When I was 17, I wanted to be a historian. 

I adored my high school history teacher, a kindly prematurely balding Canadian man named Mr. Hawkes. He was from Nova Scotia and his favorite meal from home was a Dairy Queen hot dog. Mr. Hawkes was one of those teachers that clearly wanted to be a teacher and it showed in the classroom. Thanks to him, history wasn’t just an accumulation of stories anymore. In his class, I learned that people make history and not the other way around and that in periods where there is no leadership, society stands stagnant. Progress occurs when courageous, skillful leaders seize the opportunity to change things (hopefully) for the better. I loved reading about history too. I spent hours upon hours poring over the stories of real life heroes, villains and rebels. I lived in the ridges and curves of people of the past and was determined to stay there. 

I wanted to read and write about the people who boldly left their thumb print on the world professionally. Thus, I was determined to become a history major and eventually a historian.  I would discuss this plan with Mr. Russell, my math teacher and other favorite Canadian. I trusted Mr. Russell because he let me speak honestly and was never pretentious with his response. His classroom was a welcome respite while I was in the midst of a tumultuous senior year of high school. He was that teacher for me — the one that went out of their way to listen and offer mentorship when I so desperately needed it but was too proud to ask for it.

Mr. Russell impacted my life in three very important ways: he introduced me to Breaking Bad, proper 90’s grunge, and Senator Barack Obama.  

During our weekly after-school math tutoring sessions, he gently let me know that historians aren’t really a thing anymore. Through the course of this conversation about my possible college path, it dawned me on that I didn’t actually know what a historian did. When I would picture my future career, it sounded lovely, like sitting by a roaring fire in a library with looming shelves, musky leather furniture, and jewel-colored tomes. That was as far as my career plan went, to a comfy library armchair. But I also knew that Mr. Russell wouldn’t lie to me. While I was pouting over this career epiphany, he asked me if I was keeping up with the news and had heard of this guy Barack Obama. He was running for President in America and he thought I should check him out. 

We paid for secure VPN services to skirt around Chinese internet censorship laws, so we still got American news in Suzhou. As a seventeen-year-old, I had already lived in two different post-communist dictatorships for several years. I wasn’t a flag-waver by any stretch of the imagination, nor was my childhood exactly awash in patriotism. I distinctly remember as an eight-year-old having to type up a list of 25 items I could pack in 30 minutes or less if I was evacuated out of the country in the case of emergency, like another coup d’etat or terrorist attack. It was taped to my armoire for easy, everyday reference. Politics was an omnipresent force in my life by the virtue of my unique living circumstances, but one that I never considered entering in any sort of substantial manner. The American political horse race was relative and foreign and distant, but this felt different. 

Hell, it was different. Barack Obama was just like me: a Third Culture Kid, an American growing up in Indonesia. He went to school in Jakarta not too far from where I did. When he joined Anthony Bourdain for dinner in Hanoi for an episode of Parts Unknown, he reminisced about roadside fish stands in the mountains of West Java. My jaw dropped when I watched that episode because I’ve been there. Like President Obama, I share the same warm-hearted glow when I think about my Indonesian childhood. His candidacy resonated with me because I saw a reflection of my same struggle — the struggle to negotiate cultural spaces and forge a sense of personal and social identity from the various environments to which I’ve been exposed. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that several members of the Obama cabinet and his senior advisors are also Third Culture Kids. 

After that conversation in Mr. Russell’s classroom, my plans changed. Simply put, I got the bug. I read any scrap of Obama news I could get my hands on. I tried to learn the players and lingo. We couldn’t get YouTube access thanks to the Great Firewall of China, so I treasured the rare speech video clips. I was about to graduate high school in China and I was ensnared in a whirlwind of American hope and change. I didn’t have to sit back and wait to read about history, I could take an active role in making it. I wasn’t ready to move back to the United States, so I took a half-measure and majored in International Relations at a school in Paris. I thought I could combine everything I loved: bold historical narrative and politics while putting off the inevitable brutality of repatriation. 

While in school, I trudged through international relations theory while joyfully devouring the latest Obama World news. I watched Jen Psaki briefings on C-SPAN when I was working at the coffee shop. Here was a woman that was artful, graceful, intelligent and poised. She had all of her information at her fingertips and could jump from the latest economic forecast to Russian encroachment in Ukraine without breaking a sweat. I read Favreau speeches in the hopes of one day emulating his heart wrenchingly hopeful prose. Axelrod narrated my 45 minute breaks in between Intermediate French and 20th Century Diplomatic History. 

Under the Obama coalition, I saw public service, idealism, and diversity thrive. I looked up to the motley cast of characters I saw coming out of Obama’s campaign team. Jon Favreau, David Axelrod, David Plouffe, Dan Pfeiffer, Cody Keenan, and Ben Rhodes all became central figures in figuring out who I wanted to be and what I believed in. Through their example, I saw that I could choose hope over fear. Most importantly, I could see the future not as something out of my control, but as something I could shape for the better through a concerted and collected effort. It was revolutionary to discover that I had agency in creating the kind of life and world that I wanted to live. 

