Fragility of Perception

"My first 5 months at Harvard felt like the darkest time of my life. I struggled with depression, I couldn't sleep, I'd never felt lonelier. 

Empty My Hands is about letting go of lies we tell ourselves. It tells us to let our dreams die, which sounds odd, but I believe it shines light on how good things – like dreams of doing well on that final exam, or being the best doctor ever – such good things can deeply hurt us when they become tied to our sense of self worth and identity.

I'm still struggling to let go, but I'm learning to ground myself in love, and in my God who is love. And I am in awe of the love that surrounds me, in my classmates, my faculty. This song is a cry from my heart to all of my dear classmates to be vulnerable with one another and seek out what truly grounds us”

Earlier this year, I spoke these words to my fellow classmates during Harvard's annual FABRIC student showcase before singing a cover of Tenth Avenue North’s “Empty My Hands”

 (Recording here: https://youtu.be/nJ86KSgzaec?t=4251). I had just come out of a dark season of depression. Moving to Boston mysteriously brought about many painful “firsts” into my life — from meeting with a mental health counselor for the first time, to dealing with insomnia, to writhing in tension headaches. My body and soul felt so battered, and for months I could not see any light at the end of the tunnel. My most precious memories from this year are of Skyping my parents and feeling the tears well up and pour out; for a moment in time, I felt known and loved.

I eventually learned to accept these burdens as mine to bear, and some of it did get better. Enraptured with triumph, I prayed my story of pain at the showcase would shine light on the hope of growth. But life never gives us a clear narrative. We embrace euphoric highs right before tragedies slap us back into despair. It's utterly confusing, and to assign cause and effect is outright impossible. Indeed, soon after the show, I experienced some of my happiest times of 2019 — reunions with best friends, introducing Mom to Boston, basking in the lovely British village countryside, and trekking in the volcanic landscapes of Iceland. Then, literally the moment I returned to wifi, I received an email that I failed the Homeostasis 2 portion of medical school and would be given one more chance to retake it. Waves of fear once more overwhelmed me, of being forced to take a gap year, of losing my scholarship. And as 2019 neared its end, new physical ailments arose, and I soon found myself in a relentless cycle of self pity and prescription drugs.

So as I reflect on 2019, I reflect on the fragility of perception. In January, my ophthalmologist told me my eye's tear gland production was so cloudy it was blurring my vision. As I adapted to seeing the world through my hazy lenses, it hit me. It wasn't just my eyesight. Every aspect of my perception was my own brain's neural interpretation of reality. And oh, how easily that interpretation is influenced. In the valleys of life, my entire reality is viewed through a lens of negativity — Boston is the last city I want to be in, teachers only see the worst in me, workloads are insurmountable. In its mountains, my reality becomes a beautiful painting — it’s the greatest joy to run along the Charles river, teachers actually make sense, I am heard and supported by friends. Understanding how intimately intertwined my perception is with life’s circumstances has one significant implication. It shakes me out of any notion of self-righteousness. 2019 was filled with more humble retakes than ever before — on career, people, myself, and God. I hesitate to ever say I truly know someone, let alone myself. I find myself weary of explaining how I feel to others, understanding how complex it is and the influence of emotion on my perception. In conversation, I often condense my past week into the simple but nuanced phrase: “It’s been hard growth, with a lot of good in between.” If perception is reality, can we ever see an objective reality when we have such innately clouded lenses? How can I truly ground my life? These questions in 2019 quietly affirm my continuous need of something beyond myself.

"To you I lift up my eyes, O you who are enthroned in the heavens!" Psalm 123:1

As we head into the new year and a new decade, I invite God to be the shaper of my perception. Ironically, this has required my perception of God to change as well. In the past, it’s been too easy for me to slap on phrases like “give thanks in all things” or “God is good all the time, and all the time God is good”. Although these are critical truths, they actually hindered me from truly engaging with a God who embraces me in my anguished heart cries. As a therapist creates a gentle space for reflection, so God yearns for us to invite Him into our thoughts with transparency and trust. Yet, in the book of Colossians, the apostle Paul speaks of our relationship with God in a very matter-of-factly way. “You are complete in Him.” “Put on the new man” he says. It's as if God has already given us His own perfect lenses and all we have to do is put them on to see clearly. How can we reconcile this simple gospel and the reality that it’s really quite difficult to live it out, to even tangibly feel God?

I believe the answer lies within the belief and hope that we are in the waiting. I do not take away from the power of the gospel — to take away my guilt and shame, to transform my affections from death to life. But I recognize the fallen nature of this earth and our bodies. For now, I am and will be subject to physical pain. To emotional distress. To spiritual dark forces. I believe God hates it when we suffer, but it is a part of this transient world. And so He asks us if we are willing to wait upon Him. To wait on Him for full deliverance. To wait on Him for emotional fortitude. To wait on Him for fullness of joy. To wait on Him for every good thing.

To that I say, O God, You are worth the wait. I may never understand every reason for why certain things happen to me, to the world. But I can say, God, I trust that I am your work in progress. I do not suppress or deny my feelings of hopelessness, or my self pity when I am in pain. Rather, I invite you into those thoughts. For You have known me since I was conceived, and You know my every future pain, yet You choose to love me. You are growing my hope in You. My hope for the day when together we say “O death where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

Therefore, I can reconcile this life’s confusing hills and valleys. For you have given us a taste of incorruption in a corruptible world. But You are indeed worth the wait, because of the victory you have already given us through Jesus. He is my reason to wait, to be unmovable, to know our labor is not in vain. I wait upon You to shape my fragile, yet tenderly made perception.