The Seeds We Carry

We all carry seeds—memories, habits, traces of who we once were. Some take root and bloom. Others lie dormant, quietly shaping how we see and respond to the world. In yogic philosophy, these internal imprints are called Samskara—mental grooves etched by past experiences.

This is a story about a high school reunion: a few old friends, some poppy seeds, a backyard, and the moment I realized which seeds I’ve decided to stop watering.

I saw my childhood friend P at this informal reunion. It’d been more than five years since I last saw him.

He greeted me at the party by asking about my recent LinkedIn posts with the Data Visualization Society. Before I could say more, he waved it off: “I do data viz every day, but I really don’t do storytelling. I work at a hedge fund. It’s all data analysis and investment decisions. No storytelling.”

He was trained in actual quantitative analysis and statistical modeling. I played along: “Of course. You are way more hardcore! But wait, last time I saw you, weren’t you working at Google on an AI project…?”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I’ve changed jobs a few times. I don’t stay long at one job. Quant analysis in finance is my root. I only went to Google because of a non-compete clause with my previous firm. I had to spend two years outside of finance before I could come back.”

His resume sparkled, though not all those lines were earned without maneuvering. I’d known him since we were kids. Considering his upbringing, his path made perfect sense.

We graduated top of our class from the same middle school—scores tied— into the same high school, same class. But our new school was a crucible. Everyone there had graduated top of their class. Suddenly, we weren’t special.

P bounced back from that ego bruise much faster than I did. He had interpreted the shock as data—evidence that he wasn’t as good as he thought, so he just had to study harder.

I, on the other hand, spiraled into existential crisis. Who was I, really? What was my value? Instead of doubling down on academics, I turned inward—seeking the root of my pain. I hadn’t yet encountered the Buddhist teachings on suffering, but through writing, drawing, and circulating handmade zines in school, I was looking for something deeper.

While P trained his analytical muscles, I was learning how to express something intangible.

I brought Ting, our party host, some California poppy seeds. She didn’t know much about gardening and asked me to help plant them. We used a few egg cartons from her kitchen as seed starters and dug up some soil from her backyard. She had just moved into the new house and hadn’t had time to do any landscaping yet. Other friends gathered around, curious. I was the only green thumb in the group, ironically also the only one living in a city apartment without a yard.

P observed: “I don’t plant seeds like this. I just use a hydro-planter. Grow lettuce with nutrient mix.”

I asked if he had achieved salad freedom yet.

He laughed: “I get one plate of lettuce every two months. This is more of a science project with the kids.”

I’d considered installing a hydro-planter with artificial light in my apartment, hoping to produce some wild flowers indoor. But as P described the sterile setup, it felt dystopian. I quietly crossed it off my list. I’d rather manifest a real garden in the future than engineer a nutrient pod in a dark corner.

Ting’s husband cooked for us. The food was delicious, and we all praised them as a dream team. I casually asked P, “So, who cooks in your household?”

He said, “We don’t cook much... We hired a nanny who also cooks for us.”

Before I could shift the conversation toward food or domestic rhythms, X jumped in:
“That’s not easy—to afford a nanny and cook! What does your wife do?”

P’s wife didn’t come to the party. I’d only met her once. She’s driven. A science degree from the same top university as P, an MBA from Columbia, now a buyer at a pharmaceutical company. X kept grilling P about his wife’s job. I stopped paying attention.

X and I had been close in high school—bonded by our shared sentimentality. We’d brooded over life together, exchanging our diaries filled with teenage melancholy. But over the years, we’ve grown distant. These days, our conversations have changed. She mostly talked about her kids, her work, and everything she’s juggling.

On the other hand, Ting and I weren’t close in high school. She was quiet, brilliant at math, never wrote sentimental essays or exchanged diaries with me. We lost touch until X reconnected us three years ago. That winter, I went to Ting’s house for a Christmas party and brought graphic novels for her son, Leo. He loved them. Then he showed me his drawings and played the piano. I felt an instant connection with him. We didn’t see each other for three years after that, but Ting and I texted now and then.

A month ago, she reached out to me, saying she’d just moved into a new house and invited me to visit. She’d seen my LinkedIn posts too—I apparently did very well with my LinkedIn posts—and was curious about what I was up to. I told her my work wasn’t about hard analytics; it was more about communication and storytelling. I supposed what she imagined from the seat of an actuary was quite different from what I was doing.

To my surprise, she got it instantly: “I know! Especially when I need to present to stakeholders—they can’t be bothered with your analysis—it’s all about storytelling and persuasion.”

I told her I was freelancing now, still learning, and I’d love to hear how she works. Later, Ting arranged this July 4th BBQ, calling other classmates in the region to gather.

I brought a full-color children’s encyclopedia for Leo this time. He didn’t remember me, but he was clearly delighted. He’s grown so much in his piano practice. Me too. I started taking piano more seriously after I met him.

Ting lives in an affluent neighborhood, and her house is beautiful. What strikes me most, though, is her humility. She listens with care. She doesn’t speak unless it adds to the moment. She’s tuned in to everyone’s needs. Her husband is quieter—yet he’s the one who serves food at the party, while the house décor clearly leans toward his tastes: soccer, anime, LEGO. I still don’t know what he does—never asked, the vibe never prompted it—but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s also in finance.

All of my high school friends in New York now work in financial services and are raising kids in the suburbs. I’m the odd one out.

I didn’t expect to talk about work that day—too many people, too much noise. But as the day wound down, Ting carved out one-on-one time to show me her data analysis work, ask me about my freelancing, and subtly offer help. I’m deeply grateful for that.

X joined our conversation on and off, asking what kind of clients I was looking for, whether I was in advertising. I felt my old Samskara hitting me, that I had to explain myself, and justify my decision. Thanks to Ting’s quiet generosity, I didn’t fall into the trap of over-explaining. I took a few deep, slow breath, and answered X with enough information to get by.

After P left, X turned to me and said, “P is so smooth now!”

“Oh yeah?” I said. I didn’t think P changed much. "What was your impression of him before?”

“He used to be such a nerd! But he’s doing well now, I bet.”

X’s family was among the last to leave. She came with her husband and two small kids, and as they headed to the door, the younger one had a diaper emergency. Even in the chaos, X offered to drop me at the station: “We should let Ting's family rest after such a long day.” Then she told Ting she hadn’t seen me in years and would love to chat in the car. It felt slightly rehearsed, but I appreciated the gesture.

Ting gently but firmly insisted on driving me herself: "You’ve got a two-hour drive and two kids to watch. We’ve got grandparents at home. Just let us do it."

So I rode with Ting and her husband. He drove. Ting and I sat in the back, talking softly about nothing urgent—kids, summer camp, high school.

When I got home, Ting sent me a video of Leo and his younger brother reading the encyclopedia together, debating the size of the planets.

I replied with a 🥰.

But what I meant was: thank you. For seeing me. For planting a different kind of seed.