Upbringing

"Now that you're here, the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear. UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot, 

nothing is going to get better. It's not." 

― Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

Growing up, I moved, probably more than I would've liked. I was still young and the circumstances were largely beyond my control. Moving often at an early age has indirectly taught me to travel lightly. It has also helped me understand the importance of doing more with less. It became essential to shed myself of non-quintessential belongings. Otherwise moving would be too cumbersome and expensive.

In elementary school we learned about recycling and composting. I'll never forget the first time I ever saw a compost bin in action next to the library of our school. I enjoyed spending time outdoors with my father. My mother would take me to the beach or work when she had the opportunity. The beginning seeds of caring about the environment were there from a young age.

In an ideal world we are able to make friends during primary school with whom we can continue to grow with into intermediate school and high school. For me that wasn't the case. After I finished sixth grade my Mom thought it made more sense for me to go to a change school districts. I had to make all new friends. It was difficult to start over again.

The changes continued for me as my youth progressed. I changed high schools three times. First leaving Los Angeles where I grew up to Orange County. Then leaving California altogether for Central Florida. The last high school change was moving back to California and graduating from high school in Orange County.

I moved to Florida to live with my Grandma during my junior year of high school. It was just the two of us back then. Being uprooted to a new place during my adolescence was tough. It was difficult to adjust to the new environment. Even harder to make new friends. Classmates would often ask me, "Why would you move here from California?" Mentally it was really difficult to be far away from friends and my family. To help me feel more like I was at home my grandma would walk with me to the bus stop. In the afternoons she would wait for me when the bus brought us back from school. I was going through the rebellious teenager phase of life. But despite that feeling I grew quite close to me grandmother. I was grateful and humble to have a home to live in with someone who loved and cared so much for my well being.

My grandma taught me so much about conservation. She instilled in me the principles of discipline that have become a natural part of my existence. I didn't fully understand the relationship between conservation and minimalism then.

Perhaps that is why I gravitated towards minimalism. It was almost necessary to cope with the changes I went through in life. By the time I was a teenager I was already beginning to explore ways we could better coexist with each other on our planet. I'll never forget asking my high school economics teacher "Why can't we just stop working towards growing all the time, why can't we just work less and stay where we are?"

It was around this time the pieces began to fit together. I began to appreciate the path before me and trajectory of life. I was encouraged to live with conservation as the defining foundation of my life. Sustainability and minimalism then became the pillars rising from the foundation of my existence.

If the path we take in life is fitted based upon specific events or turning points in the journey then probably for me the most significant was watching an environmental documentary created in 2006 by Al Gore called An Inconvenient Truth. In it we learn about the severity of the global climate crisis. The film won an academy award for helping to raise awareness about the severe impacts on humanity of global warming. That film encouraged me along on my environmental journey.

By the time I was in university my path towards being minimally sustained seemed preordained. I remember going out during college having worn clothes from ten years ago that didn't quite fit right. Dating during college life, I often heard complaints that I was being cheap. It wasn't that I was cheap though, I just began to hate wasting things. Going out to a restaurant for example, why should we order more then we feel comfortable finishing? I didn't want to take away extra food in a box, so I just ordered what I needed in that moment. Nothing more. Being a minimalist isn't about being cheap. But sometimes it works out that way.

When I graduated from college, the job market was still reeling from the effects of the Great Recession. With only a handful of internships on my résumé, breaking into a full-time role felt like an uphill climb. After six months of searching, I finally landed my first position in technical consulting---my entry point into the world of corporate America. It wasn't an easy start, but it marked the beginning of a journey that would shape both my professional skills and personal values.

I found success in my career, steadily advancing as I moved between companies and grew into the role of a software engineer. I genuinely enjoyed the work---the intellectual challenge, the satisfaction of solving complex problems, and the joy of seeing an idea come to life in code or design. But over time, a deeper question emerged: Was this all there was? While I was building elegant systems, I couldn't shake the feeling that my work was ultimately serving profit margins rather than people or the planet. I longed to have a more meaningful impact---something aligned with sustainability and purpose, not just financial gain. Despite my accomplishments, the pursuit of impact without monetary excess remained elusive.

