Why I Always Have Side Projects

A few weeks ago, I stood in front of the Grade 8 graduating class and gave a speech in two languages. I started in Mandarin, then switched to English. It wasn't a party trick — it fit the theme of their graduation, "Charting the Unknown." I told them that learning Chinese this year had meant making mistakes constantly, feeling uncomfortable more often than not, and doing it anyway. I told them that high school would feel similar. That they'd need to take risks, get things wrong, and grow through it.

It was a nice moment. I even worked in a bad math joke, and one about 6 and 7, riding the 6-7 wave children aroudn the world all seem obesessed with. Then I welcomed them to Grade 9, where I'll be their geography teacher and homeroom teacher.

But the speech has stuck with me for a different reason than I expected. It wasn't really about them. Or at least, not only about them.

Because right now, alongside my regular life — teaching, being a homeroom teacher, being a dad — I'm also learning Mandarin, learning to play the tabla, and trying to get my tennis back to a level I haven't played at in over a decade. Three different "unknowns," all at once, all on purpose. And if I'm honest, this isn't new. I can't remember a period of my adult life where I wasn't in the middle of learning something outside of work.

So the question I couldn't stop thinking about after that speech wasn't really "did the students get the message." It was: why do I always have a side project? And more specifically — why do I always seem to need one?

My Mandarin textbooks 🤓

Mandarin

I started learning Mandarin at the beginning of this school year — not out of necessity, exactly. I don't need Mandarin to live here in China. I know plenty of foreigners who've spent years in China without learning much of the language at all; between translation apps and English being widely understood in many circles, you can get by just fine without it.

I've experienced this before. Years ago, I moved to Colombia knowing zero Spanish, and learning it from scratch changed the entire experience of living there — it opened up friendships, opportunities, a version of the country I wouldn't have had access to otherwise. I knew going in that the same would be true here. Learning Mandarin isn't about survival. It's about depth — better relationships, wider networks, maybe even doors I can't predict yet. And, of course, it's fun!

I have a Chinese teacher and take lessons twice a week. But most of my practice doesn't happen in a classroom — it happens during homeroom, during break duty, at lunch with colleagues, in the hundred small interactions a day in China gives you if you're paying attention. Living in China means I have no shortage of chances to practice. The hard part isn't finding opportunities. It's using them.

My goal isn't fluency. I'm not trying to read novels or debate philosophy in Mandarin. I just want to get around comfortably and talk about ordinary things — and, as it turned out this year, stand in front of an audience and give part of a speech in Mandarin. That one I already did.

Lately I've been debating whether to sit the HSK1 exam — the first level of China's official Chinese proficiency test. Part of me likes the idea, because it would give me something clean and external: pass or fail, no ambiguity. But HSK1 tests reading and writing characters, which isn't really what I care about. I care about speaking and listening — the things I actually use every day. So I keep going back and forth. Do I chase the exam because it's measurable, even though it's not quite the thing I want to be good at? Or do I let go of the clean finish line and trust that I'm making progress anyway?

I haven't decided yet. Let’s see.

Playing the tabla in Bhubaneswar

Tabla

Tabla has fascinated me since I was a kid. I've always loved percussion, and something about the tabla specifically — the layered sound, the way two hands can create something so intricate — stuck with me longer than most childhood interests do. In university, and in my early years as a professional, I'd occasionally try to reconnect with that fascination, and with my Indian roots more broadly, through music. It never quite turned into anything. Life got in the way, the way it does.

Then, this past February, during the Chinese New Year break, we went to visit my parents in Bhubaneswar, the capital of my home state, Odisha, India. I'd been thinking about getting a tabla for years — it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing — and this time, I finally did it. I found a teacher who came to my parents' house four days in a row and taught me the basics. It was enough to get hooked. When we came back to China, I kept going with him online — one lesson a week now, plus whatever practice I can fit in between.

My four-year-old son has taken to it too, which I didn't expect. Some of my favorite practice sessions are with the the two of us, him banging away enthusiastically next to me while I try to actually keep some form of rhythm.

