KNOWING THAT I WAS GOING TO LEAVE DID NOT MAKE IT ANY EASIER to contemplate the fateful moment when I’d need to hit the switch. I would be severing my ties with everything that was important in my immediate world—Sophie, Michael, Microsoft, and China. As I had only been in Beijing for four months, there was no support structure of friends to turn to for advice, comfort, and solace. I knew that the coming months would be one of the roughest periods of my life.
Making things even harder was an inherent trait: I hate to disappoint people. From a young age, I had always been a “good kid” who was loved and respected by my parents, their immediate circle of friends, and my teachers. Something I think of as the “make-other-people-happy-with-you gene” was part of my DNA from a young age. Now, rather than pleasing Sophie and Michael, the two people closest to me in China, I would instead be breaking away from them.
I knew that I would be at a loss to explain why my life plan had changed so radically and why they did not fit in with it. We were united in our glamorous lives as expats and our chosen careers; to opt out would be to abandon one’s tribe.
As much as I knew how painful the separations would be for all of us, I also knew it had to be done. The feeling of excitement for my life outside Microsoft had increased to such an extent that my mind was blazing with thoughts and ideas about a post-Microsoft life. I knew that I’d go back to Nepal to see the schools we were building and the libraries we were setting up and to plan future growth. I was becoming interested in projects that helped refugees to resettle successfully. Friends were suggesting that I do consulting projects for their start-ups and use the lucrative fees to fund more schools and libraries.
I knew that I had to free myself from any constraints that would prevent the pursuit of these dreams.
A STRONG SIGNAL THAT I NEEDED TO MAKE A BREAK CAME A WEEK LATER during a meeting in Hong Kong of Microsoft’s top PR people in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and mainland China. One of the subjects on the agenda was a regionwide charity initiative that we’d kick off later in the year. I was excited at the prospect of instilling a greater sense of philanthropy into the region, and hopefully one that would remain even after I had left. I arrived at the meeting five minutes early and began filling the first three pages of a yellow legal pad with my ideas for helping some of the 200 million people in the Greater China Region living in poverty.
My teammates’ ideas were, unfortunately, quite different from my own. Within ten minutes, the mainland-China team had laid out their plan to help a few dozen students from a middle-class neighborhood in Beijing transfer from public school to an elite private school. I challenged Alice, the team leader.
“With all due respect, and you know the China market better than I do, I am not sure that this plan has much of an effect on those who are truly needy. You are helping kids who are middle-class, and who are already in a public school system that by Asian standards is pretty solid. Kids who live in the capital city get a much better education than those in the rural areas, where the local governments lack resources. This plan you are proposing simply allows those students to go to an even better private school. The school is more elite, yes, but is this really the best way to use Microsoft’s resources to help those most in need in China? Isn’t there a way we can help those who are really poor? Like maybe kids in rural areas who don’t even have schools to go to?”
“Helping the poor does not really help us,” Alice shot back.
I invited her to explain further.
“If we help the poor rural kids, that really does not matter to the company. If we help the middle class to go to good schools, then they will learn technology and become consumers of computers and software. We need them to join the upper class, or they will not really help our business. That should be the aim of this charity program.”
My heart sank. I’d had such high hopes for this meeting. Hoping that the Hong Kong team would have more inspiring ideas, I asked them to go next.
Their team proposed an initiative under which Microsoft employees would spend time training senior citizens on how to use computers. The Hong Kong staff would strongly be encouraged to spend one night, or a Saturday, in a senior citizens’ home. One benefit, I was told, was that we could spend much less money than budgeted, since “we are already paying our employees anyway.” The hope was that the funds earmarked for the charity program could instead flow to the subsidiary’s bottom line.
I did not know where to start with my critique, so I dove right in. “But, don’t you think that this will look very self-serving? It would be like Exxon buying a gas-guzzling vehicle for a poor family, in hopes that they’d fill the tank every week. Our critics are having a field day by saying that we’re not a good Chinese corporate citizen. If we want to prove otherwise, we should think about doing something for seniors that does not involve computers. Can we improve their home? Serve them a hot and nutritious meal? Take them out on field trips?”
My ideas were met with silence. To the meeting’s participants, corporate social responsibility was only relevant if it helped the business in the long term. I stopped arguing and reminded myself that philanthropy that extended beyond one’s family was still a relatively new concept in China. These young employees had been trained to act like capitalists. So it would be hypocritical of me to criticize them. Nevertheless, I continued to daydream about what it would be like the day I ran my own show and could relentlessly focus on helping those most in need. A day when charity did not involve quid pro quos.
