I wrote "June 5" at the top, but this will probably have very little to do with June 5.
I started keeping these notes thinking they would mostly be about work. Startups, school, jobs, building things. But don't we ignore ourselves too much, as human beings?
The last four or five years of my life were almost entirely work, startups, and education. There wasn't much room for anything else. So I want to talk about that a little.
To be clear: this piece is not about work. If you came here for that, you can close the page. But honestly, I don't think you should. :D
I usually keep a journal. Not every day. Just on important days — when I'm sad, when I'm happy, when I finally achieve something I wanted for a long time. Lately, I think life has mostly been made of those moments.
For the last four years, I questioned what friends and family really mean. I learned something new almost every day. I also spent a lot of time around people who looked at me a little sadly and said, "Beyza, I think you're being too hard on yourself. You don't have to suffer this much."
I'm not writing this so anyone feels sorry for me. Honestly, I don't really care about that.
In four days, I turn 27.
As someone who grew up in Anatolia, I need to highlight something here, because most people reading this probably didn't grow up there: what people think about you can end up shaping your entire life. It is almost as if the reason you exist is to manage other people's opinions of you.
Isn't that funny?
From where I'm sitting now — in America, in New York — it feels funny. If I were still in Istanbul, I don't think it would feel funny at all.
For most of my life, I felt stuck inside a family, a city, a version of life that never really gave me room to breathe. I learned what people called "the right thing to do." I never really felt like I belonged.
The funny thing is, I have felt different since I was a child. I had a lot of friends, most of them different in their own ways too. Because of my attention problems, I could never stay fixed in one place, one person, or one subject for too long.
I played guitar, then learned piano. I won my district in swimming, then picked up volleyball, then basketball. My life always moved between schools, classes, art, hobbies, people. Maybe if I had focused on one thing, life would have turned out completely differently. Maybe better. Maybe worse.
When I was very young, my older brother had surgery. I was too little to remember everything clearly, but I remember months — maybe years — of his eating problems. I remember going from hospital to hospital. I remember him in middle school, weighing around 20 kilos.
I remember eating without showing him, because he could only have liquid baby formula.
I was very small, but I remember Çapa Hospital. The cold walls. The strange smell of cleaning products in the air, and how that smell burned my nose.
My brother is okay now. He had a major surgery when he was little and still has the scar on his stomach. His stomach valve was too narrow, so he couldn't eat solid food. After months of searching for an answer, doctors at Çapa finally found the solution and operated on him.
I still remember the first time he ate döner and fries afterward.
I still hate hospitals. I hate the smell.
I grew up a little more and started to understand what family meant. My father had a good company, and we were financially comfortable. I always say this: going from wealth to financial struggle is much more brutal than going from poverty to wealth.
I was a child, about to start high school, and I was excited. My father's company was not doing well, but I was used to getting what I wanted. I didn't know what "we can't" meant. My family rarely told me, "don't buy that." I was the only girl in the house, my father's best friend, doing well in school. At home, I was treated like a princess. Okay — it was not luxury luxury. But I can't say I wasn't spoiled.
I have always loved my family — my mom, my dad, my brother. I was lucky in that sense. They always supported me through the good, the bad, and the wrong.
Then I started high school.
Public high schools in Istanbul were very different back then. Since the plan was for me to go to a private university anyway, I went to the public high school closest to home.
11th grade. One year before graduation. My grades were in the top five at school. One of my close friends got into a fight. I had nothing to do with it. I was literally just watching. But our homeroom teacher pulled four of us aside and we were suspended. On top of that, I lost my honor roll status for a full year. (In Turkey it's a formal certificate based on your GPA. A big deal at the time.)
My dad was furious. I was crying in my room. He came in and asked me what happened. I told him everything. He hugged me and said, "I love you, my daughter. I trust you."
The next day, he pulled me out of that school and enrolled me in a private one.
I spent my last two years at that private school. That was the last time I was spoiled like that. After that, my father closed his company, and I was on my own.
Then came university.
I was 18. During the university entrance exam, I had an anxiety attack. For the first 30 minutes, I couldn't stop coughing. They took me out of the classroom because I was distracting everyone.
Welcome to the Turkish exam system, where your entire university future is decided by one exam, once a year.
I don't care about it that much anymore. But yes, it was hard.
My results were bad — at least, they felt bad to me. They weren't actually that terrible. Out of around two million test-takers, I ranked in the top 5,000 on one section and the top 80,000 on another. Solid by any normal standard. Not solid enough by mine.
For someone who graduated third in high school, it felt awful.
My friends went to good universities. I had two choices: somewhere I didn't really want to go, or wait another year. I didn't want to lose more time. I had already made my decision.
I was going to move to another country.
I couldn't stay any longer in a place where I didn't feel like I belonged.
I finished university. I was 22, newly graduated, with a job offer. All my friends had already started working. I was sitting there, panicking. No money, no experience, and honestly — not even good English.
Some friends took over their fathers' companies. Some got married. Some started master's programs.
I said no to the job offer and went home that day. My family was very upset.
My whole life, I had tried to do what I was told and make the people around me happy. But I kept asking myself: what am I going to do?
For once, I wanted to make myself happy.
My family asked me what I wanted as a graduation gift. It is kind of a tradition — families help new graduates, maybe a car, maybe a little money.
I turned to my father and asked, "Can you give me $5,000?"
My family looked at me. "Why? What are you going to do with that? We just offered to buy you a car."
I told them I wanted to go abroad. Work. Continue my education.
At first, the whole family was against it — my uncles, my aunts, everyone.
Why are you going?
Why are you trying to be different?
You'll come back with the same suitcases.
I didn't say much.
My father and I bought my ticket. I enrolled in a language school in San Francisco. And I left 22 years of my life in Istanbul behind.
I flew to San Francisco alone, with two suitcases and a jar of olives.
That is how my story began. Even before Popcorn.
I guess I had a lot to say. So I said it.
Maybe next time I'll talk about work, startups, all of that.
For now, thank you for knowing me a little better. These days, it's hard to really know people. But now you're one step closer to me.
— b.