I'm not sure I could ever say I truly enjoyed my job, but I always carried a quiet restlessness---like a splinter in the back of my mind. Despite professional success, something felt misaligned. I was deeply troubled by the growing climate crisis and couldn't escape the feeling that I wasn't doing enough to help. I wanted my work to reflect my values, to contribute to protecting the environment---but I also needed to earn a living and support my family. That tension between purpose and practicality became the central conflict in my life. It left me feeling like I was drifting---working hard, yet disconnected from what I loved. We're often told to "do what you love," but no one tells you how to reconcile that with the weight of financial responsibility. For me, what I loved was always nature. And the question lingering in my mind was: how could I protect what I care most about, while still meeting the basic needs of life?

Over time, I began to notice something simple but profound: the moments I felt most alive were the ones spent in nature. Hiking under open skies, feeling the quiet of a forest, watching light move across a landscape---these experiences brought clarity and peace. In contrast, the more I accumulated---possessions, obligations, distractions---the more disconnected I felt from that source of fulfillment. I began to understand that material excess was not only cluttering my living space, but also crowding out my sense of purpose. True happiness, I realized, wasn't found in climbing a career ladder or living paycheck to paycheck---it was found in simplicity, in time spent with loved ones, and in reconnecting with the natural world. That awakening marked the beginning of my path toward minimalism, not just as a lifestyle, but as a way to align my actions with what truly matters.

I didn't learn about minimalism through a single defining book or moment, but rather through a gradual process---one that deepened over time as I grew closer to Japanese culture. In high school, I first encountered elements of minimalism in films like The Last Samurai and Lost in Translation, both of which came out in 2003 and left a lasting impression on me. While The Last Samurai highlighted discipline, restraint, and harmony with nature, Lost in Translation offered a quiet, introspective lens into solitude, presence, and emotional subtlety---all values that resonated deeply and stayed with me. As I got older, I continued exploring Japanese language and culture through books, movies, and television shows, many of which subtly conveyed the beauty of simplicity and intentional living. Without realizing it at first, I began to adopt minimalist habits in my own life: reusing what I had, avoiding unnecessary purchases, and trying to make things last. Minimalism, as I came to understand it, is the practice of living deliberately---with less clutter and more clarity, less distraction and more depth. It's about reducing excess to make space for what truly matters. I noticed that my way of living began to feel different from others, not out of principle at first, but out of a quiet instinct to find peace and connection. As I embraced this lifestyle more fully, I felt like I was growing---not just in discipline, but in purpose and joy.

There is little middle ground when it comes to work---it's hard to find a job that truly offers the balance we yearn for. Fortunately, I was given the chance to work remotely, which helped shift the rhythm of my life. While my career still consumed a significant portion of my time, the absence of a daily commute and office politics allowed me to reclaim small but meaningful moments of peace and flexibility. Remote work granted me the physical space to slow down, reflect, and begin questioning the fast pace and constant consumption that once seemed inseparable from success. Of course, there were trade-offs---namely, a sense of isolation from the social energy of an office: the casual chats, the after-work gatherings, the natural friendships that form in shared spaces. I often found myself seeking out public places during the day---cafés, libraries, parks---just to feel reconnected to the world around me.

In those quiet moments of solitude, I began to step back and ask what I truly valued. What mattered most beyond career goals or material comfort? The more I reflected, the more I found myself drifting away from the endless loop of capitalism and gravitating toward simplicity. I started to see that a meaningful life wasn't about accumulation---it was about intention. About living lightly, consciously, and in alignment with what brings real peace. Minimalism wasn't just a lifestyle I admired in books or films anymore; it had become a compass, quietly guiding me toward a life shaped less by external pressures and more by inner purpose. In that sense, my upbringing didn't just lead me to a career---it led me to a deeper understanding of what it means to live well.