We are all museums of the people we've known and loved

We are both museum and curator, the artist and the art.

Exhibit L4 | Title: Close the Damn Bottle! | Collection: The Voices in My Head

On days when I want to look more put-together, or don sunglasses, or avoid showcasing reflections of my 389 open tabs on Zoom, I wear contacts instead of glasses.

After I put my contacts in (which I still can’t believe is a thing sometimes — like, I hit a sight paywall and can instantly upgrade to a better pair of eyes, what?!) I almost always, without fail, securely close the bottle of contact solution. The few times I don’t, a voice in my head gently but firmly reprimands me: “Vidhika, take the extra two seconds and close the bottle so you don’t get an eye infection!”

This voice, though it’s become a little fuzzier with time, is Jessica’s voice. Jessica was one of my residents when I was an RA¹ in college.

Jessica had one of the heartiest laughs I’ve ever known and a bubbly, fun-loving personality. She once ran into me at a house party and proceeded to drunkenly dance with me to some 2000s hip-hop. Normally I’d have been all in — 2000s hip-hop is the best! — but in the era of ridiculously-specific Facebook albums, I was paranoid that the party-goer paparazzi would tag us in a picture, solo cups in hand, that could cost me my job.

Extracurricular adventuring aside, what I remember most about Jessica is how swift and sincere her tough love was. Every time she pranced into my dorm room to chat, she’d immediately spot my bottle of contact solution — slightly ajar, just waiting to attract those vindictive germs scheming to get me in trouble with the eye doctor. My days of dorm room living ended more than a decade ago, but whenever I notice that a bottle of solution isn’t fully closed, I can’t help but correct it — Jessica’s care in the face of my habitual carelessness fresh in my mind.

It’s been eons since I’ve spoken to Jessica. I don’t think I’ve seen her since graduation, and thanks to my continued Facebook-abstinence I don’t know how she’s doing or what she’s into these days. Is she still fond of hip-hop music and house parties? Does she still wear contacts, or has she perhaps gotten Lasik? Does she even remember me anymore?

Despite us losing touch, her words and good intentions have found a home in my daily routine. They’re now an unmistakable fixture in the Museum of Me.

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The Museum of Me, The Museum of You

Tim McGraw once said:

We all take different paths in life, but no matter where we go, we take a little of each other everywhere.

And he was right.

The people we interact with leave their fingerprints all over our personalities, our perspectives, and even our paths forward.

The best friend who further fueled my love for poetry by introducing me to the likes of Max Ehrmann² and Sarah Kay³ when I was just a wee teenager. The tweeter extraordinaire⁴ whose reminders to “do 100 things” and “joke about the outcomes you want” ring in my head whenever I fall prey to self-defeating thought patterns. The neighbor whose tasteful aesthetic sensibilities have inspired me to take my cozymaxxing to new levels. The ex who shared that achingly beautiful song I’ve now listened to 437 times. The college hallmate who is the reason I’m so diligent about my optical health.

These are just a small fraction of the people who have at least an exhibit — if not an entire collection, or room, or floor — in the Museum of Me.

And you, no doubt, have plenty of your own influences on display in the Museum of You.

Whether consciously or unwittingly (usually both), we all become living museums of the people we’ve known and loved. We showcase their influence at every turn: the way we look, the way we carry ourselves, the way we show up and engage with others.

Take, for instance, how we often see traces of ourselves in former lovers (and vice versa). When we share not just space and time, but also hopes and fears and rituals and routines with someone, they inevitably shape how we move through the world.

As my man Drake croons in Shot for Me:

The way you walk, that's me
The way you talk, that's me
The way you got your hair up, did you forget that's me?
And the voice in the speaker right now, that’s me, that’s me

He’s being perhaps a litttttle presumptuous here — on brand, amirite? — but the fact of the matter remains that the people in our lives indisputably influence a lot of who and how we are.

But rarely without our help.

