The first revision

 

I used to call myself a writer.

 

Writing was always my way of simultaneously getting closer to and farther from my feelings—analyzing them in detail while placing them outside of me onto a blank page. This blog, in particular, was my pride and joy for years, the place where I wrote most freely. But as I swam into the depths of grad school, I found myself drowning in research, heartbreak, low self-esteem…

 

I stopped writing on paper, and started writing in my mind—a self-narrative of worthlessness, a story of shame.

 

After five long years, I officially graduated last month with my PhD and will be starting a new job in November. When I should have been celebrating, I sulked about how there was no big moment, no graduation ceremony, no night out with friends in this pandemic world. Instead of recognizing my achievements, I complained about how nothing felt different, how I was still working long hours trying to wrap up my papers. I felt like I didn’t even deserve the degree, and that the journey to get here was not one of growth, but just a giant mess that I managed to barely scrape my way out of.

 

After another day of moping last week, I went out for a run around the neighborhood and took a turn that I don’t normally take. The street looked familiar to me, and I suddenly realized that I was running past the house where I used to get tipsy, where my classmates held parties, where I laughed with all the giddiness of a first-year graduate student. Where I was a different version of myself, a version that didn’t make it to today.

 

Sometimes I think back on that naïve girl, with all her optimism and without all her tattoos, and I wish that I could go back. Back before she realized that she wasn’t going to save the world with her research. Before the imposter syndrome sunk in. Before she learned that some men don’t take no for an answer. Before she started going to therapy. Before she buried herself in work, only to lose all interest in it.

 

But as I ran past that house, I realized that I had been living in this story that I’d actually outgrown. A story where life got the best of me, and I gave up. A story where I’m a victim, where I got lost and couldn’t find my way out.

 

The truth is, I did find my way out. I made it to the other side. All this time, I had become so fixated on all the negative aspects of these last few years that I didn’t even notice how much I’ve grown. I longed for graduation photos and a big night out, as if I needed proof that something had changed, when in reality,

 

the change has been happening for a long time.

 

I’m not that innocent first-year anymore, and there are a lot of memories that I wish I could undo from these years in between, but I have climbed to the top of the mountain. I have been hiking the ridge for longer than I realized, huffing and panting on an uphill that I had already passed, and forgot to take a look at the view.

 

I used to call myself a writer. Writing helped me reflect, helped me better understand who I was, who I wanted to be, and how to get there.

 

Maybe, with this post, it’s time to reclaim that identity. It’s time to pick up the pen and rewrite the story that I have been telling myself for far too long. I am smart. I am worthy. I am confident.

 

This is just the first revision.

2018

2017 simultaneously saw the best and worst iterations of me.

It saw me navigate through new and old cities alike – New York City, Boston, New Orleans, Denver, San Diego, San Francisco. It saw me feel brave

It saw me make new friends and become even closer to old friends. It saw me truly appreciate their love, care, warmth, laughter, support, acceptance

It saw me crumble into tears in the middle of an Au Bon Pain while my brother handed me napkins and a stranger averted his gaze and my mother sat by my father’s hospital bed four floors above us. It saw me afraid

It saw me pass my comprehensive exam and receive two fellowships. It saw me publish a paper. It saw me present my work at conferences and meet the big names in my field

2017 saw me go on first dates, perhaps too many of them, stomach in knots every time. It saw me learn to not reduce myself to my physical appearance. It saw me search desperately for love, and then suddenly, to not want it at all

It saw me realize that I didn’t need anyone, but that this does not mean I never need anyone

It saw me learn to put myself first, to learn that doing so does not make me unkind. It saw me find out that not everyone can be trusted. It saw me look at the world more sadly but less naively

It saw me grow up

It saw me keep secrets, and to feel lonely with these secrets

It saw me call my brother crying in broad daylight. It saw me find out the hard way that sometimes shitty things happen that no one could have predicted and no one can be blamed. It saw me accept. It saw me move on

2017 leaves me with a heavy heart, but a resilient one.

The only way out is through, and we made it through another year. Let’s go, 2018.

A guide to navigating your loneliness

1. At first, it will be difficult. The bed will look so warm and so safe. There will be emails to respond to and dishes to wash, but you will curl up in one corner of your mattress and make yourself as small as you can. The walls of your room will tremble as if they are trying to decide if it is safer for you to keep the world outside, or safer for the world to keep you inside. You will feel disinterested in most things. You will just want to go to sleep, and that is okay – go to sleep.

2. Some days, it will come easy. On those days you will cook with just your underwear on with music blasting from the speakers. Ooh woo, I’m a rebel just for kicks, you sing with a dramatic wave of your spatula. Your love is an abyss for my heart to eclipse, you croon to your refrigerator. You will arrange your dinner on your plate as if you are a restaurant cook, even if no one will see it but yourself. You will even open a new bottle of wine, and by the third glass you will feel immensely pleased with how your sophisticated night has turned out. As you should.

3. Other days, the lights in your apartment will remain off until dinner time has already passed. Alone, in the darkness, just shhh forgive yourself.

4. You will feel vulnerable on a Tuesday night at 8:21pm and find yourself swiping through endless profiles on a dating app. This will be exhilarating, at first, and you will even hang out with The Musician and The Undergrad and The Golfer (who was not very good at golf). You will be excited before every first date, disappointed after every first date, and rarely go on a second date. This will make you feel as if loveisimpossibleandunattainable and you will frantically download new dating apps, until you realize how much they have brought out the worst in you. Please do not feel horrified at yourself. Please understand that we are all caught in between being too afraid to commit, but too lonely to stay alone, and that this conflict inside our little human hearts can make us unrecognizable to ourselves. You will find yourself again – just remember that you cannot find yourself in other people.

