2021 was probably my most accomplished year. And yet it’s the year I leave behind feeling the most disappointed.
This year, I purchased my first-ever apartment with the help of my parents. I used my hard-earned savings to furnish it from the ground up. I built things with my loved ones, laughed with them when I’d mistakenly bought two of the same couch and cabinet — I handled the canvassing, the purchase, and the move-in by myself with my partner’s support, all while juggling a new puppy and the sudden shift in topic of my master’s thesis. It all sounds so spectacular when I put it down in writing, but the experience was an absolute nightmare; I was stumbling the whole way through.
When my partner met an unfortunate accident with a dinner knife (which we can now thankfully all laugh about months later), it was the last straw. I was there to give him first-aid and spent five hours in an ambulance and then a hospital, and not once could I cry. He was constantly on the verge of falling apart, and I committed to my stoicism for the sake of his sanity to such an excess that I never let myself grieve until a month later. The event left aftershocks that I repeatedly denied. I was so tired, and so depressed, and the event sent me over the edge.
And yet.
And yet I went on to complete my thesis manuscript and successfully defend it. And yet I went on to publish my first workshop paper and build experience while networking by volunteering at two premier international conferences. And yet I went on to work as a graduate teaching assistant and received wonderful reviews from my students. And yet I went on and began my PhD position on a great foot after establishing myself in the international HCI community.
Each time my mental health suffered and brought me to my knees, I got back up and said, “what am I going to do about it?” I sought help, I let myself fail and start over again — and again, and again, and again — I tried everything I could get my hands on and stayed relentless even when none of it worked the way it should.
I should be proud of that. But the thing that disappoints me isn’t the idea that nothing I accomplished was enough, but that there was still so much more left to do, and because I was human — because I wanted to sleep in, play games, write stories, spend time with friends — I put some things aside. I gained weight that I’ve been struggling to lose and my acne came back from all the stress I went through. There are things I still need to learn that I haven’t studied. It’s crazy of me to think so, but I wish there were some good things that I sacrificed more.
“Maybe being a little disappointed is always a good thing,” my supervisor told me when I confided in him this evening.
“Because it means you are striving for more.”
It injected some optimism into my otherwise somber state of mind. Each time we reinvent ourselves, we fill in as much of the shell that surrounds us until it’s time to burst out of it, only to find an even larger egg for the next version of ourselves to grow into. Naturally that’s a dismay to see, isn’t it? But that’s just the shadow cast by a tangible ambition — if it didn’t have one, it wouldn’t have mass, load, fullness. It wouldn’t weigh anything on your chest. It won’t feel like much when you’re rolling it up your hill. That’s how you know you’re growing: Turning yolk into eyes, bones, muscles, feathers.
Well, Happy New Year. Enjoy your new eggshells.