We are both museum and curator; the artist and the art, the sculptor and the sculpted. We choose, to a great extent, who we let into our lives and in what capacities. And those people — for better and for worse — become part of our becoming.

Some exhibits take center stage. They’re in the featured collections, the ones that are hard to miss — like every time someone says you look just like your mother.

Others — like the intricacies of your 13-step morning routine — stay tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the building, going unnoticed until someone happens to wander the halls and stumble upon them.

All of them, though, are forever in flux. Under construction reads the sign, in unexpectedly curvaceous script. Spoiler alert: the sign is permanent. The renovations are always underway.

The Founding Floors: The Parental Unit

I am my mother’s eyes, my father’s long-limbedness. I am my mother’s ability to yap for hours (understatement of the year), my father’s tendency to catch ever an errant comma.

I am my mother’s disinterest in most things makeup (confession: I don’t quite know the difference between foundation and concealer, and am in no rush to change that). I am my father’s obsession with well-designed everything (the brilliance of the spork was an oft-discussed topic on roadtrip-era Taco Bell pit stops).

I am my mother’s aversion to planning too far ahead, my father’s compulsion to think too much, do too little. I am my mother’s penchant for storytelling, my father’s love for the written word. I’m at once my mother’s spontaneity and my father’s meticulousness — a rare blend, perhaps even a walking contradiction.

My parents’ influence on me is ever-present and undeniable, woven into the fabric of who I am (quite literally — thanks, DNA!). It probably comes as no surprise, then, that they each have a dedicated floor in the Museum of Me.

And yet just when I think these floors are done, finito, nothing left to add or remove: I’m humbled. I discover new ways I’ve taken on qualities of theirs (see Exhibit A13), or I find that I’ve shed habits I thought would stay with me for life (case in point: I no longer collect stacks of napkins at fast-casual restaurants — now I just grab 2 or 3).

Exhibit A13 | Title: Cold Cacio E Pepe | Collection: Mummy

A few weeks ago, I had a dear friend over for a cozy catch-up over dinner. I made us some cacio e pepe (the traditional way of course — no butter, no cream, only Italian cheese!) and we sat down to eat with my favorite oversized candle glowing alongside us.

We quickly got lost in conversation. (The residents on my hall didn’t fondly dub my college dorm room “The Vortex” for nothin’!) The peppery bucatini on our plates retaliated by going from piping hot to barely lukewarm.

Though my friend assured me she didn’t mind, I insisted we had to heat it up. It felt imperative. Now this, I should add, is something I used to vehemently protest against as a child: “Mummy, it doesn’t make a difference! It’ll taste basically the same!”

Being particular about these “unnecessary” details had always felt like overkill to me.

And yet, here I was, living out the whole “apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” cliché. My mother’s voice echoed loudly, lovingly through my head. Mehman bhagwan ka roop hota hai. Hindi for guests are a form of god. We must treat them with the utmost respect and hospitality.

In other words, sorry friend, no cold cacio e pepe for you. Doesn’t matter if you don’t mind.

Six and a half hours later, as my friend put on her coat to leave, I felt my hands gingerly open the cabinet overflowing with tupperware; autopilot had kicked in. I reached for a container and began packing her leftovers.

That’s when it hit me: I really am turning into my mother. Lucky me (genuinely).

Exhibit B3 | Title: Big House on the Corner | Collection: Papa

When my family lived in Windsor⁵, we had a ritual: walks nearly every evening from our little apartment to the waterfront.

I had mixed feelings about these walks. Often they were rife with tacit tension, too swift for my 11-year-old legs, and involved braving the notorious Windsor windchill. But there was one part of the ritual I reliably looked forward to: my dad always made it a point to route us past the big house on the corner. It was his favorite too.

That’s because the big house on the corner was home to two adorable toy poodles, one graham-cracker brown and the other midnight black. On our luckier days they would be out in the yard, frolicking about, eager for pets. My little pre-teen heart loved reveling in the softness of their fur, the miniature-ness of their frame, and all their sloppy puppy kisses.

