And then I met you.

A partial list of important introductions and happy accidents.

Mom & Dad (1982)

You grew up across the street from each other back when Scottsdale was just a tiny little boomtown and Hayden was still a dirt road. I close my eyes and picture your early years on Culver Street: kids everywhere, laundry hanging on clotheslines, every family a transplant, everyone looking to make friends and find community. 

You met before grade school but didn’t start dating until college, when you were a continent apart. I try to piece together that long courtship—not just the milestones but the waiting, longing, and changing of minds, especially that lonely drive from Phoenix to Flagstaff, when the woman who would become my mom first realized that she missed the man who would become my dad.

Liz (1989)

In 1989, your family moved from Cleveland to Syracuse, into a new house on Creekcrest Circle. Your dad had taken a job at General Electric, where my dad worked.

You were in third grade; I was in first. You were outgoing; I was not. You introduced yourself at our bus stop; I (for reasons no one can remember) hit you in the face with my jean jacket. You told your mom; she called my mom. I was appropriately disciplined, and before we knew it, our families felt like family: I’d get your brother’s hand-me-downs, your parents would become my brother’s godparents, and we’d share many summers at your family’s place near Lake George.

You moved again when I was in middle school, but our families stayed close. When I started looking at colleges, you invited me to check out the University of Rochester, where I’d ultimately attend. When I told you I was looking to move west, you encouraged me to check out the Bay Area, where I would live for almost thirteen years.

When I move again, it will likely be to Boston—where you and your husband moved after leaving San Francisco. I’m not exactly following you, but I’ve somehow followed in your footsteps for my entire adult life.

I’m glad you kept reaching out to the boy who hit you with his jean jacket. With just a few invitations, you influenced far more than either of us could’ve anticipated. 

Tim (1991)

You were born on a Monday, three days before Thanksgiving. Neither of us knew what we were in for. I lived my first nine years as an only child and I’d spend at least the next nine figuring out how to be a big brother.

Despite being the younger sibling, you taught me a lot. That I wasn’t the center of our parents’ universe. That sharing is more fun than having it all to oneself.

When I’m having a bad Monday, I remind myself that one of the most rewarding and transformative moments of my life—becoming your big brother—happened on a Monday. How much richer life is with a sibling, especially one as funny and good-hearted as you.

Alex (2001)

Becoming friends was largely a matter of circumstance: we were year-round teammates and neither of us cared much about school. Becoming good friends, though, was a matter of chemistry.

Your senior year (my junior), we lived off campus in a three-story house shared with four other guys. We split the $1100/month rent six ways. Everyone else had their own second-floor room, but we shared a giant, finished attic in the most Bert-and-Ernie living arrangement I will ever have.

I marveled at the frenetic energy of your life. At the end of the day, your socks would practically shoot off your feet. I’d find them everywhere. You deflected responsibility with a nonchalance that was charming in hindsight and incredibly aggravating at the time. Yet we were good foils for one another. I was the introvert to your extrovert, the Cameron to your Ferris. You convinced me to go out on Saturday nights; I convinced you not to bolt a hammock into the drywall. You pulled me out of my shell; I helped you slow down.

We shared our giant room for only one semester. In the spring, I went to study abroad in New Zealand. You started dating a brilliant, beautiful sophomore who would cast spells on us both.

Rachel (2004)

At Rochester, you were the kind of student we all should’ve been: bright, determined, studious, social, and clearly going places. You worked hard and made the most of college in all its dimensions.

You seemed to float above the drunken hookup culture that permeated campus life. You had a self-respecting grace that most of us lacked. That’s not to say that you were graceful; you were, by your own admission, a klutz. But you had a refined sense of agency—an elegance of will—that was well beyond your years and unlike anything I’d ever seen.

You were also my best friend’s ex-girlfriend, and despite our mutual attraction, I convinced myself that you were off limits. You thought that was nonsense, and the more stubbornly I denied my feelings, the more determined you became.

You played a subtle and patient charm offensive while I made increasingly absurd amendments to our rules of engagement: we could go on dates, but only as friends; we could watch movies together, but we could only hold hands; we could kiss, but only on the cheek (that one didn’t last very long).

We dated on and off for several years: through graduations, our first real jobs, cross-country moves, and a short-lived attempt at living in the same city.

What else is there to say about love and heartbreak? We were and then we weren’t and then we were and then we weren’t. No one cheated, no one lied. We had a good thing; it didn’t work out. I wouldn’t trade a single second.