5. You will feel restless. You will feel like you need to get out, even if you do not know what you are getting out of. Your work will offer you the opportunity to go to conferences in places like New Orleans and San Diego and you will seize these chances as if they are your lifeline. You will love every moment of it, from the lectures and the networking to the jazz clubs and the beaches. You will meet people with fresh ideas and accents you’ve never heard before. You will feel more alive and more inspired than you have in a long time. Remember this feeling. When you are unhappy with your life and your small corner of the world, remember that there is a whole universe for you to discover.

6. Every once in a while, you will be overcome by the desire to cry – but of course, you never actually do. Stop acting like youdon’tgiveafuck. Try to be okay with being not okay, for once. Be soft…be vulnerable... show your weakness to the world. It will only make you more a part of it.

7. You will flip yourself inside out, dump out your contents, and wait to see who might fill it again. You will feel like your worth can only come from external things like a text from a certain someone or praise from your boss. You will know that this insecurity is senseless, but for some reason you will not know how to give yourself worth. Take a look at your life. Zoom out as far back as you can and look at how much you have changed. It is easy to overlook your own progress when you have been with yourself all along, but look back far enough and you will see that you have grown much, much more than you are giving yourself credit for.

8. You will hang out with your best friends one weekend. It’s been a while since you’ve had the time to all get together, and you will realize how much they mean to you. You will realize how much you care about them, and how much they care about you, and this will make you feel so thankful that you think you might burst. Don’t ever take these people for granted.

9. You will be getting ready for work one morning when you suddenly remember you had been meaning to delete those dating apps. You will pull out your phone, rid them of the apps forever, and go out the front door. As you walk to your office, you will marvel at how light-hearted you feel. It is a relief not to look for love anymore. You will wait patiently for it to arrive.

10. You will stop comparing yourself to other people. You will learn that everyone has their highs and their lows, and that even the happy people on your social media feeds have their insecurities and fears. You will realize that the people you look up to have felt loneliness too. This whole time, you thought you had no one to turn to – when in fact, it was you who would not turn to anyone. Embrace that you are just as human as everyone else.

11. You will inevitably have a relapse, and drink whiskey and write dark poetry and spam your older brother with a series of deplorable text messages. He will tell you to call him, and listen to your tales of woe until even you are tired of listening to yourself, and you will realize that you are never actually alone because you always, always have family.

12. Most days, you will be calm. Your apartment will still feel too quiet sometimes, but you will be in less of a hurry to fill up the silence. The walls will not tremble anymore. You will curl up in a corner of your mattress and tug your fleece blanket up to your chin. You will toss and turn a little bit, and you might even wish there was someone there with you. A shoulder to rest your head against. Soft breathing in sync with your own. You will close your eyes and drift off into a gentle sleep, alone. Dream that you are free…because you are.

Be my escape

I’ve been having trouble focusing lately. I keep feeling overcome by this urge to do something exciting, meet someone new, go somewhere far away. It’s the kind of restlessness that keeps me up at ungodly hours of the night, my body exhausted and surrendered to my covers, but my mind flickering with little flame-thoughts that lick their way around my sanity, spitting and burning and sparking…

The flame-thoughts scurry away when the sun comes up – as if humbled by its superior glow – but the restlessness remains. It is difficult to satiate a feeling when its origin is unknown, but some things can curb the worst of it: a busy day in the lab, a blurry night drowned in liquor, a new tattoo. But late nights at work have ceased to be productive. And the louder the bar, the lonelier the quiet walk home. The tattoo, though permanent, gave the most ephemeral satisfaction of all.

Sometimes the inside of me feels like it is aggressively unraveling – not falling apart, but rather, untangling into different versions of me that are trying to coexist within the same small body.

It does not feel safe walking around as if I will detonate at any second.  

I crave the exhilaration of detonating every second.  

The restlessness makes me look everywhere, searching wildly for something that will make it go away. Worst of all, the restlessness makes me look into myself, and I don’t like what I see. I see someone who uses other people to feel whole again, yet rejects anyone who gets too close. I see someone who loves the feeling of falling for someone new, but bristles at the idea of any sort of real commitment. I see someone who uses novelty as a tether to sanity, chasing new people and new interests, right up until the moment they are not new anymore.

The restlessness is all-consuming. It makes every day feel like an endless climb where the higher I go, the farther the sky seems. The more I want, the more I get, and the more I get bored. As each day ends, I crawl into bed with this immense feeling of chronic dissatisfaction. The flame-thoughts come back, and sometimes they are hurtful.

You are scared to be alone because it is easier to make other people like you than to make you like you, they tell me.

You take everything and everyone for granted. Why do you want more when you already have it all? they ask me. I don’t respond.

I try to close my eyes, as if the shutting of my eyelids will seal these flame-thoughts inside my head, denying them of oxygen, but they continue to spit and burn and spark and spit and burn…

And the truth is, I don’t think I’m ready to extinguish them just yet. As much as I hate the restlessness, I am more afraid of the stillness. Somehow…that would feel too much like settling. Giving in. Being tamed.

As much as I hate the restlessness, it sometimes feels like freedom.

On being independent (reprise)

I’ve a spent a lot of this past year chasing after independence. Obsessing over it, even.

For some reason, independence felt like a thing to claim, the next necessary step to my growing up. To my becoming. Fresh out of college, I was ready to soar – as if I had been waiting my whole life to finally be set free into the world. I felt a need to prove my competence, to show my strength, and most importantly,

to do this all alone.

It was nice – for a while. I relished in having a living space all to myself, decorated to my very eclectic taste and, of course, full of all things wolf-related. I liked waking up every day, writing down my to-do list in impeccable handwriting in possibly the most OCD journal you’ll ever see, and feeling certain that each task would be dutifully checked off by the day’s end. I liked feeling comfortable showing up to social events by myself, making new friends, and going home as late or as early as I pleased.

In fact, it was the happiest I had been in quite a while. For the first time, I felt like I knew what kind of a future I wanted for myself, and even more – that this future was within grasp. Life fell into a structured routine, each day beginning with optimism and ending with satisfaction. I was self-dependent. Self-sufficient. I was enough, and simple as that sounds, it is a wonderfully powerful thing to feel.