Fast forward not a year or two years, but a few decades, and not much has changed.

Earlier this year, on a stroll through downtown Antalya⁶, I fell in love with an adorable kitten named Gozzie — affectionately named after the almost-as-adorable Ryan Gosling of course.

I remember being utterly transfixed by Gozzie. Despite knowing that my heart-eyes for this creature were delaying our dinner plans, I struggled to pull myself away. Forty-five minutes evaporated without notice. And I think the feeling was mutual; at one point I tried leaving, and Gozzie just kind of…climbed my leg like a tree, to get me to stay? Spoiler alert: it worked. But, all good things must come to an end, as they say. Eventually the stomach growls won and we were on our way.

Clockwise from top left: me loving on Gozzie; the very sweet Lucky, also from Antalya; Gozzie again, purring in my lap; on a walk with the resident cat at the Denver Botanic Gardens; local ducks posing for me; Prince, the lovable family dog.

There’s no doubt in my mind why I’m magnetically drawn to the Gozzies of the world — they’re excruciatingly cute, how could I not be? But beyond the adorable antics, I can’t help but think of my dad, who was an animal lover through and through — and the closest thing to Dr. Dolittle⁷ I ever knew.

And that’s why I unapologetically wave at dogs, meow at cats, and haven’t for the life of me figured out a satisfactory answer to “what’s your favorite animal?” (can we please ban this icebreaker question forevermore?). My dad’s love for these natural wonders of the world inspired my own. He loudly lives on through me in this way.

The Curated Collections: The Near and Dear

Of course, it’s not just our families who shape us.

While my parents’ influence came in the Build-Your-Own-Museum starter pack, there are also the more curated collections — the ones featuring people I more actively invited into my life.

Top of the list? People I’ve called my friends. (This, btw, includes exes, because there isn’t a single person I’ve dated who I didn’t first consider a friend.)

These dear humans have left their mark on me in small, sometimes imperceptible ways, and other times large, life-changing ones.

I quite simply would not be who I am today without them.

Here are some glimpses of my friends’ impact on my behavior. These exhibits are taken from all over the Museum of Me.

My friends help me be kinder to myself, like:

When I go hard with the negative self-talk — “I’m an idiot” and “why am I so bad at this?!” featured prominently at the top of the leaderboard — and then stop myself, a soft but firm “please be kind to my good friend Vidhika” echoing in my head.

When I start to apologize for something trivial that isn’t really my fault, but anticipate a playful “apology not accepted!” so re-route my sentence to skip the sorry.

When I’m tempted to waste my precious emotional currency in ways I know are self-destructive, but then tell myself nope, no need to go “pain-shopping” today.

They inspire me to move through the world with more gratitude and grace, like:

When I’m having a literally-nothing’s-going-my-way kinda day, but then muster the energy to reflect on at least a few things I’m endlessly thankful for, just to put things back in perspective.

When I start to lose my patience with someone, but then hear the phrase “it takes all kinds” in my mind — reminding me to simply let them do their thing and go on doing mine.

They even play a part (albeit from afar) in me enjoying my food more, like:

When I drizzle a healthy serving of spicy-but-not-toooo-spicy Peri-Peri sauce atop my scrambled eggs, instantly making my taste buds change their tune from “yum” to “yuuuuum!”.

When I’m having some Super Nutty Oat Clusters cereal, kettle-cooked mesquite BBQ chips, or a well-done piece of buttered toast, and increase my enjoyment five-fold by silently saying “cronnnnch” with every noisy, satisfying bite.

And they encourage me to unapologetically lean in to and share what I find beautiful and inspiring and noteworthy, like:

When I’m feeling nervous before a talk and instead of the bleak “what if I’m the worst speaker there?” I start to boldly, daringly consider the alternative: “what if I’m the best?”

When an especially poignant, poetic line pierces through me, activating a strong desire to finally start that Google Doc or Twitter thread full of top shelf verses.

