It’s been a month since school started, and I survived. It wasn’t as smooth as I hoped, and it definitely wasn’t the “new beginning” I imagined last time. I have this habit of calling every fresh start “a new chapter,” like hitting refresh on a webpage, expecting everything to change. The loading time fools me into thinking something will be different, but most of the time, it’s the same page as before.

So, how’s the first month of med school been? Not easy, but not impossible either. Like I said, it wasn’t really a clean slate—I’m still dealing with all my old issues while trying to keep up with the new stuff. The frequent exams weren’t the end of the world, and I found some weird joy in studying for them. Compared to my messy life, school feels straightforward. Not saying med school is a breeze—it’s not—but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not as terrifying.

I thought being back in school would somehow fix me, like a part of me would just get better and my problems would fade. Clearly, that didn’t happen. Learning has added some balance to my life, but my issues are still here. The busy schedule doesn’t erase my worries for good; it just pauses them. As soon as exams were over, all the anxiety came rushing back. I’ve tried detours and workarounds, hoping the gaps would fill themselves, but it turns out the only way forward is straight through.

Looking back at when I said, “I’m ready,” I was confident, but I didn’t really know what I was in for until now. I expected challenges, but when they weren’t shoveling right in my face, I just assumed I could handle them with enough confidence and hard work. But the path isn’t just a constant climb—it’s more like a spiral with plenty of plateaus and dips before the next uphill.

Avoiding problems works temporarily, but they always come back. I might be better equipped to handle them later, but there’s no guarantee they won’t show up at the worst possible time, piling on when things are already tough.

“Fuck it, I’ll deal with it later” doesn’t always cut it. Sometimes, it’s more like “Fuck it, let’s dive in and see what happens.” It’s funny because those two mindsets aren’t mutually exclusive—they often coexist. Like when I dive into a challenge I’m unsure about, I have to suppress my doubts in that “fuck it, deal with it later” way just to push myself towards “fuck it, let’s go.” Sure, the “deal with it later” part might be less obvious when it comes to the challenge itself, but it pops up in other areas, shifting around and taking new forms, like doubts and uncertainties.

I can still pull myself out if I really wanted to, but I’m tired of the cycle—circling around the same gaps, reconsidering every possible solution, only to end up back in them. It’s not a comfortable process, and while I might not hate every single second, I despise most of them. I don’t know what’s ahead on this journey, but I do know it’s going to mess me up big time before anything good comes out of it.

I’m not sure if I’ll pull away because, knowing myself, I have a tendency to back off when things start feeling rough. I’m here, sitting with all this discomfort, trying to convince myself not to run—but it’s hard.

So far, I’m proud of myself for not completely retreating into my comfort zone, even though I keep jumping in and out to balance the comfort and discomfort. For October, my goal is simple: just push through the exams and aim for a slightly better life. It doesn’t need to be a “fresh start”—just 1% better than before is enough.

TLDR (5min read time): I used to roll my eyes whenever I heard the phrase “show self-compassion,” but now, if I could go back in time, I’d hug my past self. Mental health still isn’t talked about enough, and it saddens me that there’s still a stigma surrounding it. Writing and posting this takes courage, but I want whoever is reading this to know that you are not alone. Life is undoubtedly hard, and exploring who you are is incredibly difficult. If you’re facing challenges, be kind to yourself and find a safe space for your mind to rest.

Again, school starts in a few days, and my anxiety is spinning like crazy. I’ve been procrastinating on this post for a while. The original plan was to reflect on the past year since it’s been a year since I left Canada. But here we are—ideas eluded me, and anxiety got the best of me. (I’ll be posting something soon about anxiety disorder vs. regular anxious feelings. I wrote about this a few years ago, but this time it’ll be different—especially now that I’ve had the “honor” of experiencing it firsthand. Trying to keep it light, but yeah, it’s still a serious topic.)

Last year was a hell of a ride (yup, I say that every time), as some of you might already know. People asked, “Are you actually ready this time?” I answered, “I don’t know. I think so, but you know me, I NEVER know for sure.”

Over the year, I’ve learned a lot about myself—the strengths and the vulnerabilities.

What has changed since then?

Surprisingly, some of the doubts I used to have disappeared. I still have plenty of doubts about who I am, but those nagging “what ifs” are gone, leaving me with a quieter mind. It’s a scary feeling. When I used to bury my head in the sand to feel safe, the natural sunlight felt blinding at first. Am I excited about the journey ahead? Absolutely.

How to face the fear?

What I fear most is myself. I don’t know when I’ll start causing problems for myself again, or if I’ll recognize the signs early enough to soften the fall. The mistrust is so deep it doesn’t even feel like a lack of confidence. I do have confidence, but there’s still a part of me lurking in the dark, waiting to act up when the time comes. Right now, I’m building my defense system against future setbacks. The best advice I can give myself is to chill and let things unfold. Being anxious about what might or might not happen should be the last thing I do.

What’s normal?

