This is Part 1 of X on how I got started in the UX Design field. These series of posts are not intended to be an “How-to Guide” to start a UX career, but rather to demonstrate that there’s no “right way” to become a UX practitioner.
“So what the hell is it that you do?”
That was my friend Michelle’s response when I told her I was moving to Silicon Valley in May of 2015. Having graduated from college in 2013, I was pretty discreet about my work plans until that moment, particularly because I was unemployed or under-employed following my exit from the Notre Dame bubble. It would take me a little more than two years before I landed a full-time job in User Experience Design.
Here’s how I got here. Continue reading On how I got started with User Experience Design [Part 1]
Yesterday I celebrated America’s 240th birthday in the most patriotic place I can think of: Canada. As any patriot would, I celebrated America’s independence by going to Tim Hortons. Twice.
Though it was not the primary reason for my visit, I got the chance to celebrate Canada Day for the second time in four years, which probably makes me a Canadian citizen under their law. I hear if you come for a third time, you’ll be forced to marry a Canadian in a wedding ordained by Carly Rae Jepson. My first time celebrating the Canadian equivalent of Independence Day was in 2013, during my trip to Ottawa (shown below), where I saw my future ordainer perform live. She has yet to call me. Continue reading On being an American
Yesterday marked the 17th anniversary of my immigration to the United States. This time every year, I take a minute to reflect on how far my family has come to get to this point. Explaining the meaning of this day is difficult to put into words. And unfortunately, talking about immigration without some level of political undertone is nearly impossible in this day and age, especially with the upcoming Presidential Election. But here goes. Continue reading On being an immigrant
For as long as I can remember, my father always worked. The first sounds that carried through my ears almost every morning were his footsteps, followed by the opening and shutting of our front door. He was off to work.
For as long as I can remember, my father worked. 7 days a week, almost 365 days a year.
I can’t say I know that much about my father. Aside from the basics, I never got to know him deeply. From what my aunt tells me, he was quite the ladies man all his life due to his incessant ability to serenade. Until he met my mother, of course. From what my grandpa once told me, he used to cry endlessly because his family could only afford white rice for meals back in the early days. Gramps concluded he was quite the bratty child. Seems like I inherited the latter part of my father’s traits and not the former. Definitely not the former. Continue reading On fatherhood