In a world where movement and relentless drive is synonymous with ambition, where success is measured in internships completed and KPIs smashed, Dawson Evans offers a different kind of story. Half Inupiaq, half white, and entirely committed to staying in the place that made him. Dawson grew up in the rural Alaskan town of Nome, in a land where the natural world is more than a backdrop—it’s a way of life. In the small town of fewer than four thousand, the rhythm of the seasons dictates not just the weather, but the structure of daily existence. Hunting, fishing, and subsistence living aren’t weekend hobbies; they are necessary, ingrained traditions that bind individuals to their communities. In Dawson’s town of Nome, people leave their cars running in front of grocery stores, doors unlocked, and trust their neighbors without hesitation.
When I ask him if he’s ever thought about leaving, his answer is plain: “Alaska is home.”
For someone like me, whose life has been swarmed by forward motion— checking off achievements, mapping out career steps, and always trying to find the best path forward—his clarity is almost radical. It is an anchor in a world obsessed with optimization and upwards mobility.
For many, the idea of staying put suggests stagnation. We are taught that growth means reaching beyond what we know, setting our sights on something greater, something more. To move to a bigger city, to take the high-paying job, to seek the next, better thing—this is the language of progress.
But Dawson sees it differently. His life is not about the relentless pursuit of more. Instead, it is about tending to what already exists: the land, the people, the traditions that have shaped him. His work and leisure blend into a single philosophy: care for what you have, and it will take care of you.
“I love all the outdoor and cultural activities we get to do,” he tells me. “Hunting, fishing, just subsisting off the land.” While he works as a medevac pilot and gets weeks off every once in a while, he tells me that his girlfriend, Brooke, even gets “subsistence days”—paid leave meant specifically for living off Alaska’s natural resources, to go hunting and foraging with him.
In Silicon Valley, where time off still encompasses a few extra hours of work logged remotely, the idea of a workplace supporting time off for hunting and fishing feels almost surreal. But here, it would be strange to be online and reachable at a moment’s notice.
“Most of the time, it’s just subsisting with family”.
Dawson’s life has always been shaped by the land. He recalls catching a trout as a child that was bigger than he was, standing next to his father with a tiny fishing pole in hand. The idea of longterm plans never occupied his mind the way it might for a kid growing up in the Bay Area.
“When you were a kid, what did you want to do when you got older?” I ask. “I don’t really think we thought about that,” he says. “We just had fun, played outside, did whatever.” It’s an answer that sits with me. While many of us were pushed toward building a resume from childhood— signing up for coding camps, earning straight A’s, joining clubs for college applications—Dawson was out in the wild, learning through experience. His education wasn’t a ladder to climb but a way to deepen his roots in the place he already loved.
Dawson on a seal hunt, but the seal carcass is omitted.
Dawson’s connection to Nome is more than geographical—it is communal. In a place where survival often depends on others, relationships are built on trust and generosity.
He describes traveling to small villages for basketball tournaments, where strangers would welcome him into their homes, offering pancakes in the morning, dinner in the evening, and a warm place to sleep.
He recounts a time when, mid-hunting trip, a man he’d never met offered to lend him his binoculars.
“There’s this native guy at my work, he said, ‘I love kids… you print your own athletes and hunting partners’. Those were his exact words… I feel like that’s true”.
These moments are not anomalies; they are the norm. In a world that often feels increasingly disconnected and individualistic, Dawson’s experience of rural Alaskan culture is a reminder that the strength of your ties to those around you can often count for more than a fancy job title.
“A couple of my friends who don’t like doing that stuff are kind of sad. I don’t hang out with them, even though I offer for them to follow me to the gym or go hunting… they sit at home and play games”
Dawson on a bear hunt from the last few years. While this is unusual for many of us to see, for many rural Alaskan communities, hunting for subsistence is a deeply respected cultural activity.
Dawson’s future looks much like his present. He envisions himself in Alaska for the long haul, perhaps moving to Anchorage if he ever gets curious about flying for Alaskan Airlines, but never losing his state residency. “The biggest thing to me is maintaining Alaska residency,” he says.
For him, success isn’t tied to a promotion or a far off vision of the future. It is about being where he belongs, living a life he enjoys, and staying connected to the land and culture that raised him.
“I was talking with Brooke, and we came to the conclusion that all I do is work, go to the gym, and go hunting.”
Listening to Dawson, I think about the archetype of someone I meet every week at this university—a 20-year-old college sophomore from Silicon Valley, raised on the gospel of achievement and the dream of committing to the stack. Someone who has never questioned the rules of the world they were born into, and adopts the grindset mentality where constant improvement and business means living correctly. Someone who, deep down, suspects there might be more to life than career ladders and stock options but doesn’t know how to name it. They need a Dawson in their lives.
My hope is that for all of us, reading Dawson’s story will plant a seed. Not to abandon everything and move to Alaska, but to consider: What if success isn’t about the next big thing? What if there is value in staying still, in appreciating what already exists, in building depth instead of distance?
There is something powerful in realizing that movement isn’t the only way to grow. That maybe, in the pursuit of something more, we have overlooked the possibility that we already have enough.
Maybe, like Dawson, we just need to look around and see what’s worth holding onto.
Another seal hunt. Dawson smiles with nothing but sunshine and blue sky behind him.
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Cyprien Fasquelle is an interdisciplinary designer and storytelling who loves telling stories that help us reflect on our own lives and get us to think more deeply about what matters most to us, and what kind of future we should aspire to build towards. Having grown up between France, China, and the United States, he tries to bring a diverse, empathetic lens to all his stories.
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