As summer turned to fall, the air became crisp in the kind of way that is usually accompanied with a sense of freshness and change – a big change, it turns out.

When the new semester began, I found myself facing a daunting workload, a slump in my research, and – perhaps the most frightening part of all – single for the first time in my adult life.

My survival tactic was to work hard, play hard. My weekdays became a whirlwind of non-stop studying while my weekends were packed with social activities. Late nights in the office became a norm – as did late nights out at bars. I (don’t) remember celebrating my friend’s birthday until 4am, miraculously waking up hangover-free less than five hours later, and heading straight to the lab. I even tried forcing myself to relax one night by trying a face mask for the first time, and instead spent the twenty minutes of “relaxation” reading about the chemistry of how the tannins in my face mask were reducing my pores.

Sometimes friends would ask me how I was doing, and I would look at them almost incredulously, as if the mere suggestion that I might not be okay was an insult to my fortitude.

Back in my cross country days, I remember my coach telling us that even if we were tired, it was always better to keep running than to stop and walk, even if you had to slow your pace, because walking would decrease your heart rate too much and make it even more difficult to pick up and run again. This is what the semester felt like: a long race in which I could not stop, for fear that any break would mean that I might not finish the race at all.

This lifestyle, however, was not sustainable. After another busy week, I found myself unexpectedly without work and without plans one weekend. As midnight creeped around on a Saturday night, I suddenly felt a craving for ice cream. And then all at once, I wished not only for strawberry ice cream with rainbow sprinkles, but for someone who would sprint down the block with me, laughing all the way, to snatch a tub of Ben and Jerry’s right before McLanahan’s closes. I wished for someone to devour it with me while watching Star Wars in bed. I wished for someone to rant with me about how awful The Phantom Menace is while still watching the whole thing and not making fun of me while I cry at the scene when Anakin has to say goodbye to his mother.

And as much as I hated to admit it, I realized that I felt…lonely.

And worse, that admitting it was uncomfortable.  

I find myself now entangled in a strange web of feelings. Some days I concede to the vulnerability. You are only human, I tell myself. It is okay to feel like something is missing. It is okay to want to love, and to want to be loved. It’s okay to need someone else, sometimes. I sit at my kitchen table and sip coffee. I read in silence, and it feels nice.

Other days it makes me angry. Get it together, I say to the mirror. Loneliness is for the weak, and you are not weak. I pick up my phone. I put it down again. I sit at my kitchen table and sip whiskey.

In the end, I know that I need to find a balance between the two. This whole time, I thought that being independent meant being alone, but real independence means knowing yourself well enough to admit when you don’t want to be alone. Real independence means giving yourself enough credit to realize that needing other people doesn’t mean you are any less without them. As it turns out, independence was never mine to claim, but all of ours to share. You and you and you and I,

we can be independent,

together.

On being good enough

Candidacy. This word has given me butterflies in my stomach since I started grad school.

Like most PhD programs, the Penn State materials science and engineering program requires students to take a candidacy exam at the end of their first year. This exam consists of a written paper and oral presentation that is meant to test your ability to problem solve and think creatively. Personally, I don’t think that writing a proposal on a subject outside your own area of research and defending it in front of a committee of professors who can ask you any materials science question they please as you flounder in front of an empty whiteboard (can you tell that I’m bitter?) is the best way to decide whether or not someone is “fit” to stay in the graduate program, but alas, that’s how it works. You fail twice, you’re out.

---

Last month, I had the pleasure of experiencing this fine tradition of emotional torture. All the older grad students who I talked to told me that candidacy was going to be the most miserable few weeks of my life—but they were wrong. For four weeks, I could think about nothing but perovskite solar cells. I spent my days reading papers about the moisture degradation of perovskites and spent my nights waking up to dreams about crystal chemistry. But it wasn’t these long hours poring over research papers that was miserable. It wasn’t the sleep deprivation or the paper writing or the practice talks that got me down.

No, the worst part of candidacy is not candidacy itself but waiting for the results after you’re all done.

 

I don’t think I’ve ever doubted my own intelligence as much as I did after candidacy. For the four weeks leading up to the oral presentation, I went home every day feeling tired, but determined. After my presentation, on the other hand, I went home and promptly melted into a puddle of blubbering and tears and heartbreak. The questions that my committee had asked me during the exam kept circling round and round in my head. I kept playing everything back, cringing at the stupid responses I gave. Why couldn’t I describe the synthesis of my proposed organic cation? Why couldn’t I think of better ways to purify a compound? Why couldn’t I give a better explanation of the Flory-Huggins interaction parameter? There was a moment during my exam when I was in the middle of giving an answer that I thought was reasonable, only to be interrupted by:

“Wrong!”

“Well, I thought that—”

“Wrong! Come on, you’re making physicists look bad!”

I remember freezing for a second when the professor said this—not because it was a rude comment, but because I was afraid that he was right. For the next few days as I waited for candidacy results, this line kept echoing in my head. You’re making physicists look bad! I honestly felt ashamed of myself.

---

As it turns out, I passed candidacy, but I still can’t help feeling that in some ways…I failed. I let candidacy get the best of me. I let a one hour and forty-five minute oral exam convince me that any academic success I’ve had in the last few years must have happened by luck. I let a professor’s small comment make me question whether I deserved my physics degree. I let candidacy make me feel like…I just wasn’t good enough.

One of these days, I hope I can look back on this experience and chuckle about how sensitive I was being, how easily I lost my confidence. I hope I’ll have become a tougher person. In the last few years, I think I’ve gotten better at the getting back up part, but my next goal is to work on not getting knocked down in the first place.

Watch out, world.

You’ve got a fighter in your midst.

Snapshots

Wine and cheese at Dolores Park. Feeling free with a bottle in my hand and rebellion in my heart. Cool grass against my legs. The remnants of a wild night—scattered trash and cigarette butts—making white specks in the distance. I am only witnessing the aftermath, but feel almost like I was a part of it. Palm trees surround me. Real palm trees!

