Dylan Cunningham | Developing the Self
NOVEMBER 10, 2019
For as long as I have known Dylan, which I guess now is just over six months, I have admired his adventurous spirit. His willingness to take risks, to get crazy. He loves the outdoors and sports and the beginning of winter. On runs, he hurdles bollards and jumps to touch the tops of trees.
We sit in the hammock in his room as we talk, my phone between us, recording the conversation. I am cross-legged and perpendicular to him, my journal open in my lap to take notes. The Wednesday morning light filters gently through the blinds, sprawls lazy across the floor.
Dylan was born in Salt Lake City, but Colorado is his home. He tells me that when he was younger, one of his best childhood friends would invite everyone over for his birthday, just after Christmas; they would sled in the backyard and thaw themselves in the hot tub, eat tortellini and watch movies and have pillow fights. It is not his favorite memory, because he does not like to pick favorites, but it is great. Dylan is a happy person—he likes good, and exciting, and amazing, and great.
He is also on a constant quest for self-development, spurred by podcasts and books and videos—a feedback loop of new ideas and inspirations that stack the shelves by his bed and the corners of his desk, cover his walls in handwritten quotations and brighten his eyes as he talks. I really want to go live in a van, he says, laughs. I think it would be such a fun way to travel around the country and live for cheap and see a bunch of cool places and visit my friends. Before, he has shown me one of the slimmer books he keeps beneath his reading light, filled with the stories of people who have turned vans into homes. It is hard for me to imagine myself within those pages, but with Dylan it is almost second nature; the experience, the challenge, the risk—for him, it is always let’s go, always yes.
I say, tell me more about self-development. He says, I want to understand myself, and be fulfilled and happy with whatever I’m doing with my life. He links his hands behind his head and leans back; he is never still. He tells me, it can be too much sometimes, with so many podcasts I listen to or books I read. He tells me, I want to take things and apply them to my own life, but there’s too much to take from, and it’s overwhelming. He tells me, I can’t just wake up and be a perfect person tomorrow, applying all of those things.
He pauses. It’s an unrealistic goal.
Perhaps not perfection, then, but authenticity. A complete and unequivocal acceptance of self. I think about this, too, and it is hard for me not to interrupt, but the words that fill the space between us are the same words that cycle through my head, that carve doubt into every decision I make. I feel like a lot of my identity for the past few years has been wrapped up in—I am smart, I am successful, I am going to make a difference, I am going to do big things. And it’s hard to escape that identity.
Stanford’s definition of success is so limited, so narrow. Good grades, good internships, a good career or a good graduate school. Be safe. Be secure. Take calculated risks.
I think this was one of the topics that initially brought us together, back in May, when we would walk the streets of Florence, searching for some way to fit our childhood dreams, our excitable ideas, into the model of Stanford success.
In Florence we went to a hilariously kitsch American-style diner, where the waitresses wore striped swirly skirts and roller skates. Over crispy potatoes and vegan apple pie, we talked about my blog, and he promised to read it. Later, stepping back onto the streets and into the rain, he opened my pink umbrella over both our heads and said, I have a podcast. It’s called Life Talk. I would love for you to listen, if you want. The next morning, I downloaded the first episode.
When I started my podcast—I had wanted to do something like that for a while, but I didn’t because I was worried that people would think it was weird that I had a podcast. I remember the hesitance in his voice then; it rings even clearer now, as we sit in the belly of his hammock, suspended still above the ground. I am struck by it, too—Dylan is the kind of person who has a full hammock in his room—who is vegan and does not drink alcohol—who sings Taylor Swift at the top of his lungs and skateboards across campus in birkenstocks. He is uniquely and unabashedly himself.
He says, in personal choices, how I live my life, I feel very confident. But he is afraid of complacency, of judgment. Of letting other people’s opinions rule what I do. He unhooks a hand from the back of his neck, spells out his questions into the air. Even now, a lot of people don’t know I have a podcast. I don’t know what I’m scared of—it’s all in my head, of imagining what people would say. But why do I care? I really enjoy doing it, and even if other people think it’s super weird, why does that matter, if I really enjoy doing it?
I ask him, what motivates you? I want to know what does matter, if these things do not.
He wants to be self-aware, self-confident. He wants to live a meaningful life. I ask him to clarify, and he says. Life where I am actively pursuing work that I’m interested in, with people I care about. And having a positive impact on others. In smaller terms, extrapolated best as I can, he wants to explore, to surround himself with loved ones, to read and absorb and learn. He wants risks, adventures. Days full of surprises. The pure, unexpected good of new experiences.
And for him, it is about finding that purpose. About saying yes, and seeking discomfort, and working toward achieving something beyond himself. I am reminded of our first conversations together—how he asked good questions; how he remembered the smallest details of what I had said; how he never stopped wanting to know more. Dylan is sometimes quiet, but he is always listening. It is one of my favorite things about him.
What else is there to say? I love my mom. She’s amazing. I am proud that I eat a plant-based diet. And that I don’t contribute to or minimally contribute to the suffering of animals. I am excited to go home and ski and snowboard and be in the snow and be with family. I feel very good about my year. I wish I could weave everything he said into these sentences, but there are only so many words to capture a story. And so in the end, I close my notebook and lean forward, tipping the hammock ever so slightly toward the ground. Reach over to tap the little red square on my phone screen, and the conversation stops recording, exhaling quietly into the sunlight.
Photo courtesy of Dylan Cunningham
