Written in Wabi-Sabi

Instead of writing a traditional senior piece that reflects on my high school experience, I decided to write from an author’s perspective and revisit chapters throughout my life to encapsulate my educational journey, kind of like a storybook. 

Like how some may say, “Never judge a book by its cover,” I give the illusion that mine matches my pages, so some readers turn a blind eye—never bothering to read between the lines, skimming through them, or truly getting to know me as a person. In the dedication, I want to give tribute to my creditors Sam, Elsa, Kashan, Madeline, Tomas, Nooreen, Lucius, and Eileen for helping shape me into the person I am today.

At eleven years old, I began experiencing symptoms that foreshadowed my diagnosis later. 

I used to listen to the scratching sound of my peers’ pencils in class as they scribbled furiously on tests. Still, I had not written my name down. There I sat, chewing on the eraser of my pencil like a dope, trying to ground the point of it on paper—or, at least, to ground myself. 

I became bound to this indubitable prologue of my book, ruling that it did not matter how well I knew the material or how much I studied. From then on, that feeling carried into my high school years as it became increasingly difficult to start, let alone finish, my tests. 

Fast-forward to freshman year. I was bubbly, loud and completely free in the way I expressed myself. 

I had a restless mind, though; I spoke too quickly, laughed too easily and bounced from one thought to another with chapters paced too fast to follow. I hardly knew where my rising action met my exposition, where I ended or where I began, leaving sentences to run-on or be left in fragments; each one representing how easily I lost focus. I went as far as leaving sentences incomplete because of my inability to get started on small tasks, let alone finish them. 

To some people in my group, that energy was welcomed as light-hearted fun. To others looking in from the outside, it came off as obnoxious or annoying. 

Those who meticulously flipped through my pages, tracing the jagged edges, shed blood after their wounded age of paper cuts. It is to the point that readers lose their place from trying to keep up, testing even the patient ones, most inevitably putting my book down. 

I started sophomore year with lower self-esteem than when I entered high school, slowly giving my feelings of inadequacy a name as I came down with a case of Imposter Syndrome. The psychological phenomena were seedlings planted by all my failures and triggered by the poison of my own self-doubt. 

When my mental health started to decline I struggled to get out of bed to do my own work, paralyzed with fear that if I did an assignment, the product woulda not be the best. This was my wake-up call during junior year to make a change—one that would stop the spread of the disease throughout my body. 

Wabi-sabi, the philosophy that beauty exists in imperfection, helped me begin to embrace the natural cycle of growth and decay, finding value in myself that transcends outcomes, but in the persistence that got me there. The patience I exercised on testing days while under pressure taught me reflection. It made me a careful, thoughtful writer. 

My imperfections hold beauty similarly to how I work through my passion in journalism too—I write at least three drafts until I have a finished piece that may not be perfect, but it is mine. This piece could have countless revisions and still never be perfect. 

I learned that my standard of being a “perfect student” bled into my active achievements that make me who I am: from being President of Triple A (Asian American Association), President of Fashion Club, all while writing under The Prowler as the Associate Editor in Chief. 

I learned that I do not have to compensate for my strengths for the ‘flaw in the system’ because my educational journey is inherently imperfect. I thought the larger part of my narrative was my ineptitude in giving a seamless performance, until writing became my way of slowing it down, reclaiming authorship. 

I am flourishing in this chapter now, ready to turn the page to the next new sequel (Loyola University Chicago!) My storybook is not perfect, but it’s still a work in progress—and that’s exactly what makes it worth telling.