When I come back to work on this essay for the fifth time — despite my taste-gap⁸ being entirely too large and my motivation too low and my doubts too loud — in large part thanks to kind and consistent nudges in the shape of “how’s the essay going?” and “am I getting another newsletter this week??” and “I still haven’t given up on your essay.”

The Unlikely Exhibits: The Acquaintances and Adversaries

Influence is a funny thing, isn’t it? It can seem like it would only manifest as the result of long, intimate conversations and encouraging exchanges and gestures.

But in reality, a total stranger — or even a hater — can end up shaping us tremendously.

If the Museum of Me only showcased the people I knew well or liked a lot, let’s just say it’d be a muuuuch smaller place. And it’d also be a far less interesting one. Some of my most consistent behaviors have emerged thanks to those I actively disliked (see Exhibit N8) and even people I barely knew (see Exhibit Q11).

Let’s take a gander around the halls.

Exhibit N8 | Title: The Ghosts of Managers Past | Collection: Corporate PTSD

I’ve had a lot of bad managers over the years.

Like, not just puts a last-minute, unnecessarily anxiety-inducing, 10-minute meeting on your calendar without a heads up bad, or sends random Slack messages throughout the day to make sure you’re working bad — though I’ve had those too. I’m talking routinely steals your labored-over presentations and then broadcasts them to execs as her own bad. Insists he’s going to finally get you the pay and promotion you deserve for doing half his job but instead uses the extra time for his own ladder-climbing bad. Tells you and your coworkers lies about one another to divide and conquer bad. Makes you wonder if it’s even worth staying in corporate America bad.

I share this not just to vent about the sad state of people management these days (that’s an essay all on its own), but because difficult people like this also have a place in the Museum of Me — and a pretty significant one, at that.

Every time one of these “leaders” did something to hurt or worry or betray me, a new exhibit took hold. And with each new exhibit, frozen behind glass, was another rich lesson that directly informed my management philosophy. All those frustrated “I’m never gonna do that when I’m a manager!” moments helped make me the people manager I eventually became.

Cheesy as it sounds, people management has been one of the highlights of my career, maybe even my life. I’ve had the good fortune of getting to know so many incredible people who originally started off as “direct reports” and over time became monosyllabically just “friends”. Humans I deeply respect and admire have told me things like “you’re the best manager I’ve ever had” or “I hope to work for you someday” — both compliments that make me straight up melt. And that’s not even counting the kind notes I’ve gotten in the mail. How did I get so lucky?

Well, for one, I have some of those bad managers to thank. Their management styles, though not my favorite, were instructive: they clued me in on which mistakes to avoid and how I could aspire to lead better than they had. Even though I’d very much rather keep those exhibits locked up in the basement, if I hadn’t dealt with that mistreatment, who’s to say I wouldn’t have become a Bad Manager™ myself?

We can often learn a lot even from people we don’t particularly like.

Sometimes it’s the bullies and the haters who help make us who we are.

Exhibit Q11 | Title: Nominal Assault | Collection: Born This Way

I’m used to my name being butchered, and for years, I didn’t have a good way to stop the carnage. It was incessant. Eventually I would get people to say it right, but not without putting all parties involved through a lot of mental gymnastics.

Then one night, a friend of a friend of a friend named Nick gave me a lifeline. He overheard someone in our larger friend group mispronounce my name, and despite not knowing me well, took it upon himself to correct the offending party: “No no, it’s VIH-the-kah, like Ithaca!”

Lo and behold, it worked. Looks of recognition, realization, then relief flooded their faces. Glory to Nick, we all thought.

That was in my early 20s. Nick and I hung out a grand total of maybe two or three times, only running into one another at a mutual friend’s events. But regardless, he’s got a spot in the museum forever.

I find myself using his little mnemonic device when introducing myself to new people all the time, especially when there are signs of struggle. Sometimes I’ll even change my Zoom display name to Vidhika (rhymes with Ithaca), hoping to limit confusion — and largely to save me from visibly wincing when people (however understandably) say my name wrong. It’s a tiny yet timeless homage to Nick, whose last name I don’t actually know.

