that it's a problem for people who don't have “real” problems. However, the experience is emotionally true and sometimes crippling, and I don't think gatekeeping suffering is particularly helpful for anyone. Invalidating the experience is akin to telling a mentally ill person “It's all in your head!” like duh, where else would it be?
For my particular case, I'd say it was pretty bad because all the fears that undergird imposter syndrome were essentially true. I had left the officer board of Upsilon Pi Epsilon—the honor society for the computing and information disciplines—back in 2020, and when the president that year neared the end of her tenure, she reached out and invited me to run for the upcoming board election, her reasoning being that a lot of what made the org what it was had been lost during the era of COVID, and I might be able to preserve some of the traditions while bringing a fresh perspective. So I ran and I won, and then I was the president of the honor society as a failing, near drop-out student.
I'll spare the details about the my actual tenure for a dedicated blog post, but the takeaway is that I wanted to focus on consolidating communications within the officer board, tailoring events to fit the real needs of the student body, and re-branding as a more service-oriented organization rather than just an honor society with perks for the already-most-successful students.
The year passed, and again I put up a mediocre performance in my classes, but this time I carried the burden of newfound ideals and used my platform to implement them as best I could given the circumstances.
Spring of 2022 rolled around and I was nearing graduation. Well, I would have a single quarter left of classes, so I had the option to walk then. I remember getting emails about registering, performing my degree audits, and otherwise preparing for a big day. And yet, I still didn't quite feel excited or proud to be where I had gotten. I felt a pit in my stomach imagining myself walk across the stage feigning a smile with my parents in the audience.
I couldn't in good faith lie to myself and lie to them like that. If I was going to graduate, I wanted to feel like I earned it, like I truly accomplished something, not like I just forced myself through something for the sake of having done it.
And that was the first time I actually saw a therapist. Boy did I see them, too. Twice a week, in fact, for months. I spent a lot of time reading and listening to lectures, getting in shape, nurturing some friendships, and letting go of others. I took a part-time job as a barista, which allowed me to build some confidence, gain some perspective, and have some pocket money to work with while living at home. I stayed at that job for most of 2023, until I started to feel like it was finally time to finish my degree.
I hit the ground in 2024 running. I committed to mentoring my old FRC team for a few months while preparing for a final sprint through the finish line at UCLA. That would put me around the world of engineering after such a long time away and give me some time to get my game plan ready. After a few months of brushing up on old skills and getting my living situation organized, I moved back to UCLA for one last time.
Spring of 2024 was truly a different experience as a student. I was there for one thing and one thing only, and I acted like it. I had a regimented schedule, took control over my food and sleep, and became the academic weapon I always knew I was. There were many times a week I would plop down at a library or some niche spot and simply lock in for six or eight hours without taking any breaks or losing focus. I wouldn't necessarily recommend that, to be clear; it's just what happens when you are 1) actually aligned to your goals without reservation and 2) know what you need for your body and mind to function successfully.
The hard work paid off, and I finally finished my degree that June. My parents saw me walk, I got all the fancy pictures taken, I visited my favorite parts of campus, and I even ran into some familiar faces from UPE and the CS department faculty. It was as joyous as I hoped it would be.
In a few short words, I'm looking for full-time work. I've spent the last several months continuing my volunteer work mentoring my old FRC team, teaching control systems, programming, and even some CAD concepts. When the kids are in school, I'm at home or a coffee shop or a library working on projects, practicing for technical interviews, and building out this site :)
Hopefully I find a job that fits my niche skillset and an employer that appreciates my long-winded story, because I'm happier, healthier, and a better engineer than I've ever been, and I'm only going to get better from here on out.