Brunch in San Francisco. A bright omelet and bright optimism. Teasing old friends and making new ones. Sparkly temporary tattoos. Photos with complete strangers.

Conversations with the staff scientist. Confusion slowly ebbing away to clarity, which quickly plummets into frustration. Eyes glued to two computer monitors showing me what I don’t want to see. A slow walk back to the hotel. But I’ve got a plan for tomorrow.

A used book store. Infinite shelves of treasure. Claiming a corner and sharing it with Keats, Dickinson, T.S. Eliot. A title: Savage Beauty. I am inexplicably drawn to it. A glance from a stranger, and the thought—here is where lovers meet. Here is where two minds understand each other and two hearts need each other.

Sitting in the same tiny room for too many hours to count. Coming to the realization: this is all my fault. I should have been better prepared. Tears threatening to escape my eyes. Trying the experiment one more time and being disappointed one more time. Polite conversations with the staff. Back in the hotel room, on the phone, crying.

Taking the BART at night. I’m on edge—afraid I’ll get lost—but I’m distracted by dancers on the train, swinging off handle bars, making moves in mid-air. The bar I finally arrive at is the fanciest one I’ve ever been to. Dim lights, candles, typewriters, newspaper clippings. Whiskey and friends. I’m happy.

Struggling to use a new microscope. Even the most basic of tasks are suddenly ten-fold more difficult. Finally acquiring some interesting images—very, very slowly. Asking the staff scientist a billion and one questions because, really, I’ve no shame left. At least I’m learning.

A European books and media store. Guessing the names of foreign titles. Reading Calvin and Hobbes—in French (or trying to). I’m kind of proud of myself because pude leer algunos de los libros espanoles. Well at least, un poco.

Breakfast at the guest house. Everyone is talking too loudly. I am normally smitten with anyone with an accent, but this time I glare silently at the offenders of my morning. The only thing I’m not mad at is my coffee. Although I am aggressively ambivalent about that, too.

Walking around downtown. There are more homeless people than I’m used to, and I’m not sure whether it is more rude to make eye contact, or avoid it. Someone asks me for my leftovers—he doesn’t look homeless, though. “Sorry,” I mumble. “No need to apologize, hun,” he sneers. His friends laugh. I cross the street self consciously.

My last day on the second microscope. Time is running out. Lunch is skipped. Liquid nitrogen sputters out and the vacuum is dumped. An impatient half hour of waiting. Relief when the vacuum is back, exasperation when a new problem arises. 6pm rolls around the staff scientist is leaving. My week is up. Defeated.

The hipster streets of Temescal. Apothecaries and ice cream shops and thrift stores. Of course I buy another journal—I’m accumulating them faster than I can fill them—but the atmosphere, the wonder makes me feel like I need to write. There’s something I love in every direction I turn. I am charmed.

The middle of the night. The seatbelt sign is on. Crammed between an angry-looking woman and a man who looks uncomfortable when I sneeze. Incessant kicking from behind me. At first I don’t mind, but then the angry woman complains, and her annoyance is contagious. Pulling my legs up, curling into a ball. Closing my eyes very tightly.

Taking it easy

I’m the kind of person who loves to keep an impeccably organized calendar—and loves that calendar to be packed. I like adding things to my “to do” list just as much as I like checking things off. I get restless when I’m not busy. I like living life at full throttle, moving from one day to the next, never wasting time. I hate wasting time.

But sometimes when you’re moving so fast, you lose your breath.

After a busy week with two midterms, two problem sets, and three sessions on the transmission electron microscope, I went home last Friday with plans to go out and see the new Tina Fey movie with some friends, but ended up passing out with all the lights still on and waking up in a sweat-drenched fever with a raging headache, coughing my lungs out.

Come Monday morning, when the same symptoms persisted, I decided a visit to the doctor might be wise. When he said I had bronchitis and pneumonia and that I should go home...well, I should have gone home. Slept it off. But me being the stubborn person (and workaholic) that I am, I decided I’d go about doing everything I was scheduled to do that week.

And I did. I went to my cleanroom safety training, I went to lithography training, went to my meetings, and everything was going fine until I got a call from Kathy, a peppy employee from my realtor.

“Hi there! This is Kathy calling from your realtor! Am I speaking to Brooke?”

“Yes, this is—this is—” I croaked. My voice sounded like a dying frog by this point.

“Hello? Am I speaking to Brooke right now?”

“Sorry—” I tried again. “Yes, yes this is Brooke,” I managed before an exploding coughing episode.

“Hi there!” A confused pause. “Are you…okay?”

And that was it. Out of nowhere, tears started streaming down my face. Because, No Kathy, I’m not okay! I feel more sick than I’ve been in years, I’ve got a review article that I need to finish in two weeks that I barely understand, none of my data makes sense, I'm having a hard time breathing and those cleanroom suits don't make it any easier, and there are just so many things that need to be done that I just—physically—can’t—do.

In the next minute, I went from feeling utter despair at what felt like my inability to do anything useful at all, to relief at the prospect of letting myself just forget all the work and wallow in self-pity, to anger at myself for giving up so easily.

In hind-sight, it was silly. I shouldn’t take myself so seriously. I was sick, and upset that I couldn’t get my work done. Big deal, Brooke. The world isn’t going to end if you take a break for a couple of days. But I don’t know, I just can’t shake that feeling. Of always needing to be moving forward. Always doing something. Always achieving. Do you ever feel like that?

But I’m reminded of this little quote from The Book of Brave, written by one of my favorite bloggers Laura Williams: “Progress isn’t always a forward force.”

I know it seems simple, but it’s so easy to forget. You don’t always need to be moving forward. You don’t need to be running full speed ahead each and every day—in fact, you’re never going to make it to the finish line that way. It’s okay to give yourself a day off if you need it. Don’t be a slacker, but also don’t become so obsessed with progress that you forget to take a break.

