2025 Annual Review
In the fall of 2025, in hopes of proving my mettle to graduate programs, I took a course in Linear Algebra at Santa Monica College. Linear Algebra sounds difficult and maybe even impressive, but there is something delusional about a 45-year-old taking a college math class.
I was the oldest student in the room. I sat at the same desk, and by the end of the term, all the other students had moved further back. I became a little island in the front row, fifth seat.
I tried to make friends, but two of them dropped the class. Angel, a classmate who didn't drop, asked why I was taking the class. I gave him a long explanation about restarting academics, how corporate life can feel meaningless, how there are some conceptual frameworks I'd like to understand. "Oh, so for fun," he said. In that moment, I hated Angel.
I struggled with how to be a student. Most of the other students used iPads. I used four pens, each a different color, to make notes in a paper notebook. I filled two. I began doing my homework in pen; my professor demanded I work in pencil because of the numerous mistakes and scratch-outs. Then, I would ritualistically sharpen my pencils, as if dull pencils were the problem.
And I had to mix class with more traditional middle-aged duties: husbanding, fathering, nephewing, landlording, and professional ambition-ing. Mid-semester, my family started to wonder where I was. Classes on Monday and Wednesday evenings meant I missed a lot, including missing most of my son Jack's back-to-school night. My daughter, June, celebrated her fifth birthday late, so that I could join. My kids did not have much sympathy for my homework complaints.
And to what end? My exam scores were abysmal. I wanted the Linear Algebra story to end in A and triumphant acceptance in grad school. I got a C, barely. The grade was an accurate assessment of my understanding of the material. The grad school plan is being reworked.
But more revealing than the marks were my reactions. I was wounded, deeply, by bad grades. I found myself wanting the professor's approval in an almost visceral way. I was pouring my time into something that I wasn't very successful at. I did the work though. I enjoyed the lectures, or some of them. I really enjoyed the feeling of not knowing, learning a little bit, and being able to do something more than before.
The Linear Algebra story feels emblematic of my year: somewhat naive and impractical, with some really helpful elements, and confusing results. It also exposed my own unreasonable expectations.
This mix of naivety and starting over persisted throughout other parts of my year. I led a walk from San Francisco to Big Sur, and decided to make it a yearly thing. I got a small consultancy off the ground, and even found a client. I started a men's group. I went on a meditation retreat, my second, and a camping trip, my first.
And regular, real, sometimes joyous, life happened all around me. I celebrated 16 years with my wife Amy. My son started middle school, my daughter transitional kindergarten. LA caught fire, changing it somehow. The larger world became more confusing. I went to a play that was brave and personal and somehow inspiring. I traveled, visited friends and family, and I was able to spend time with the people I love the most.
And some perspective grew through spending that time; most starkly, in what I'm learning from my 85 year-old aunt, Jeanne.
Aunt Jeanne lived a seemingly impossible glamorous life: a TWA stewardess and then an accomplished nurse. I remember her visiting our Pittsburgh rowhouse as a kid. She was always back from a vacation; we'd gather around her to look at photos of the Coliseum and Germany towns and French chateaus. I remember decadent Christmas meals and gifts, and the energy and support she gave my mom.
I got older and eventually moved to LA and I would occasionally visit her in her San Francisco home. As I got to know her better, I found her less cosmopolitan than my childhood memories. She smoked, and the TV was always on. Our visits though, if brief, were warm and personable. I liked her more now, even if it was hard to know her. And then she had a series of falls. In late 2024, I was able to help move her into a nursing home near me in Los Angeles.
And so 2025 was also managing her care. We're both fortunate that professionals can take care of her physical needs. I manage her healthcare visits, her administration, her mail. And I visit her as often as I can. There are some unpleasant times and I don't really know what to do when she yells or grows frustrated or talks about going back home. She tells me there is a phone in the wall, but it's just an outlet cover with a small green light. She is slowly understanding what is happening. "I'm good, except for my mind, you know."
Jeanne and I grew closer in 2025. She told me about her childhood, visiting her grandmother, learning how to cook and set the table. How she feared her grandfather. I could see that fear as she told me the stories. She told me about working three days on, three days off, the head nurse of the urology ward. The occasional phone calls or old photos from friends and family make her smile. I sometimes play operator and connect calls between Jeanne and her 91-year-old beau, Lindsey. The connection happens about once in every ten calls, and the conversations are funnily short, but we try.
Jeanne isn't sure if I'm her nephew or her brother. But she hasn't lost her self. Sometimes, she is kind and grateful. She told me once "I appreciate you're in my interest" and I take that as a compliment.
In looking back over the year, I'm happy that I took that math class. And that I've grown closer to Jeanne. I see that there are many days where I feel overwhelmed or inadequate to the things in front of me. Chided, in a way, by the obligations that I myself have chosen. On tough days, I have my four colored pens ready on my island, awaiting the professor's approval. On good days, I take it for what it is, appreciate the C for its accuracy, and for the people I meet along the way. This was 2025.