Postcard from Beijing – Startups, Dumplings, and Everything In Between

I never expected a bowl of zhajiangmian to double as a catalyst for reflection, but there I was, sitting alone at a sunlit table on a my way back from the Great Wall, slurping chewy noodles topped with shredded cucumber and fermented soybean paste, realizing I’d just slipped back into Beijing like I’d never left. It had been five years since I last walked these streets as a Schwarzman Scholar, a confused, hopeful twenty-something who barely knew how to find a decent breakfast without consulting WeChat. And yet, the city felt familiar, like an old friend who has grown older, sharper, but still has that knowing twinkle in their eye.

Beijing, for all its scale, is a deeply personal city if you let it be. In the past week, I found myself walking the same streets I once dreaded (hello again, brutalist architecture and sharp corners) and found them softer somehow. Maybe it was the unexpected cherry blossoms, or maybe I’ve just learned to look up more often. Maybe it’s me who has changed. And not just changed. Evolved. Stretched into a version of myself that younger me wouldn’t quite recognize but would certainly admire.

Five years ago, I was terrified of Beijing. Not just the city, but the act of being here. I had learned to read cities by their hostility to my body. Beijing was brutal. Bus seats too small, subway stations a labyrinth of stairs and long walks, hutongs impossibly narrow, and worst of all, the crushing fear that I could get stuck somewhere without anyone to help. I skipped climbing Jingshan Park because I feared I wouldn’t make it back down. I skipped the Great Wall altogether. I spent too much of that year feeling like a burden- to the city, to my peers, to myself.

This time, I quietly tested myself. On my first day back, I went to Jingshan Park. I stood at the base and stared up, willing myself to remember how I once turned away. Then, step by step, I climbed. No fanfare, no dramatic movie moment, just me and my slightly labored breathing and the surprising realization that I was doing it. The view from the top wasn’t just of the Forbidden City. It was of a city that I could finally meet on even terms. I didn’t just survive Beijing this time. I lived it. And I lived it with a sense of wonder I never gave myself permission to feel before.

Each day unfolded like a conversation with the past version of myself. The one who once hesitated at the subway entrance now tapped into the station with confidence. The one who once feared getting lost now roamed the hutongs with ease, pausing to admire a stray cat sleeping in the sun or the smell of sesame-slicked skewers sizzling on a street corner. There’s a strange intimacy to doing something again, years later. A second attempt at the same notes, this time in a different key.

Learning to enjoy my own company was perhaps the most unexpected part of this trip. Historically, solo travel always felt like a punishment. I would fill every day with planned meetups, stay glued to my phone, or hurry through meals just to avoid the discomfort of being alone. But this time, Beijing taught me to linger. I found myself sitting in cafes for hours without the need for conversation, wandering aimlessly through hutongs just to see what I might find, and taking myself out to elaborate, multi-course meals without the familiar pang of awkwardness. It wasn’t always comfortable, but it was real. Somewhere between the silences and the solo dinners, I learned that I am, in fact, pretty good company.

And in that silence, I heard myself more clearly. I heard my curiosity ask questions I didn’t rush to answer. I heard my hunger, not just for food, but for adventure, for risk, for beauty. I took myself on slow walks with no Google Maps, just instinct and mood. I smiled more at strangers. I noticed how often I’d filled loneliness with noise back home- endless playlists, constant scrolling, unnecessary multitasking. In Beijing, I let myself be quiet, and in that quiet, I felt full.

I realized that solitude wasn’t a sign of loneliness; it was a sign of trust. Trust that I could fill the silence with thoughts worth having, that I could enjoy the simple act of existing without performing for anyone else. There was something deeply freeing about not needing anyone to bear witness to my experience for it to be valid. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t performing ‘independence’. I was simply living it.

Equally important was learning to trust my body. For most of my life, I’ve treated my body like a reluctant accomplice. Something to be negotiated with, worked around, or outright ignored. Being in Beijing five years ago felt like a series of negotiations: “Can I make it up these stairs?” “Will I fit in this seat?” “Is there an easier way around this?” And most of the time, the answer was no, or at best, not without significant cost.

But this time? This time my body showed up for me, over and over again. I walked miles through winding alleys, climbed ancient walls, and stood shoulder to shoulder in crowded subways without fear or shame. I didn’t have to bargain with myself to get through the day. I could simply exist, and that is no small thing. To trust that your body will carry you, without protest or pain, is its own kind of quiet liberation.

I noticed it in the little things. The absence of dread when I saw a staircase. The thrill of taking the long way because I could. The fact that I walked the full stretch of the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, stopping only because I wanted to admire the view, not because I had to catch my breath. These moments stitched together something sacred: a new relationship with myself. One that wasn’t built on punishment or transformation, but on gentle persistence.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I found myself hacking into a duck in Dengcao Hutong. I’d signed up for a Chinese home cooking class on a whim, hoping it would be a good way to pass an afternoon. What I didn’t expect was how much joy I’d find in the simple, meditative act of mincing garlic and ginger with a gigantic cleaver. Chef Chao and I swapped travel stories, shared imperfect slices, and laughed over a cup of coffee as our dishes steamed. I remembered how I used to dread activities like this- the worry of being the slowest, the clumsiest, the odd one out. This time, I just let myself enjoy it.