"Progress isn't always a forward force."

So this is just a friendly reminder from your resident workaholic: pace yourself. Take it easy. Don’t move so fast that you leave yourself behind, alright?

The theory of everything, and more

I have felt a hunger lately.

I have felt an insatiable desire to wrap my arms around the entire world and understand its every nook and cranny. I want to cradle the globe in my arms, whisper my secrets to her, and wait for her confessions to be whispered back to me.

I still remember back in high school when I resolutely decided I was going to study physics in college. I can still remember what I wrote in my application essays — physics is the science that underlies the entire universe. Physics can explain everything. Ironically, five years later, there is still no agreed upon “theory of everything” in the physics community, but I think a part of me thought I was going to single-handedly figure it all out back then.

As it turns out, graduating with a degree in physics did not lead me to uncovering the secrets of our universe. The real secret, I sometimes fear, is that I really wasn’t much of a physicist, anyways….

That being said, I have not given up on my passion for finding answers. What has changed is the realization that if I really want to understand the world, I cannot just do it through science. And I realize that as a first year engineering PhD student, I have five long years of science ahead of me, but what I mean is that you wouldn’t try to understand love by only studying how adrenaline and dopamine work. You would fall in love — and feel every part of it.

I remember going to a poetry reading back at Carnegie Mellon a few years back. During the Q&A session, someone asked the poet why he decided to become a writer. “Because I resisted specialization,” he said.

He kept switching majors because he was passionate about so many different things that he couldn’t pick just one. In the end, he realized that poetry was the one thing that let him combine all his interests, synthesize different concepts through his own interpretation. I remember frantically pulling out my notebook to scribble down his quote so that I wouldn’t forget it, but I guess I let it slip my mind — until now.  

There’s a Barnes and Noble in the student center at Penn State, and earlier this week on a particularly long day, I decided to stop by to pick up a coffee. My friend had told me that it’s better to get coffee at the in-store Starbucks at Barnes and Noble than go to the real Starbucks because the line is much shorter — but instead of saving time, I found myself weaving through the bookshelves for an hour after getting my coffee (my friend was right though, there really was no line! Pro tip.)

I couldn’t help myself. It had been a while since my last bookstore excursion, and I found myself wanting every book that I laid my eyes on. I wanted Mary’s Karr’s memoir, last month’s New Yorker, a collection of 2015’s best magazine pieces, a cookbook, Amy Poehler’s Yes Please, a European history book, and a Star Wars encyclopedia. As I darted from shelf to shelf, enthused by fresh caffeine, I realized that I resisted specialization, too.

The research group that I work in places a large emphasis on developing cheaper, more efficient materials for solar cells. But I don’t just want to sit in my lab learning everything there is to know about poly(3-hexylthiophene-2,5-diyl) — I want to pick up that New Yorker and read Elizabeth Kolbert’s story about climate change and Florida’s disappearing coast and understand why we actually need better solar cells. I don’t just want to watch the 2016 presidential debates — I want to refresh my memory on all of American history, way back to the Mayflower. I don’t want to be immersed in my own world, my own life, and my own experiences — I want to read the biographies and memoirs of my many idols and learn through their experiences, too.

I want to see the big picture. I want to connect it all together.

I feel like I’ve grown up backwards, that I am feeling that child-like wonder again, and that the world has all at once become an endless place of infinite new things to learn. I am determined not only to appreciate every shape in its kaleidoscope, but to find beauty in their combined pattern.

To be honest, I think string theory confuses me more than it helps me understand the universe. But in my own little way…I’m already creating a “theory of everything.” And I think I like this version better. 

A few thoughts on surviving my first semester of grad school

I was scared to come here, honestly. Moving to a new town, switching majors, being in a long distance relationship – this all sounded terrifying to me.

Fortunately, the last few months have been nothing short of wonderful.

I made new, amazing friends. My empty apartment became a cozy home. My days settled into a happy routine – and always began with a lazily made latte. I tried cooking new things. I went out to bars and danced to live music. I found time to actually read. I learned so much in my classes (and also learned how to swing dance). I worked out, went to yoga classes, and was even convinced into trying Zumba. I got a haircut. I flew across the country to work at a national lab. I wrote my first song.

And throughout the course of all these things, I started to feel a little different. A little brighter. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on why that was so until I stumbled across a poetry book at Webster’s today.

Inside the front cover, the author himself had scrawled a note to his mentor: More than anyone, your influence, your passion for poetry, sparked these poems, he wrote. Without your teachings, I’m not sure I would have arrived as a ‘poet’ until much later in life. For that, of course, I must thank you. I can assure you, what I become in this world owes no small sum to your dedication and kindness. I would be honored to have a fraction of your sincerity and compassion. I hope these young poems show something like potential. They are yours, somehow – your passion working through me….

For some reason, these words touched me deeply. Maybe it was because they were handwritten and felt like such a personal glimpse into a stranger’s life, maybe it was the inspiration and gratitude that was so evident in his tone – but for whatever reason, this note made me realize what was different these past few months: I’ve felt inspired.

Much like the poet who just published his first collection of poems, I have just begun a new chapter of my life that I am passionate and excited about, too.

Sometimes, our days just blur together and we find ourselves on autopilot. Sometimes we get so caught up in our schedules that we lose our true sense of what we’re waking up for every morning, what we’re ultimately fighting for. But I realized that I felt different these past few months because it was the first time in my student life that I had both the time and the interest to truly appreciate everything I was learning. And it turns out that when you are actually happy with what you’re doing, you live with a little more...purpose.

You live more deliberately.

And even though I’ve been warned that it’ll get harder, that research will be tough and that I will grow jaded and tired – guess what? I like living deliberately, so I am determined to hold on to the optimism and zeal that comes with new beginnings. I’m going to stay inspired, and stay curious.

Because why do what you’re doing if you can’t find meaning in it?

