Authenticity and the Art of Letting Go
One of the most transformative lessons I’ve learned during my four years at Penn is becoming comfortable with letting go of opportunities that no longer feel authentic to me.
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One of the most transformative lessons I’ve learned during my four years at Penn is becoming comfortable with letting go of opportunities that no longer feel authentic to me.
Growing up, I was a terrible cook.
To go to grad school or not go to grad school?
I used to think that decisions were made in big leaps. Introductions meant braving the emotional deep end, and goodbye was a raw severing. I now understand decision–making through shades of gray, dictated by our desire to belong—wherever that may be.
I have always been a very anxious person.
Although the table was meant to seat six, eleven of us squeezed shoulder to shoulder in 1920 Commons Dining Hall. As conversation shifted to binge–worthy Netflix shows, I shouted my recent favorite: “Sex Education.” One friend immediately snickered, while another laughingly retorted, “You’re telling me someone teaches you about sex?!” There was a chorus of agreement around the table.
I start watching baseball in my older sister’s apartment during Baltimore’s spring. It’s not for entertainment—every day, I breathe and sigh and occasionally eat and I am tired of it; for three hours, I would like not to exist. Baseball, with its droll and stretched–out minutes, offers that reprieve.
He might be the person I’ve cried to the most. But he never comforts me.
Yeah, I took a rather big bite of the pineapple, but I didn’t expect it to be so sour. My face contorted as I bit into the gooey yellow flesh, and the enzymes attacked my taste buds. It had been sitting on the counter for at least a week. Too early? Or likely too late. Diced so carefully, I considered it good practice as I ushered the perhaps–rotten fruit into the open mouth of the trash can.
In English class, the teacher explains that everything
“Love conquers all.” “All you need is love.” “Love wins.”
Whenever I watch soccer with my mom at home, she sits with me at an arm's length away and deciphers aloud what’s happening on the screen. She doesn’t really care whether her comments are accurate. Her chipper narrations in Korean coagulate with the anxious English commentary of Saturday's Premier League game, and I dedicate an ear to each language.
At 8:15 PM on a Wednesday, I stepped outside of Du Bois College House. It was a little mild for February, but I wore a heavy brown parka nonetheless. I made sure not to zip it up to show my fit: yellow Timbs, gray sweats, royal green sweater, and a matching, velvet du-rag. To top it off, a pair of diamond-studded earrings accentuated my look. I felt like a ‘Bronx n***a,’ and it was sensational amongst the mundane crowd of black Canada Gooses and dirty, Veja sneakers.
From my bedroom you can hear the trains running and the Metro coming into the station less than a mile away from my house. In the middle of the night, you can sometimes hear drag racing on the interstate. These sounds are normal for me, a suburbanite living 5 miles outside of Washington, D.C.
I’ve always had a fear of heavy, devastating loss. It’s not irrational by any means to be afraid of losing the ones closest to you, but it’s become an overwhelming staple of my everyday life. I didn’t stop sleeping in my parents’ bed until I turned 11, and I still spiral over every missed phone call or unanswered text message. When I was younger, I spent hours in bed meticulously going over what could happen if my close friends or siblings passed away.
At 6 a.m., I slide the window open and greet my first customer. “Good morning! What can I get for you today?” I ask. I punch the order into the register and tap the button to start an espresso shot. As they search their wallet for cash, I steam the milk. Three pumps of vanilla. Espresso. Frothy milk on top. I secure the lid, place the coffee in their hand, give them their change, and wave as they pull away. Three more cars have now piled behind. It's 6:02 a.m.
Content warning: The following text details the writer's struggle with depression and anxiety, which can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
“I’ve never been to an Atlanta strip club.”
I hid my scale in April 2020, knowing that the many hours of boredom–induced eating would catch up to me at some point. At the same time, I watched the light purplish–brown stripes on my stomach flourish and thrive as I withered with each day of lockdown.
Grief is a complex emotion.
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