Later that day, I stumbled into a silk shop tucked away in the hutongs and promptly spent more than I care to admit on the most beautiful fabric I’d ever seen. The shopkeeper, seeing my clear indecision and delight, patiently laid out bolts of silk for me, explaining patterns and textures with pride. I walked out with five meters of deep red and pale blue silk; more than I needed, exactly as much as I wanted. It wasn’t just a purchase. It felt like a small promise to myself: that I could want things without apology.

Between seminar sessions hosted by the National Committee on U.S.-China Relations- a mix of diplomats, policy nerds, economists, and a few of us accidental China-watchers- I slipped back into the city like I had never really left. The conversations were familiar but sharper now, much like the city itself. Over the span of four days, we debated the buzzwords that seem to define China’s story right now: “high-quality growth,” “dual circulation,” “industrial upgrading,” and of course, the one on everyone’s mind: “decoupling.”

The sense I got, both inside the seminar room and out in the city, was that China is undergoing a deliberate shift. The old formula of turbo-charged GDP growth has given way to something more cautious, more strategic, but no less ambitious. The vibe is less Silicon Valley blitzscaling, more hard-tech patience. We heard repeatedly about how AI, semiconductors, and climate tech are no longer just market opportunities, they are national imperatives. Chinese founders and investors alike have internalized this shift, building for resilience rather than speed.

I thought about that as I wandered through Zhongguancun, Beijing’s ‘Silicon Valley’. The startups here feel different from the flashy consumer tech plays of the 2010s. Founders spoke less about app downloads and more about algorithms, chip designs, and battery chemistries. Venture capitalists I met, both local and foreign, echoed the same sentiment: the funding is still here, but it’s being deployed carefully, guided by both market logic and national strategy.

And amid all this, I found myself instinctively talking about WTFund. I hadn’t planned on pitching it, but over shared taxis and late-night drinks, I kept returning to the story of our quirky little grant for young Indian founders. I expected polite curiosity. What I got was genuine engagement. A Chinese VC told me, “It’s like you’re betting on courage.” And isn’t that exactly what we’re doing? In a world obsessed with traction and exits, WTFund is, at its core, a bet on young people being unreasonable enough to try.

Listening to Kai-Fu Lee, a voice I had read so often but never heard in person, talk about AI felt oddly intimate. He framed AI not just as a technological shift, but as a social one. His message wasn’t just about China or the U.S.; it was about all of us. The new rules of the game are being written, and we are the ones who will have to live with them. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think about the 19- and 20-year-old founders I work with back home. I wondered if they too felt the weight of building in the middle of a global reshuffling. I think they do. And like their counterparts here in Beijing, they keep building anyway.

Outside of the seminar rooms, Beijing gifted me its usual contradictions. I stumbled into karaoke rooms with old friends, wandered into art galleries tucked between crumbling hutongs, and spent long, quiet afternoons in cafes that would make any Brooklyn barista weep with envy. I drank Arctic Ocean soda like it was the elixir of youth and spent too much money on silk I probably didn’t need but absolutely wanted. I found joy in the smallness of things — the confidence of ordering food without fumbling, the strength to climb stairs without planning an exit strategy, the lightness of walking alone without fear.

The irony is not lost on me that, in some ways, Beijing and I were both rebuilding. Slower, more deliberately, but with a quiet defiance. The macro felt personal. The startup founders iterating amidst uncertainty reminded me of myself, walking these streets with fewer fears and more curiosity.

I found myself, one evening, in the chaotic heart of Sanlitun, standing outside a 7-Eleven with a bottle of water, listening to the city hum around me. The flashing billboards, the thrum of electric scooters, the scent of grilled meat. It was everything I remembered and nothing I feared. That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just passing through this time. I belonged, not in the sense of permanence, but in presence.

Beijing still isn’t an easy city. It’s crowded, complex, and occasionally unforgiving. But I was different this time. Not just smaller in body, but steadier in spirit. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. Not to the city, not to anyone else, not even to myself. I was just there. Eating, learning, wandering, and, for the first time, truly enjoying it.

The night before I left, I found myself in an alone in a little bar with a few founders I met in the city. We talked about AI and dumplings, about how the world feels both impossibly big and strangely small. Someone joked that we’re all just trying to survive the next decade without losing our minds. I laughed, realizing that maybe that’s enough- to keep showing up, curious, hungry, and just foolish enough to try.

And maybe, that’s the only real secret- not just for founders, or for Beijing.

But for life.