You win some, you lose some

I went to a poetry reading a few weeks ago—or rather, I went to a café with the intention of studying, only to discover that I had walked in on a monthly poetry reading event. As it turns out, I think I learned a lot more from the poets than I ever could have learned from my thermodynamics textbook.

My favorite poem was titled “Why A Pansy.” The woman reading it explained that she had recently gotten a tattoo of a pansy—because it is the symbol of remembrance. The pansy represented the things that we’ve lost: the ones who have passed away, the lovers who left us, “the versions of ourselves that didn’t make it to today.”

That particular line stuck in my head. It reminded me of all the risks I didn’t take, the challenges I shied away from, the accomplishments that I never achieved because I was too afraid to try. It made me realize that there are far too many versions of myself that didn’t make it to today.

And that’s such a shame.

---

I’ve been trying to learn how to do headstands lately. Now don’t judge me, but I follow all these beautiful, fit women on Instagram who are always posting pictures of fancy yoga poses and videos of effortless inversions. Feeling ambitious (and a little jealous), I thought, hey—I can do that too!

Except that…I couldn’t.

I tried over and over again, but to my utter disappointment I just could not hold my legs up straight. Being upside down felt unnatural and scary and I didn’t like the way my room looked when the floor was suddenly the ceiling. My body felt heavy and my arms felt weak—

Until I flipped over, landing flat on my back with a resounding thunk. Ugh, my downstairs neighbor is probably judging me right now, I thought, being self-conscious about what other people think of me, as per usual.

But wait, that actually didn’t hurt was my second thought. Because it really didn’t.

And suddenly, headstands got a whole lot easier.

---

I know that most things in life aren’t this simple, but I’m a sucker for metaphors.

And the truth is, the concept still holds: it’s scary to put yourself out there, to try something new, to tackle a challenge when you’re not sure if you’ll come out a victor. But for what it’s worth, even the most perfect person will not be successful in every one of his or her endeavors—ironically, it’s the realization that it’s okay to fail that will ultimately make you successful.

During my Thanksgiving bus travels, I listened to Mindy Kaling’s book Why Not Me? She said that a little girl once asked her, “Mindy, how are you so confident?”

Her response wasn’t what I was expecting, but it sure was the truth. She said that confidence is like respect—you have to earn it. There’s no magical formula for becoming that smart, confident person you want to become. You just have to work hard. Put in the effort. Try.

---

I know it’s a little early for new years resolutions, but I always thought it was silly for January to be the only month you could rise from your phoenix ashes.

The way I see it, you can’t wait around for a sign to finally do the things you’re scared of. Maybe it’s a hard physics problem that you don’t think you can solve. Maybe it’s a hobby that you’ve been meaning to pick up “when you have time.” Maybe it’s admitting to that cute girl that you think she’s really somethin’.

And maybe you won’t solve the physics problem. And you’re horrible at that hobby. And the girl says you’re just friends. But even if you don’t succeed in everything, you’ll succeed in enough that your confidence starts to grow just a little tiny bit…

So forget new year resolutions. Just start now, because that’s what this is all about anyways: always trying, often losing,

sometimes winning. It’s the only way we move forward.

The art of letting go

Most of my friends know that I am a pretty anxious person—okay, I’m a really anxious person. And I’m a very nondiscriminatory worrier too, because I will panic over the miniscule details of my day just as much as I will panic over important life decisions.

I rush to every class and every meeting, thinking I am late every time, and always end up arriving ridiculously early. I’m incapable of playing any sort of musical instrument in front of an audience without my hands shaking so much that I create an entirely new piece altogether. And if I have so much as half a latte before any sort of remotely stressful situation, I am sure to have a panic attack (which is really unfortunate, because I happen to like lattes a lot).

I am the kind of person who will think about one question on an exam from the moment I hand it in until the moment I get it back, wondering and wondering if I forgot that one negative sign (I probably did). And sometimes, when nothing is stressing me out, I start worrying that I’ve forgotten about something that should be stressing me out.

Am I making you nervous yet?

Anyways, bearing all this in mind, I was sure that my first few weeks of grad school would be a completely traumatizing experience, but to my pleasant surprise it has been quite a happy transition. And I think that it is because lately, I have stopped trying so hard to always be in control.

Because life isn’t about always being in control—it’s the opposite. It’s about letting go.

I went to this yoga class the other day and it was in this dim room with a few earth-toned tapestries hanging on the walls and bookshelves made of dark oak. As I sat on my mat thinking about how unlike other yoga studios this place looked, I realized (with some embarrassment) that there was a shirtless young man doing handstands on my right, and grew increasingly self-conscious when I looked around the room and saw that a little more than half the class was actually male. Suddenly, the instructor said okay everyone lie on your stomachs, turn your head to one side, and close your eyes

And then he started spouting the most philosophical poetry I had ever heard. I actually peeked my eyes open for a second to see if he was reading off anything and was impressed to discover that his eloquent words were completely impromptu.

can you feel that? can you feel what’s in this room?

At this point I started to get worried because no, I didn’t feel anything, what was I supposed to feel?

can you feel your heart against the floor, can you feel your breath? now stop and just notice this moment. notice the present. feel that jumble of neurons in your mind, all the cells that make up your body. do you realize just how many cells that is? And you think “this is my body! I want to control my body!” but just relax. you don’t need to control every one of those cells. don’t you see how your body breathes without you having to tell it to? let your mind be still, trust yourself, and let everything calibrate on its own…

It wasn’t a life changing moment. It didn’t knock the breath right out of me. But the words just stuck with me, you know? They kept echoing in my mind…

A couple of days later, I came across a Native American story in a book I found while browsing through a second-hand book store (the best kind of book store). In the story, a Native American elder said, “There is a river flowing now, very fast. It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid. They will try to hold on to the shore. They will feel they are being torn apart and suffer greatly. Know that the river has its destination.  The elders say we must push off into the middle of the river, keep our eyes open and our heads above the water…”

I don’t know about you, but I’m a romantic so I am a giant cheeseball when it comes to life metaphors. And I particularly liked this one.

