When I was in second grade, we moved from Brooklyn to Queens, and I had to change schools mid-year. After my mom dropped me off, I sobbed gut-wrenching sobs the entire day until she picked me up. The teachers told my mom that they wanted to put me in ESL (English as a Second Language). My mom was horrified because English was practically my first language. She made me stop crying so that I could speak my perfect English words for them. They thought I didn’t speak English because I hadn’t stopped crying. They were ready to set me back because I hadn’t found my voice when they needed it.
The world has a tendency to do that. To expect you to have and use your voice when they need it. When your professor calls on you, you need to say something—and hopefully something thoughtful. When your boss asks you a question, you need to have an answer—and hopefully something valuable. When you have all eyes on you at a meeting, you need to make a meaningful contribution, whether or not you feel or think you have anything meaningful worth contributing in that singular moment of time when all eyes are on you.
Sometimes, I simply want to say: “When I’m good and ready, that’s when you’ll get your answer, when I’m good and ready.”
But you know what? I simply don’t have that luxury. Because in those moments when the world wants answers, I have to give them something. I have to give them something because the judgment doesn’t come when I want it to come. It comes when it comes. I’d like to think the world could and should wait for me, but it can’t and won’t. And I need to always be prepared to respond with something eloquent and engaging. If I don’t, I run the risk of being set back to some place I don’t want to be.
So how do I do that? I find my spaces. I find those spaces where I can be challenged—to be nervous, to be vulnerable, to be pushed to do those things that I know I can and want to do, but I’m not always ready and willing to do. Like speaking in public, like writing creatively. And I find that choosing these spaces on my own terms allows me to feel empowered by my own choices. Rather than being challenged by the world on its schedule, I’m initiating the challenges I place on myself—opening the floodgates when I want to, panicking when I want to, and letting the highs and lows of success and failure wash over me when I want to.
When I was in graduate school, I trained to be a group fitness instructor through the Fitness Leadership Program at UCLA. If I’m afraid of speaking in public, what better way to get over that than to have 20-30 people staring at me (and my behind) in front of a mirrored wall? My first time assisting a class, I flailed miserably. I lost the beat, I forgot the choreography, and I took the class in all sorts of random directions. At the end of it, I said to the instructor (a friend of mine by that point), “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what I was doing.” She said, “Honestly, I didn’t either. I just tried to keep up.” And I got embarrassed. And I apologized. To her. To the class. And we all laughed. And it got better. And everyone (including me) gets to say, “Oh remember that time you completely bombed in front of an audience?” Yes, I remember. And yes, I survived.
When I worked at UPenn, I took an acting class with undergraduates. I remember being in fifth grade and not being able to remember more than three lines of my class play. To be honest, it was probably because I had a crush on the blonde, blue-eyed boy who was (always) the lead in our class plays. Having to stand on a big stage in front of the whole school probably made the whole experience that much more frightening. Decades later, it was time I crawled out of my acting shell. I learned how to enunciate that semester, how to explore the thoughts and motivations of my character, how to connect with and respond to the character who played opposite me. I learned what it meant to invest in the performance. And somehow I made it through a ten-minute scene from Proof with no major stumbles. Thanks to a great partner and some serious rehearsal time.
And whenever I can, I try to write. As an Asian-American, I’ve always been socialized to be good at math and science. And honestly, I always have been. I went to a specialized high school focused on math and science. I was on the math team. I doubled up in math at one point. I even applied to MIT early (when I never wanted to go to MIT at all). I was naively pre-med in college. And I avoided heavy writing classes, simply because I didn’t think I’d be good enough. But I’ve always loved to read and get lost in stories. And I’ve always loved the notion of writing and telling my own stories. I just never thought I could do it well (enough).
At some point, it finally made sense to try. I started a blog when I was in graduate school to tell the world about my food and film adventures in LA. I had a readership of about five people, which was a pretty good start. I took several English classes at UPenn, including a creative writing class in which the instructor and her teaching assistant made me edit a nonfiction piece so many times that I don’t even know how much of it was true by the time I got to my last draft. I also wrote for the student food magazine at UPenn, where student editors helped me sharpen and tighten up my writing while retaining my voice. I went from going through several drafts to working with an editor who specifically picked my pieces because they required little to no editing. Most recently, I found my way to Her Campus Kenyon as a space that would embrace my authenticity and vulnerability as I attempt to empower and support others in their search for their voice and their spaces.
I still find my voice quiet and quivering at times, whether it’s out loud or in my head. The reality is that it’s there. I just need to find it through the fear, the waves, the sobs. And I need to find it because otherwise the sobs are all that the world will hear.
Image Credit: Hoi Ning Ngai