Reflections on Life and Psychology

The last time you cried so hard that your breath caught in that halting way that it does when little kids cry?

“I would love to… but I’m not going to be here next year.”

Mr. M* kept that kind smile. His gaze was still soft, like a father penguin gently nudging his chick towards independence. 

I was the ‘chick’ that had reached independence. I knew the day would come, but I had neither expected it to be so soon nor so abrupt. I had imagined a glowing future for myself, one with him as a supporting role. Now, that future was gone.

* Name redacted for privacy reasons

What object represents something you regret—something you wish you’d done differently?

An unfinished, half-blank card in my backpack. I bought the card to give to Mr. M, but never got around to finishing it - a few superficial “thank-yous” were scrawled on its surface, a small reflection on the school year, and a picture of a bike (he loved biking and was, alongside multiple teachers at my school, a proponent to ban cars, jokingly of course). Or, was it that I could not bear to give it to him?

When he first announced his departure, I was caught up in the weight of guilt from my past actions. I let shame take over my tongue, only able to let out a simple “thank you” at the end of class. That was the extent of what I said to him. Towards the end of the year I helped pack his classroom up for the next teacher that would occupy the room. With every poster I removed, every globe I packed up, every marker I gifted, I felt like I was saying “thank you”, but in a different voice, one clear, crisp and confident. A voice no longer bound by shame or fear. A voice genuine in her thanks. 

But it was not enough. The card still lies in my room, relegated to a corner, but the guilt carries on. It took me too long to begin genuinely thanking Mr. M, and by the time I did, it was not enough to pay him back for everything he had helped me with. Like a fledgling bird refusing to jump off a cliff in fear, I was not confident in the power of my own wings. 

Now, as I soar ten thousand miles above the coast, I wish I jumped earlier. 

A word that you love from another language?

Picture this: as you sit at the window, listening to the pitter-patter of rain, you notice the rain soften, until all you hear are drops of water two seconds apart. As you open the door, you let the fresh air engulf you as you breathe in the crisp, clean air. Residual raindrops fall on your head, but your mind is elsewhere. A rainbow emerges from the cloud. The world may still be wet, but you can feel a breath of hope.

Now picture this: the door slams behind you. Your room is silent for the first time in ages. You let your anger wash over you, like hurricanes making landfall. The worst is over.

霁 means exactly that - calm after the storm, literally and figuratively.  

When did you know?

“I can’t believe she wanted to jump off a building. Can’t she spare that selfishness to advance in the workplace?”

The face of stigma is different for everyone, but for me, I knew when I heard how my parents ostracized those diagnosed with mental illness.  

Something that makes you feel safe?

I have my wallpaper set to a very specific painting - The Peacemakers by George Healy.

Because of the way my computer is angled, it looks as if General Grant is gently gazing at me. To me, he represents hope - hope that a life can be well-lived despite a series of devastating mistakes. Hope that success is not always linear. Hope that there is light at the end of the tunnel. 

What does a perfect Saturday night look like to you?

A perfect Saturday night means enjoying my own company: listening to the sound of rain pounding on the roof, sitting in bed wrapped in a soft blanket, eating a sourdough turkey and chutney sandwich, and reading a book, historical fiction or nonfiction. 

What object represents the best advice you ever received?

A crushed blue gemstone, in the shape of a heart. I had received it as a consolidation gift after my father yelled at me for accepting a gift a family friend bought for me. When I held it up to the sunlight, it reflected the light into a rainbow. It was everything I had ever wanted.

I don’t know how it got crushed - weren’t gemstones supposed to be tough? Regardless, one day I came home to a pile of rock dust sitting on the doorstep. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, to throw the dust off into the ocean like they were a relative’s ashes, or to hold it in my hand and let it sift through my fingers. 

You don’t know what to do with crushed dreams. Some say you could always pursue them later. Others say to let it go. Still others say that they were never important in the first place. 

The best piece of advice I received, funnily enough, was from a Billy Joel song, “Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true”. This line screams “realistic” to me, more so than other songs that promise sky-high success can come with nothing more than a passing glance at hard work. It doesn’t tell me to not value my dreams; rather, it tells me to accept change and possible imperfection. Dreams have value - I certainly valued my blue gemstone - but life can throw you off course into the eye of a category 5 hurricane.

Something you’ll never get rid of?

A paper from Mr. M: “You’re going to be great and do great things!”

Something you forgot?

How to not bite my tongue and refuse to speak in order to sound more “mature”. How to not ruminate over conversations so long gone they could be found on the yellowing pages of a history book.

What’s an object that reminds you of home?

A yellow pouch, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, engraved with six characters: “金榜题名” (success in school) and “平安” (peace). 

What’s the hardest lesson you’ve had to learn?

That no one cares about you.

Surely that is a loaded statement. How about I rephrase it like this? Few people care about you in the way you want them to care. You have to either get really lucky in your family or friends or actively seek those people out, which only tends to create awkward situations for both you and the other person. 

I got lucky. It was conferred to me early enough in life to shape my worldview, but too late to impact my implicit wiring. 

Of course, that person is Mr. M. I could ramble on and on about what he taught me - the value of imperfection, of compassion, of living - but those were lessons I implicitly “knew” in the back of my mind - despite never having really been taught them. Books, movies, teachers and classmates taught me those lessons, all in varying amounts, small enough for me to recognize, but not large enough to change the way I was wired. These lessons were always on the backburner - I felt guilty not embracing them, but I didn’t know how to. 

Mr. M embodied those ideals. He wasn’t snarky about it, like some people who love to preach about religion and sin to those who aren’t listening. I do, however, doubt that he was hardwired to embrace those lessons either. From what he told me, his childhood was more fragmented than mine ever was. But he learned to embrace it. 

I can’t read his mind, of course. But I suppose he consciously corrects himself when he falls into certain mind traps - “I can’t do anything” becomes “I am good enough”, “Why isn’t this perfect?” becomes “The sum of my effort was not enough for the outcome I anticipated.” At least that’s how I do it.