It’s kind of a relief to know that it is okay to not worry, to simply let life happen on its own. And I’m not telling you to give up, to lose motivation, or to wing the rest of your life. I’m just saying that it’s going to be alright. I’m saying that it’s completely okay if you don’t know what’s supposed to happen next, whether it’s the next day or the next couple of years. I’m saying that even if you plan something meticulously and it all falls apart, life will go on.  

It’s good to know what you want, it’s good to have a plan, and it’s good to care enough about your life that sometimes it even causes you unnecessary anxiety. But if that anxiety is not benefitting you in any way, it’s time to let go.

“Let go of that which does not serve you,” as they say…

Take responsibility for the things you can control, but learn to let go of the rest. Keep your head above the water, but don’t try to fight the current.

On being fearless

I’ve always loved that word—fearless. I love the idea of it. The concept. The feeling. When I was a little girl, I used to hide behind my mother’s legs every time I got introduced to someone new. She said I was like a baby koala bear—I could never let go. Although I eventually grew out of my marsupial phase, I remained shy throughout my teenage years, and now in my twenties I find that I am still shy, sometimes insecure, and always anxious.

But I don’t want to feel this way. In the words of the poet Mary Oliver, “I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.”

I have a lot of idols. My favorite blogger, Scarphelia, for moving from London to New York City all by herself at 22. Adriene Mishler for creating the inspiring home yoga series Yoga With Adriene. Kayla Itsines for her rockin' body and BBG workouts that have reached continents all around the world. Anna Akana for her hilarious YouTube channel, budding acting career, and clothing line. My parents for taking the big leap from Taiwan to America. My brother for his love of the stage—whether it’s diabolo, piano, or dance. My boyfriend for running a marathon. One of my best friends, Steph, for realizing what she really wanted and changing her career path. My amazing Harvard-bound roomie.

You see, I want to be as brave as Scarphelia and my brother and my roommate. I want to be fearless.

Next month, I will be moving into a new (one bedroom) apartment in a new town to begin a new chapter of my life. My August calendar is covered in post-it notes and reminders—pay rent, transfer utilities, schedule meeting with Peg, submit immunization records, etc.—but I’m starting to think that I need a new set of reminders.

As I begin the journey towards my graduate degree, I will remind myself of a quote from yet another beautiful and lovely idol, Natalie Portman: “Your inexperience is an asset.” She said that she once knew a violinist who said he couldn’t compose because he knew so many pieces that every time he tried to write something original, all he could think of were the melodies of pieces he already knew. Most of the time when I’m scared of something, it’s because I’m afraid of inadequacy, that I’m not good enough, that I don’t know enough. But if I want to be fearless, I must dive right into the challenge. I must believe that my ideas are worth something. That my inexperience is, in fact, an asset.

At the same time, though, I will remind myself to admit when I am wrong. I won’t be afraid to ask for help when I need it. And I will not be afraid to say no.

I’ll learn to love myself. I’ll remember bad memories without cringing, without feeling weak. I’ll say I love you, even if it makes me feel like my heart is completely naked. And someday in the future, I’ll live in the bustling city and the subway won’t confuse me anymore. I’ll be the boss at wherever I work, and who knows, maybe I’ll even become someone else’s fearless idol.

But for now, I’ll settle for becoming brave enough to play the ukulele and sing in public some day. Maybe I’ll learn those yoga inversions that make me feel like I am falling into the earth.

No matter what I’m doing—whether it’s grad school, reaching personal goals, or just my every day shyness—I will learn to be bigger than my fears. I will walk onto that stage one step at a time…and one day…I will be fearless, as though I have wings. 

It's a really old city, stuck between the dead and the living

Okay. Let’s call it a place. People and things are too hard to talk about, but a place is more vague. A place is less personal. You can walk away from it, but still go back and visit someday.  

This place feels familiar and strange at the same time. It’s a city, and during the day it’s bustling with people who have purpose in their stride, but at night the darkness explodes with gunshots and at dawn my alarm is the sound of sirens. It snows a lot in this place but I actually kind of love the snow because it blankets the city in this white perfection—at least until the snow melts into dirty slush that piles up on the curbs.

I’ve memorized the map of this city. The roads haven’t changed in years and I know the street names by heart, but new shops have started popping up everywhere and just the other day I visited my favorite café only to find that it, too, was closing soon. There was nothing special about their coffee, but I really liked its down-to-earth atmosphere. And the view from the table in the corner.  

Most of the friends that I met here years ago have already gotten new jobs and are trickling out of town, but I haven’t had any reason to leave. It’s beautiful, this city, it really is. But for some reason every time I try to take a picture of the skyline, the camera just can’t seem to capture what I see. It’s as if this place is cursed with a beauty that can’t last.  

I know I should leave this place. I want to run off to the West coast where the skies are always sunny and the cities are alive, but the truth is, this place is my home. I want to run off, but there is nowhere to run, because this place isn’t even a place. It’s the past.

And no matter how many days or months or years I put between it and myself—no matter how much I don’t belong there anymore—I’ll always live in this place. Despite the gunshots, despite the snow, despite my missing café... I will always live in the past. 

-B.

On being more independent

Last night, the storm outside was so violent that each time the thunder hit, your entire room trembled in response. You are not afraid of thunderstorms — you never were — but as you lay there in bed wearing nothing but your underwear and an old t-shirt, wrapped in the thin cocoon of your bed covers, you suddenly felt the intense need to be held, to be taken care of, to be loved.

This need made you feel vulnerable, and this vulnerability disappointed you.

You're always beautiful

“Look at the moon – isn’t it beautiful?” My dad asked me as I cried into the plate of food in front of me, pushing around the pieces of sushi as if by rearranging them I could rearrange my life.

“Yeah,” I sniffled, wondering where he was going with this.

