About

It started out with small doodles in the margins of my homework, then ceramics electives, then creative exercises in my contemporary media class. Two high school teachers, Mr. Sackman and Ms. Vaani, noticed and urged me to apply to my district’s commercial arts and graphic design program, which was conveniently held on our campus after school. It was the first time someone had looked at what I made, seen the potential in it, and given it a direction. And that direction was the opposite of the approved paths for most children of South Asian immigrant families, which happened to be healthcare, engineering, business, or law. Art was a hobby to pass time, not a career. I applied anyway.

Over 80 high school seniors from across the district showed up to try for one of 30 seats in the Northern California Regional Occupational Program for Commercial Arts and Graphic Design, taught by a veteran art teacher named Mr. Gary Post. I sat next to classmates and friends I recognized and started filling out the application. It didn’t take long to realize my chances were slim, as I wrote “no” to virtually every question because it asked about art extracurriculars and training in software like Photoshop and Illustrator.

When the roster went up the following day, my name wasn’t on it. I congratulated my friends, thanked Mr. Post, and said bye, carefully holding my composure until I got into my mom’s tan minivan. Then she asked the dreaded question: “What happened? You didn’t get in?” and the composure fell away. I cried the whole ride home and was still inconsolable in a way she hadn’t seen before. After a brief phone call to my father at work, my mom insisted I go back, ask whether there was a waiting list, add my name to it, and ask if I could sit in on a few classes. She drove me back, said she’d wait a few minutes, and told me to never give up so easily on something I cared about so much.

There was a waitlist, Mr. Post said, but it already had at least 20 names on it. He let me add mine anyway, and agreed to let me sit in. So I sat in. Completed every assignment. Showed up every afternoon for 3 weeks as if I belonged there, participating in everything the other students did. No one made me feel like I shouldn’t be there. Not even Mr. Post. At the end of the third week, he called me into his back office and said that in all his years of teaching, he’d never done what he was about to do. He took out the waitlist and quietly crossed off every name except mine. No one else had come back. Then he took down the roster and handwrote my name as student 31. I was floored. Time slowed down. I thanked him, and I felt seen.

He spent the rest of that year gradually becoming my fiercest advocate. He told me to strongly consider art and design school if that’s where my passion was, and went out of his way to pave the path, even calling my parents personally to make the case. He introduced me to every visiting college recruiter, helped me photograph and assemble my first portfolio piece by piece as 35mm slide transparencies, and wrote my letter of recommendation. I was nominated and recognized in our high school’s Art Hall of Fame, and had one of my ceramic pieces selected for an art show, too. All of these transformations took place within my senior year, when I went from feeling directionless and confused to finally having clarity, focus, motivation—all because of the support of my teachers and parents.

None of this would have happened without the support and wisdom of my parents and teachers. My teachers selflessly gave their time without keeping score. They built the conditions where anyone who genuinely showed up could belong and discover what they were capable of. I happened to be one of the people lucky enough to be standing in it. I’ve been trying to rebuild that room ever since, in the teams I build and in the products we ship. A good system should do what that classroom did: notice the people in it and help build the conditions they need to unlock their potential.

I’ve been doubted plenty ever since. Well-intentioned friends and family pulled my parents or me aside to question our choices: “Art is a hobby.” “You won’t be able to make a living.” But I wasn’t going to give up on something I cared about that deeply. Every single one of those moments strengthened the determination and conviction my whole career is now built on: never underestimate people, because given the right conditions and support, you can build the room where they get their shot and unlock their potential.