There is Time Here

I remember the first time I passed by the Korean War Memorial by Elm Street. Scurrying to the Goel Center, I hardly gave it a glance. After all, I was preoccupied by the math tests, history papers and English readings on my plate. In a campus littered with stately structures (and even an architectural masterpiece), this grey thing seemed insipid, utterly lacking in vibrancy. Months later, I found myself wandering across the library quadrangle. I had just received another bad grade—a paper in an English class. This challenge, the first of many in my Exeter career, shook my confidence. Could I survive in this environment, 8,000 miles away from what I was used to? Again, I stumbled across the memorial. This time, I sat down. As I moved my hand across the curvature of the memorial, I thought about the reasons I was at the Academy. Yes, part of me came to Exeter to escape the reality that I was a closeted gay kid in deeply homophobic Hong Kong. But another part of me wanted to come to learn what it meant to be faced with new problems and experiences; another part of me wanted to expand the breadth and depth of my knowledge while building strength of character. Reading the names engraved on the memorial, I thought about those who had sacrificed their lives for their country. These soldiers faced the horrors of war with courage and dignity—so what did I have to complain about?  Since that day, I have returned sporadically to the Korean War Memorial. I have used it as a space for introspection, for affirmation and for all things in between. I have visited in the best of days and the worst of days, often just to take a moment to think back on recent events in my life.  Since that day, the list of places I have gone to reflect have also grown. It has grown to include a carrel in the basement of the library, a practice room in the Music Building and even the quiet back hallway behind the Forum. These are places I escape to when I need to unpack some mental clutter, whatever it may be. Frankly, the moments of solitude I have shared with these spaces are what keeps me afloat at Exeter. It is easy to feel lonely at this institution. It is easy to feel small, amid peers with massive intellects, instructors with lofty expectations and even structures of great size. It is easy to ask yourself questions about your value, about your worth—as a scholar, as an athlete, as an actor, as a writer, the list goes on. I know for a fact that I am not the only one who has these feelings.  Hence, it is imperative that we tell ourselves that everything is going to be okay. It is imperative that we forgive ourselves when we mess up and pick ourselves back up again when we feel like we are going to break down. It is imperative that we process the whirlwind of information, events and encounters that comprise a day at the Academy. Finding a space to do that—any space—is integral. But what is more important is doing it in the first place. Brené Brown writes, “You either walk into your story and own your truth, or you live outside of your story, hustling for your worthiness.” This may be a banal platitude, but there is some truth in what she says. When we confront our lived experiences head-on, when we think about them deeply and critically, we embrace ourselves. We give ourselves the space and mental clarity to thrive. When we deny ourselves the right to process our truths, we wallow in self-doubt and hopelessness. I know what it means to doubt myself. And I know the temptation is to try, sometimes desperately, to find approval in others. Before I gave myself the time to breathe, I put up a facade of arrogance. It made me seem callous, self-centered, unfriendly. I lost opportunities because I turned my insecurity into faux confidence. I lost friends because I didn’t trust that others would like me for who I was. That I could be accepted.  When I drove myself to extremes, when I forsook dinners for clubs and homework, when I didn’t give myself space for gratitude and reflection, I struggled to be happy. Sure, my homework got done and I fulfilled my club commitments. But what was it worth? Not much. So, to all the preps (and others) who wandered into assembly for the first time last week, give yourself the space to breathe. You may think that there is no time for solitary pensiveness, but there is. Work can wait. Clubs can wait. Classes can wait. Spare yourself those five minutes of reflection.  Those five minutes will have a world of difference. When you’re struggling, just inhale and exhale—just breathe. Find your space. You will realize that you have most of the answers to the questions and doubts that are percolating in your head. Trust me, I know.