Grieving the Possibility of Everything
Birth is only possible with death
This week I had lunch with the first manager I ever had at Tesla.
He built the team I joined from the ground up. We were a tight trio—three fresh graduates just starting out, figuring out our place in one of the most intense engineering environments in the world. Over time, we became more than colleagues—we became friends, reflections of one another. Then, as careers evolved and paths diverged, the team dissolved. He went on to lead a critical program. One teammate focused on building his technical craft, choosing to stay on the team, and now on his way to becoming a manager. Another left to rediscover his roots in Asia. I changed teams, searching to create something I could be proud of.
And now, years later, I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was grieving—not a person, but the possibility of everything.
In this lunch, I saw the three versions of life I could have lived:
The manager: if I continued to go all-in on Tesla, I might be financially free in a few years, set up with stock and stability—but I'd still be here, working.
Teammate #2: If I stayed on a more conventional path, I might be a manager by now—partnered, settled, maybe at peace with simple joys.
Teammate #3: If I leave everything behind, I might be waking up in Japan, far from the Bay, far from the noise, far from ambition—at peace with detachment.
But I didn’t choose any of those. I chose to keep moving.
Now, I’m on the cusp of a new chapter. I may join another company—one that feels like a “hyperbolic time chamber,” the kind of pressure-cooker that tests and trains you until you emerge stronger, sharper, better.
And to leave now feels like death. Not of the job. But of the imagined lives I might have lived had I stayed.
The dream of becoming a manager here.
The dream of maxing out my stock, retiring early.
The dream of dropping everything and starting a new life abroad.
The dream of belonging to something I helped build from nothing.
Letting go of those dreams is painful. But it’s also necessary.
My old manager respected my choice. Because he once had to make his own. That kind of respect is rare, and it means more to me than I can say.
What I’m learning is this: grief is not just about loss. It’s about love. It’s about caring deeply enough that something hurts to let go. And maybe, if we’re lucky, grief is a signal—not of regret, but of transformation.
As I begin to part ways, I take with me the best of each version of the people who shaped me:
The technical sharpness of the teammate who stayed.
The freedom of the one who left.
The wisdom of the one who led.
In poker, we don’t control the cards we’re dealt. We choose to either fold or play.
I’m still playing.
But today, I take a breath. I honor what could have been. And I say goodbye to the path I didn’t choose—so I can walk more fully into the one I will.