I WAS CHEERED UP BY AN E-MAIL FROM DINESH, OUR FRIEND FROM THE Lions Club in Kathmandu. Two villages in Pasupathi’s district had made proposals for school construction projects. Dinesh had visited both and wanted to proceed.
“I told them we will only help them if they will help themselves,” he wrote. “This means that you (or any donor you find) will buy the bricks and the cement. The community will donate land and volunteer labor. I will also work for free and oversee the projects. I promise you I will make the eight-hour trip to visit both villages on a monthly basis to make sure progress is being made.”
The amount of money needed to fund the construction materials was relatively small when compared to the benefit to the children: $10,000 would build both schools. I replied immediately, telling Dinesh he could count on me for funds. My plan was to surprise my parents by dedicating both schools to them, as a thanks for my own education and their continued efforts to collect books and financial contributions for our projects.
BACK IN BEIJING, I PANICKED. I HAD JUST PLEDGED $10,000 BEFORE I had even determined whether finances would allow me to radically change my life. It was time to run the numbers to answer the important question: Could I afford to abandon my job, my paycheck, and my stock options?
Reviewing what I had in the bank, and my monthly spending, things looked good. I could most definitely survive for at least five years without fully depleting my savings. Then I realized one problem. In my haste to prove to myself that this was a good idea, I had forgotten to factor in that Microsoft had been paying our rent. I adjusted my monthly cash outflow higher, then went online to do a sanity check on rents in San Francisco (my hope was to base my new organization in a wealthy American city with strong ties to Asia). Damn, what an insanely expensive city. Another adjustment, but the spreadsheet showed that I could invest four years of my life into my charity without taking a paycheck. I would just have to cut back on my spending or take on a few small consulting projects to help with cash flow.
The numbers forced me to confront one reality. All my life I had been in saving mode, and now my nest egg would be severely scarred. I then rationalized to myself, what good are savings if you can’t use them to fund your dreams?
TWO DAYS AFTER MY INITIAL FINANCIAL ANALYSIS, PANIC SET IN. SLEEP was lost over the idea of spending years watching my savings dwindle toward zero. I forced myself to write down a Plan B. That felt good, so I wrote down Plan C.
Plan B: Take consulting gigs in the booming dot-com economy. As an ex-Microsoft exec, I could probably command a high hourly rate. Cut living expenses. Spent one-third of time consulting and two-thirds of time on my education projects in Nepal and possibly another country like Vietnam or Cambodia. This way, clients who paid me for consulting would end up subsidizing my charity work.
Plan C: Work on education projects during the day and bartend at night. I am a personable guy, a hard worker, and a fanatic about customer service. Therefore, my tips would be good, and rather than spending money on good wine (one of my hobbies) I would negotiate a little employee discount!
I really liked Plan C, but it led to another panic—that of lost status. Was I actually willing to go from being an exec to tending bar?
At any social gathering in America, the first question asked by a stranger is usually “So, what do you do?” How would it feel to say “I tend bar down at McGee’s Pub”? I pictured myself on the job wearing a Northwestern hat, or a Microsoft polo shirt, accompanied by the sound track from Springsteen’s “Glory Days.” How would it feel to have my answer to that question, for the first time in thirteen years, be about something other than the business fast track?
I tried to remind myself how pathetic it was to rely on labels and easy clichés to define my identity. I recalled advice my father had given me in junior high school. One night as we raked leaves, he asked if he needed to sign the permission form for junior varsity football. No doubt to his surprise, my response was to start crying. I explained to him that I had no interest, that all the kids who had signed up were bigger than me, and that my visions of the Darwinian playground had convinced me that I would be best off sticking with my paper route as my after-school activity.
As usual, his advice was simple and straightforward: If you don’t want to play, then don’t play. I countered that this was easy for him to say, but that I would have to face all the kids who would call me a wimp. “John,” he parried, “you are old enough to know that the only person you have to satisfy in life is yourself. Even your mother and I no longer matter. Don’t do anything to please us. Do what you think is the right thing to do and get used to answering only to yourself.”
I REHEARSED, IN MY MIND, AN ANSWER TO “WHAT DO YOU DO?”