Right now I'm not working toward one specific piece — mostly learning different bols, the vocabulary of tabla strokes, and trying to improvise with them. The hard part has been speed. Tabla requires a kind of finger independence and muscle memory my hands simply don't have yet — specific, precise movements that don't come naturally and have to be trained into the body, almost from zero.

My goal is concrete, though: our school holds an International Day every October, where students, staff, and parents perform something connected to their culture in front of the whole community. I want to do a short tabla performance. It gives me a real deadline, and a reason to actually get good enough to sit in front of people and play.

One more thing, which I only realized recently: my father learned tabla at roughly the same age I am now. I don't know if that means anything, exactly — but maybe this instinct to keep learning new things isn't just mine. Maybe it's a little bit in the blood.

My backhand in motion 🎾

Tennis

Tennis is the odd one out of the three, because it isn't new. I started playing at eight years old and played constantly as a kid, through adolescence, into high school — got to a decent level. Then university happened, and life after it, and tennis became something I played intermittently for almost fifteen years. A few games here, a few there, nothing consistent.

About a year ago, I started playing regularly again. I play with friends four or five times a week now — singles, doubles, at courts near my house — and it's become one of the things I genuinely look forward to. Some mornings that means being on court at 5am with an equally motivated friend, before the rest of the day even starts. Somewhere in the process of getting back into it, I found out I'm currently rated around 3.5 on the NTRP scale.

Unlike Mandarin and tabla, this isn't a new unknown I'm charting. It's an old one I'm returning to. But the instinct once I was back in it was exactly the same: I didn't just want to play for fun and leave it at that. I wanted a target. My goal is to reach NTRP 4.0.

I did some research and found that to get there, I need to improve three specific things: my backhand, my volleys, and my serve. That gave me something to actually work on, instead of just showing up and hitting balls around. I found a coach, and I train with him twice a week focused specifically on those three areas.

There's another reason 4.0 matters to me. Near my house, there's a group called the Beilun Tennis Association — a group of players who get together every Tuesday and Thursday evening to play. I spoke to the president about joining, and he told me there's currently no space for new members. But some of the players there are rated 4.0 and above, and I'm convinced that if I reach that level myself, they'll want me to join anyway — good players tend to make room for other good players. So reaching 4.0 isn't just a number. It's also, quietly, an invitation I'm trying to earn.

The Habit Underneath

Looking at these three side by side, a pattern starts to show up that I didn't fully see until I wrote it down.

None of these goals are vague. "Learn Chinese," "get better at tabla," "improve at tennis" — those are the kinds of goals I never actually set for myself, even though they'd be true in spirit. Instead, I end up with an exam I could sit, a performance date on a school calendar, a rating number I either have or don't. Pass HSK1 or don't. Perform at International Day or don't. Reach 4.0 or don't.

I think there are a few reasons I keep doing this, whether or not I planned it that way.

A concrete goal gives the project a reason beyond itself. It's not just "get better at Chinese" — it's being able to actually connect with people here, the way learning Spanish once opened up Colombia for me. It's not just "get better at tabla" — it's standing in front of my school community and playing something real. It's not just "get better at tennis" — it's earning a place with players who are better than me. The goal turns a private hobby into something that connects outward, toward other people.

A concrete goal also removes my ability to lie to myself. "I'm getting better at tennis" is a story I could tell myself indefinitely, true or not. "I'm rated 3.5, and I need to be 4.0" is not negotiable. I either did the work that gets me there or I didn't. And maybe most usefully, a concrete goal tells me exactly what to do next. Once I know I need 4.0, I know I need to fix my backhand, my serve, my volleys — not "practice tennis" in the abstract. Once I know I want to sit HSK1, I know exactly what vocabulary and characters to focus on, even if I haven't committed to it yet. The goal isn't just a finish line. It's a compass.

Which brings me back to that graduation speech. I told my students that high school would ask them to walk into the unknown — to make mistakes, feel uncomfortable, and keep going anyway. I meant it. But if I'm honest with myself, my version of walking into the unknown always comes with a compass I built myself, before I take the first step. I don't think that makes it less brave. I think it's just how I've learned to make the unknown survivable — one clear, measurable goal at a time.

Maybe that's the real message I owed those students, the one I didn't quite say out loud: you don't have to walk into the unknown without a plan. You just have to walk.