It turns out you don’t need to know someone’s full name for them to have forever made an impact on yours.

Decked Halls, Ever-Evolving Displays

The Museum of Me is decked out at this point: filled to the brim with proud moments and painful ones, trivial habits and major developments, echoes of encounters with friends and foes alike. Mementos from the past and glimmers of the present and glimpses into the future are visible in all directions.

And yet, there’s always the feeling that it’s still not complete. New people, new experiences, and new memories will soon call this place home. There’s so much room for expansion and evolution. Luckily the extra square footage in this building is, for a change, free.

I can’t help but wonder: Which artifacts will be added next, which small moments will stick? Which newcomers will make a place for themselves in my heart, and the exhibition halls? Which connections from the past might make a comeback?

And perhaps more bittersweetly: What will I outgrow? Which collections will have to cede their time in the spotlight? What might end up being relegated to a dusty corner of the basement?

Our museum displays shift as our internal landscapes do: as we grow, as we love, and as we enter and exit new phases of life.

Some exhibits will be temporary, switched out in due time whether by circumstance or choice. Others will be there for the long haul, maybe even till death do us part.

I’ve learned over the years that it can be hard to predict in advance which is which. There are people I thought would be my ride-or-dies and those I thought were just there for a season; I’ve been wrong on both fronts, more than once. Such is the mystery and beauty and tragedy of life.

A prominent collection one day might become irrelevant or overshadowed the next (hellllo, situationships!). Meanwhile, what starts off as a single, standalone exhibit has the potential to eventually warrant an entire room (like an initial hangout with a soon-to-become future best friend).

But no matter what gets remodeled or removed or rearranged, everyone we meaningfully cross paths with — whether for a minute or over the course of a lifetime — contributes at least a little piece to the mosaic of who we are and who we become.

And this happens even if we don’t see them much — or at all — anymore.

As W.S. Merwin⁹ so beautifully said in his poem Separation:

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

The people in our lives leave lasting imprints on us; their influence doesn’t necessarily fade when they leave. In fact, in some instances, that’s when it really solidifies. They thread their way through our thoughts, our decisions, and our behaviors, quietly coloring who we are.

Whether it’s remembering to close a bottle of contact solution, striving to treat my guests with care, or playing the unofficial role of cat-whisperer-in-residence, the evidence is everywhere. No matter how subtle or significant, the influence of the people I’ve known and loved is woven into the architecture of my very being.

Who are the people woven into the architecture of yours?

Which influences are on display in the Museum of You?

And in whose museums might you have landed a spot?

1. Short for “resident advisor” — someone who’s paid meagerly to take care of messes and ensure the general well-being of their residents. Also known as a FAF (“faculty advisor and friend” — what a term, right?) if you happen to watch The Sex Lives of College Girls on HBO.

2. American poet and author of Desiderata, a beautiful poem (written nearly a century ago!) imparting timeless advice on how to graciously navigate life.

3. Another, more contemporary, American poet, known for her spoken word poetry. This is one of my favorites by her (perfect for pun-lovers).

4. His name is Visakan Veerasamy and he’s a wellspring of wisdom whose one-liners live gloriously rent-free in my head. You can see for yourself by following him on Twitter!

5. A small city in Ontario, Canada — rather boring by all accounts, and best known for its one casino and proximity to Detroit (American teenagers like to visit to get their drink on).

6. A gorgeous coastal city in Turkey that I very much hope to revisit one day.

7. A fictional doctor who’s known for his ability to communicate with animals. I saw the Eddie Murphy movie as a kid and loved it (I didn’t care about IMDb or Rotten Tomatoes ratings back then, which was probably for the best).

8. A super useful concept popularized by Ira Glass, which basically describes the frustrating disparity between the high standards we often have for our creative work and the low quality of our attempts at that work (relative to our taste), especially earlier on.

9. Yet another American poet. Astounding how he manages to say so much in so few words.