“I have this little project setting up libraries.”
Kind of tepid. I tried again.
“I deliver books on the back of a yak to rural villages in the Himalayas.”
No, wouldn’t work. Too flippant, and it made it sound as if I were one of those rich “trustafarian” kids with dreadlocks who have spent too much time traveling in the Third World.
Third try.
“I build schools and libraries in poor communities in Nepal.”
Not bad. I liked it. I walked over to the bathroom mirror, imagined myself at a dinner party, and tried saying it aloud.
“I founded and run an organization that builds schools and libraries in poor communities in Nepal.”
I was projecting my voice and standing straight. It was clear that I would be proud to say this. If anyone judged me harshly, I would ignore it. Their problem, not mine. Besides, one does not meet a lot of status seekers in the far reaches of the Himalayas.
LONELY AND WITHOUT MANY PEOPLE IN BEIJING TO WHOM I FELT CLOSE enough to ask for advice, I worked the phones.
I discussed with my father the dilemma of leaving the company. “What do you think it means that I am more excited by e-mail about a donation of a few hundred used Dr. Seuss books than I am about a million-dollar deal to license Windows to a major Chinese telecommunications company?”
With paternal wisdom, he replied, “It just means your priorities have changed. You’ve always been very independent, and it’s probably time to do your own thing rather than working for someone else.”
My friend Mike in Sydney offered the best piece of advice I received: “Look, there are two ways to remove a Band-Aid: slowly and painfully, or quickly and painfully. Your choice.”
Mike was right. It was time to stop the navel-gazing and leap into action. I was tired of dinking around, debating, writing in my journal, running the numbers, and whining to my friends. These were smoke screens and stall tactics. I knew what I wanted. It was time.
ON A BEAUTIFUL MAY MORNING IN BEIJING, I WAS ACTUALLY HAPPY TO be stuck in traffic. Anything that would delay my appointment with Michael was welcome. As Liu Wei navigated the crowded streets, I sipped from a large commuter mug full of Chinese tea and looked out the window of the backseat. Of particular interest was a worker standing between two lanes of traffic with a shovel, filling potholes. He had chosen to dress in camouflage fatigues. I wondered if he preferred to not be seen by oncoming traffic. I felt bad for chuckling at this thought, yet also thankful to have momentary relief from the images playing in my mind of my own impending head-on collision.
Arriving at Microsoft, I refilled my mug of tea and headed straight for Michael’s spacious office. With a deep breath I knocked on the door, walked in without waiting for an invitation, and sat down in one of his guest chairs.
I got straight to the point:
“Look, you are not going to like what I am about to tell you, and I am not going to enjoy it either because I hate to disappoint you and let you down. But the reality is that I can’t work here anymore. I don’t like this city, I don’t like my life, and my priorities have shifted pretty radically.” He tried to interrupt but I bulldozed over him. I had practiced this speech for days and did not want to lose my place. “Nobody has been able to understand me over the last few months as I’ve tried to explain why this life no longer works for me. I don’t want to be an expat anymore, nor do I want to be a tech executive. I know this will be disruptive to the subsidiary, and I apologize for that. But there is no use trying to talk me out of leaving. We can negotiate my end date, and I will do whatever I can to do the right thing for you, and for the company. But there is no talking me out of this decision. I’ve been debating it for a few months now, and the concrete has dried. I’m sorry.”
He looked shocked. He had realized that something was on my mind over the last few weeks, but he did not expect this radical or sudden of a shift on my part. I felt awful; I knew I was letting him down. I was abandoning him when he needed me to be his right-hand man. I listened in a miasmic fog as I heard him use words like “shocked,” “confused,” “disappointed,” and “pissed.” He reminded me, not that I needed it, that he had taken a risk by bringing me to China in such a senior role, and that I had now made him regret having had faith in me. “You’re the guy who covers for me on so many meetings and issues. You’re the guy I send to every meeting that needs someone smart to make the key decisions. You’re one of the few guys who know what it’s like to work in an Asian subsidiary, but who also knows how Redmond HQ works. I can’t invent another one of you.”
I blurted out that I could not talk about it right now, that it was too emotional of a decision, and that we’d have to discuss details later in the week. I again said that I was sorry. With that, I busted through his door and rushed back to my office. I packed up my laptop, called Liu Wei to meet me with the car, and slunk out of the building via a side exit, feeling like a traitor to the cause.