Jennica (2006)

In 2006, you picked my resume out of a pile and gave me a call. I wanted to move out west and had applied to a small non-profit that you were co-managing. You gave me a chance; I said yes and moved 3,000 miles across the country, from Upstate NY to Oakland, CA.

When I think about you, I think about our one-on-ones. We had most of them outside—either sitting outside our portable office building on E. 11th Street or walking through Peralta Park. To be honest, I don’t remember a single thing you said, but I remember how you made me feel. You listened, supported, poked, and challenged. You called me on my bullshit but always had my back.

Your hiring decision brought me clear across the country. You felt responsibility for that in a way that few managers would have. You didn’t just fill an open position on your team; you made sure that I had a good start and felt supported in a new place far away from home.

Janice (2009)

You were planning a family trip to Bali and needed someone to stay with Murphy, your sweet yet somewhat anxious Australian shepherd. I was teaching in Oakland and ran a pet-sitting business on the side.

One stay with Murphy turned into several, and through him, we gradually got to know each other. From my vantage point, you had it all: an interesting partner, two bright and healthy children, degrees from prestigious universities, your own business, and a beautiful house in the Berkeley Hills.

You were clearly something of a dynamo: you had a sharp, associative mind; you had a vision for the future and worked toward it without tire; you’d built an impressive network that spanned disciplines and continents; you were a formidable negotiator and dealmaker.

You encouraged me to consider a career in business—something I’d never really thought of. When I asked you for advice on career opportunities in cleantech, you generously lent me your perspective and ultimately offered me a job.

You threw me every task you could to see what would stick. You had me do research, attend regulatory hearings, make coffee, redesign our website, fix the printer, go to conferences, and organize a conference of our own. I sucked at making coffee and fell asleep at my second regulatory hearing, but I really liked creating web sites, which led me to my career in tech. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to business—or a smarter, more experienced guide.

Lindsay (2010)

As an undergrad, you helped co-found the Strawberry Canyon Track Club—an eclectic mix of students, young professionals, and bonafide grownups. You were done with competitive running by the time I joined, but you were still involved socially and we got to know each other through happy hours, potlucks, movie nights, and house parties. It didn’t take long to see that you were special: curious, irreverent, broad-minded, and very clever.

When I decided to move from Berkeley to San Francisco, you and your sister let me rent a tiny room in your house, just north of the Panhandle. You’d rented out “the nook” to friends before, usually a few weeks or months at a time. I stayed for three years and would’ve gladly stayed longer.

I never had sisters of my own, but you and Lauren gave me a sense of what it might’ve been like. I puzzled over quarrels that only sisters could have (“She used your shampoo?”), got to know your boyfriends, had crushes on some of your friends, and ate leftovers that you didn’t want.

You, your cat, your sister, her nearly-live-in boyfriend, me, and a house that none of us fully deserved. What a great slice of life that was.

Brandon (2014)

You took an idea that only you could see and turned it into something real. You inspired Michelle, your co-founder, to move across the country and start a company with you. You inspired investors to write big checks—again and again and again. You inspired thousands of customers to entrust us with their business. You inspired dozens of employees to work over a million hours. I don’t really understand how you did any of it. But you did.

In 2014, you took a chance on me. You offered me an entry-level job and told me that if the company did well and I did well, there’d be plenty of room to grow. That proved true over and over again. You trusted me to solve big, mission-critical challenges and pushed me to move at an entrepreneur’s pace, saying “I need you to be a bigger, bolder driver of change.” I’ll remember those words for as long as I live.

We’d come to drive each other nuts. You expected me to be more of a team player and I expected you to build a more functional team. We were both right and doing the best we could.

They say that in a ham-and-egg breakfast, the hen is involved but the pig is committed. I was a very involved hen, but I’d never be the pig—not like you, not at Stitch, anyway. You started something that no one else could’ve started, and among many other things, you helped me find my way to product management. I hope that in the long run my actions convey gratitude and respect, because you deserve them—even when I forget.

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As a record of the people who changed my life, this is an incomplete and somewhat silly list. Sometimes influence is obvious; sometimes it’s more subtle, or even invisible. Our lives are complex webs of circumstance and co-creation.

But it was, without doubt, a fun opportunity to reconnect and remember. It was also a timely reminder of the power of small gestures and good timing. We all have relationships whose full significance has yet to play out. One can’t help but wonder where tomorrow’s hello might lead.