“But it’s only ever a full moon once a month,” he continued. “Most of the time, the moon is just a crescent or a half moon. It’s almost never a full moon, yet it’s always beautiful.”

---

The best way to die

December is a cold month, an old month. It is tired and weary and its bare branches wave goodbye as they suffocate under the beautiful, white snow that gleams with hope, that promises a beginning after the end. But it is still an end. Everyone always writes about falling in love, but nobody ever writes about falling out of love.

I have never fallen out of love before. I have had it taken away, suddenly, had my entire heart wrenched out of my chest and immediately replaced with a stone which hurts when it beats and pumps cold blood. I have had love taken away, but it was a gunshot straight down my throat – quick and easy – a painless death, they call it. I have never fallen out of love before, but I imagine it would be more like drowning.

I saw a couple at the Greyhound station today. Being my usual nosy self, I watched them out of the corner of my eye, fabricating stories, composing tales of tragic romance. They were in their fifties, I think, probably been married for twenty years or so, sitting at a table in front of the sad little concession stand that sold pretzels and hot dogs and soda that slowly rots your teeth. Their shoulders were touching, their thighs side by side, their chairs an inch apart, and he was singing. His skin was dark, his face worn and slightly obscured by graying facial hair, and he was wearing frameless glasses, an old baseball cap, sweatpants, and a windbreaker. A pretty average guy, at first glance, but by god, his voice caught my attention even from several tables away. I listened secretly, peeked over occasionally, smiled to myself as I saw him play his imaginary piano and lean into his wife, serenading her.

But then I saw her eyes. There was not even the hint of a sparkle, the tiniest glimmer of love! This man, whose voice I imagine won her over many years ago, was giving her a romantic private concert, every girl’s not-so-secret dream, and yet this woman was completely indifferent. She just sat there, in her own damn world, propping up a bored face with her fist, as his voice echoed in the space around her. Is that love? I wondered to myself. Is that what love looks like in the month of December?

I have always had an irrational fear of water. I am the lame person at the beach who won’t go more than ten feet into the ocean because I think it will betray me when I start to enjoy myself, flip me on my back and fill my lungs with cold, salty terror. I don’t want to drown. I never want to drown.

How To Save The World

It is past midnight and I am drinking coffee. Part of me reassures myself that since I bought the coffee at a Korean supermarket and can’t read the foreign words on the label, there is a 50 percent chance that it is actually decaf, but the more sensible part of me realizes that I have probably just cost myself several hours of sleep. Upon this realization, I take out my contacts, put on my glasses, and prepare myself for a night of sad music and sadder musings.

Like any other young person with an inkling of hope to amount to something in life, I am plagued with the dilemma of what to do with my future. Now I know that I am only one out of 7 billion people who exist on this planet, but in kindergarten I was taught that it only takes one person to make a difference. And since they correctly taught me how to count double-digit numbers, list the days of the week, and spell the months in a year, I choose to believe them on this matter as well. But what must I do to make a difference?

I used to (and still do) wonder about what job to pursue after college, where to live, what my life goal should be. But maybe it’s not career paths or huge life decisions that ultimately change the world. Doctors save lives, of course, scientists help us understand the world better, businessmen turn ideas into products, the media keeps societies connected. But maybe the secret to making your mark on the world is that the real magic occurs in more subtle ways. In the words of Emily Dickinson:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Maybe I am simply setting the bar low for myself for fear of failure and disappointment, but maybe I don’t need to prevent an apocalypse, discover how to harness nuclear energy, or run for presidency in order to do good in this world. What I do need to do is make my own small contributions whenever I can, starting right now, with no less heart and passion than if I was indeed saving the whole world. And if everyone did this, each in his or her own magical way, we might just live to see the world become what we always dreamed it would be.

Stream of consciousness, because I have no time to write anything else these days

My roommate is playing an album by some group called Houses. I’ve never heard of them before, but I like their music. It fits my mood tonight. There is a candle flickering to my left, a candle that we are not supposed to have in the apartment because it is a fire hazard. Which reminds me, I should put the battery back in our fire alarm; I accidentally set off the alarm with a hot shower the other day and I panicked because I thought someone would come in while I was still in my bath towel so I climbed onto the bureau, reached up, and yanked the battery out.

I admire this little candle – how it burns and burns with all its unfaltering might, all the while shrinking beneath its flame, drowning in its own melted wax. I wonder how it feels to be the cause of your own destruction, to consume your very self.

I wonder if, in some subtle way, I am not unlike the sad candle which burns itself away in my modest apartment. I am still young, I know, but what if these years melt away before I have done all that I have set out to do? I would like to go to Paris and watch the city’s reflection float across the surface of the river Seine. I want to truly understand why F = ma, and I want to study the philosophy of science, how Ptolemy’s ideas evolved into those of Copernicus, and Kepler, and if Newton really sat under an apple tree when he came up with the theory of gravity. I want to write my own song, I want to learn guitar, and I want perform Clair de Lune flawlessly. I want to go to Mauna Kea in Hawaii and look at the stars; I want to see an aurora in real life. I want to love someone, and be loved. I want to open a coffee shop, or a bakery, with a fireplace and classy art on the walls and antique poetry books on almost-dusty shelves. I want to go on a road trip without even bothering to check if I have enough gas in the tank, and I want to go hiking and canoeing and whale watching in Maine and ride with sled dogs in Alaska. I want to live in New York City, and live in California, and I want to ride a horse without the saddle and go so fast that I almost fall off. I want to fly into outer space.

There is a bowl of leftover pasta in the fridge, except I doubt I’ll ever eat it because I couldn't find any plastic wrap so I will probably get hungry in a few hours, look at the uncovered pasta in the fridge dubiously, and throw it away. I hope I don’t get blown out before my passion is done burning, although I do like the smell right after you put a candle out. It’s like burned roses, rusty fragrance. I’m going to blow the candle out now and go to sleep.