I was scheduled to fly to a meeting in Hong Kong that afternoon. Eager to escape my normal life, I decided not to go home and instead to drive directly to the airport with a plan of whiling away a few hours in the Air China lounge prior to departure. During the drive, I thought that it was pretty pathetic to live in a city with so few comfortable and welcoming public places that one had to go to the airport to find peace and serenity.
Landing in Hong Kong felt like deliverance. The sky was bluer, the air was cleaner, the architecture was more inspiring, and the city had a bustle to it that was all too lacking in slow-moving Beijing. And here, just a few hours’ flying time south of home, was a city that was not full of my personal problems.
I arrived at the waterfront Grand Hyatt, with its panoramic floor-to-ceiling vistas of the busy harbor and the grand sweep of the city’s skyline, and asked the clerk to extend my reservation from one night to two. I craved a break from life in Beijing and was dreading the inevitable conversation with Sophie upon my return. I’d book a few meetings to justify the extra day in Hong Kong, but in reality my mind would not fully be engaged in those conference rooms.
By day, I talked with our teams about long-term initiatives that I would not be around to implement and felt guilty for faking it. At night, I walked the bustling streets of the city, stopping on occasion in a pub to have a beer and write out thoughts in my journal. Over a background din of Ricky Martin hits and raucous Australian expats cheering on their beloved Wallabies in a rugby match against New Zealand, I wrote for pages on end about the pain of ending one’s current life. I did not feel as though I was living la vida loca right now. Yet there was promise in what lay ahead. I counseled myself to remain fixed on the true north I had decided upon, and to remember that Sophie, as well as me, would be better off if we simply admitted that we were on different life paths. She did not want my new life of Third World travel and philanthropy any more than I wanted our old life of glamorous and lucrative expatriate careers. Neither of us was wrong. It simply was what it was. We had different priorities. I still respected her greatly and loved watching her excel at her chosen career. I just no longer wanted to optimize my life for the same set of variables.
TWO DAYS LATER, BACK IN BEIJING, I TOLD SOPHIE THAT I WOULD BE leaving our relationship, our home, our shared city, and our joint career path. It felt like such a cruel fate to attain total freedom by doing irreparable harm to someone I loved deeply. I knew this was the right thing, and that we both needed to find a mate who wanted to share our path in life. But this knowledge did not make it any easier. My tolerance for pain is extremely low, especially when I am causing it for others.
To escape, and to live the life I desired, I was abandoning her. A positive for me was a severe negative for her.
Sophie had once surprised me with a painting on which she had labored for weeks. It was a warmly colored watercolor of a wooden park bench, resting in the comfortable shade of a large oak tree. She told me that it represented the solitudinous place where we would peacefully sit at the end of our long lives together. The painting and its glass frame now lay shattered at the base of our bedroom wall, against which it had been flung.
That, and my move into the guest bedroom, augmented a short-term future of pain and loneliness. I resolved to finish up my work as soon as possible in order to begin the next chapter of my life.
SIX WEEKS LATER: THE CESSATION OF PAIN. THE MOVERS ARRIVED ON A Wednesday; I packed up my office on a Thursday; and I was on a flight to San Francisco on Friday morning.
Ten minutes before takeoff, the United 747 is fully loaded and ready. My mountain bike and two backpacks are in the cargo hold. Out the window are Air China and China Eastern jets. I muse that this might be the last time I will see the adopted city that I never quite managed to adopt.
A stewardess asks if I’d like a glass of champagne. It’s 11 a.m., so I decline. I pull out my journal to record my thoughts at this major inflection point of my life. As I begin writing, I think about that offer. I ring the call button. When the stewardess returns, I ask sheepishly if it would be possible to get a glass of the bubbly after all.
The effervescent drink tickles my nose as the 747 lumbers down the bumpy runway. We lift off tentatively, then burst higher on a steep and powerful trajectory. I silently toast our liftoff from Chinese soil and the cessation of my existential angst. My decision has finally crystallized, been announced, and been implemented. There is no turning back.
For the next five minutes, I watch the city of Beijing, enveloped in its usual cloud of coal dust and smog. It gets smaller and smaller, and farther and farther behind. Everything negative and stress-inducing fades as the plane gains altitude and flies east. For the first time in months, I feel relaxed, happy, and forward-looking. We were escaping gravity. My mind-set was positive and buoyant. Onward and upward!