And I was determined to follow in their footsteps and master the dark art of political communication and organization, so I moved across the world by myself (again) to a brand-new city, sight-unseen. Boston, Massachusetts: the home of the Kennedy dynasty. 

On a mission to become the next Alyssa Mastromonaco, I transferred colleges and switched majors. I got my first taste of activism working at a LGBT legal rights non profit. I interned for years. I raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for causes I believe in. But most importantly, I reached out for mentorship from former Obama staffers and Massachusetts Democratic strategists. I had worked up the nerve to ask them out for coffee, and without exception, every single person was unfailingly generous with their time and advice. This was the most valuable experience I had in Boston because I saw that my dreams were accessible and these people, these kind, funny, whip-smart Democrats, were telling me how to chase them. Coffee after coffee, I kept a little red leather journal full of notes, book recommendations, and their nuggets of wisdom. During my last few sips of my cappuccino, I always made sure to ask: who should I talk to next? And in the spirit of passing it on, I would get a friend’s number or email address. I was building a roadmap. 

It wasn’t until I met with David Cavell, former Obama White House speechwriter and current candidate for Congress, during a wicked Boston snowstorm that everything cemented into place. 

Over the span of two hours, I peppered him with questions about speech writing, the Obama ‘08 campaign, and crafting a career in political communication. I took pages and pages of notes on advice, technique, strategy and anything in between. He provided insight, hope, and reasonable, actionable steps to take next if I wanted to become a professional political strategist. I was starstruck because this was the guy. He was living my dream and it dawned on me: if you can see it, you can be it. When I left Boston Common Coffee into the biting Massachusetts cold, I could have clicked my heels, I was so hopeful and happy about what was ahead of me. That two hour conversation provided my career map for the next six years. I felt like I knew what to do now.

Slowly but surely, one coffee at a time, my ideals were aligning with my career goals. Carving out my path was scary and intimidating but I refused to see myself as an underdog. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t lived in America in nearly a decade. My parents raised me with the sense of entitlement of a tall, blonde, mediocre white man, plus I had drive and a deeply ingrained sense of fairness. Over the intervening years, I would draw on these qualities to accomplish a lot of scary things that I wasn’t sure about but believed in all the same. When it all got a little too overwhelming, I could look to my cast of Obama World heroes to see if I measured up. When I didn’t know what to do, my little red leather journal would show me me if I was on the right track. 

I work professionally in Democratic politics now and I feel as if I owe it to the Obama ‘08 communications team for trailblazing a path for me to follow all of the way from Suzhou, China. Thanks to them and a heavy sprinkling of Massachusetts Democrats, I saw that political communication wasn’t just an art, but a profession and that I could do this, for real. They showed me that my career goals weren’t just a pipe dream seen in Aaron Sorkin shows. And despite the shocking lack of soaring, inspirational speeches and witty repartee during walk and talks during my average work day, I’ve found my sweet spot. 

Last year, I wrote David a message thanking him for that life-changing cappuccino. His small act of generosity and kindness opened up a world of opportunity for me. It meant a lot to me to say this to him and show that I followed his advice. I wrote as much and as furiously as I could, got published in major outlets, and joined a political campaign. My career aspirations were just within reach and I finally grabbed hold of them. 

I’m completely unashamed to say that I burst into tears when I read his response. 

Not because I was sad, but because what else do you do when you tell your heroes that you made it? 

I did the same thing when I got to share my story with Jon Favreau, Jon Lovett, Tommy Vietor, and Dan Pfeiffer. By a lucky accident, my dad and I ended up getting front row seats at a Crooked Media event. I was able to ask a question in front of an audience and I seized the chance to try to explain what they’ve meant to me over the past nine years and what I’ve accomplished thanks to their example. I kept on repeating, “This is so important to me,” before squeezing in a question about Democratic digital strategy.

But what I wanted to say was:

I did it, guys. After years of hard work and moving across the world multiple times, I finally did it. I work in Democratic politics professionally, in a job that challenges me and pushes me to be better every day. I work hard every day so I can elect more Democrats and change history for the better. Aren’t you proud of me?

And, in what I am absolutely sure was my life’s peak, Jon Favreau, my hero since I was 17, looked at me in the eye, grinned and said, “Congratulations,” before Pfeiffer dove into digital strategy. 

That five minute interaction in a packed Wilshire Theater in downtown Los Angeles affirmed so many of my life choices. All of the hard work. All of the unpaid internships. All of the fruitless fundraising pitches. All of it was instantly worth it because I felt acknowledged by the people I’ve looked up to for the past 10 years. I met my heroes and it went WONDERFULLY. 

Not that long ago, I drove up to LA to see my former roommate perform at The Viper Room. It ended up being an impromptu college reunion. All of my old friends from Boston were there and we were catching up. “What are you doing now? What are you up to?” For a while, I wasn’t great at updating my college friends about my career fluctuations or even what country I was living in at the time. Despite my living situation being constantly in flux, my goals never were. 

And after I explained my current job, everyone asked me, “So, you did it?” 

And my only honest answer was, “Yes. Yes, I did.”