After spending too much time figuring out how to be “normal,” I’ve realized it’s okay to differ from the norm in some areas of life. Instead of fixating on “why am I not like everyone else?” I’m learning that self-acceptance is the way to go. This isn’t me trying to be a life guru; I still struggle with it. It’s a broader issue—constantly comparing ourselves to others. Building self-esteem doesn’t happen overnight, and it’s okay to struggle with it.

What’s important?

I’ve asked this countless times in previous posts. No, getting that degree isn’t the most important thing. No, having a $100k income or making a relationship work isn’t everything. Sure, these things matter to some extent, but they shouldn’t rule my life or health. What truly matters are the basics I’ve often overlooked—sleep, diet, movement, and time with the loved ones.

What to do next?

Self-sabotage is okay. Blind confidence is okay. It’s okay to be confused, to get lost, to swing back and forth. It’s okay to label myself, and it’s okay to remove those labels when they no longer fit. Overanalyzing is okay, and so is being absent-minded. Self-criticism is okay, and criticizing my self-criticism is okay too. Right now, my priority is to build my own system as a person outside of school. It might sound far-fetched, but I’ll stick to the thing I say all the time: “Just go with the flow and see where it goes.” (The point is obviously not to encourage self-sabotage, but rather not to pile on another layer of “I’m so worried about my self-sabotaging tendencies” when you’re already dealing with the struggle itself.)

What exactly happened last year?

I won’t go into the details of what happened since people have biases. Let’s just say I experienced some burnout amid all the transitions. My body started showing signs, warning me to slow down and take a break. Yes, I have a lot of concerns and doubts about my abilities. Yes, I don’t always trust myself. Yes, I fear fucking things up. So what? I can’t change overnight, and I can’t not be myself (not in the cocky way). I’m not trying to, nor should I, fix myself—I’m learning to be comfortable with who I am. Let’s work through life slowly and gently.

When those damn crises hit again, close your eyes, take a deep breath, put on some music, and remind yourself: “Yeah, this sucks, it’s fucked up, it’s a POS. But I’ve got this. I did it once, and I can do it again, and again.”

The day before I was to leave, a phone call shattered the quiet of my afternoon—my grandmother (Dad’s side) had passed away, aged 96. The following day, I found myself stepping into a funeral home for the first time. There’s a distant, blurred memory of another visit long ago, but it’s so faint it almost feels imagined. Even though I had recently pondered the nature of death in writing, nothing could have braced me for the flood of emotions that surged through me—from the moment I heard the news to the moment I stood beside her still body.

Inside the funeral parlor, the cold air conditioning added an unnatural chill to the already somber atmosphere. People huddled close to their loved ones, engaging in subdued conversations, cracking sunflower seeds as if it were any other gathering. My grandmother lay in a glass coffin at the center, her eyes gently closed, as though merely asleep. Her presence there felt jarringly out of place, a stark contrast to the somberness that filled the room. She looked so different from the vibrant woman captured in the photos that lived in my memory—her once full frame had withered significantly since I last saw her.

As I approached her, a lump formed in my throat. It wasn’t just familial love, nor was it simple grief. It was an indescribable, tumultuous mix of emotions—a swirl of memories and the unrelenting passage of time. For me, death had always been an abstract concept, distant and removed. The word “passing” seemed inadequate to encapsulate the profound sense of loss and the emergence of emotions I hadn’t anticipated. It was a new existence in life, an inevitable lesson that life thrust upon me.

What does it mean to be family?

My grandmother and I weren’t related by blood, but a sense of belonging and identity isn’t solely forged by shared DNA. My connection to family has always been faint—a thread stretched thin between distance and closeness. I’ve never been certain of where I truly belong, and I’ve never felt a deep-rooted sense of belonging anywhere. From a young age, I was dissatisfied with my surroundings, always looking beyond them, my heart yearning for the unknown. My family members recall that before I turned ten, I loved the company of adults, always chattering and full of energy. “You’ve become quieter,” they say now, “You’ve grown up and become more reserved.” While I know in my heart that they are my closest relatives by blood, the years of unfamiliarity have left me feeling estranged. My heart is tender, yet within it, there’s an empty space that has been growing, like a void expanding, though I can’t pinpoint when it began.

In my world, many family members and friends occupy a similar space in my heart. I don’t often think of them, but when I do, the thought tightens my chest. In 2021, a friend—not particularly close, but always kind in her compliments—chose to leave this world. The last time I saw her was in the library I frequented. She waved at me, smiling as she complimented my yellow crop top. Her unique tattoos and bright smile are forever frozen in that winter. She wasn’t family, and our interactions were few, easily counted on one hand.

The impact of my grandmother’s passing feels just as strange and complex as that. Friends can become family, and family can become friends. The marks they leave on my heart vary in depth, but their essence remains the same.

What does it mean to age?

Just a few days ago, we celebrated my grandfather’s 80th birthday. His unsteady gait and my grandmother’s casual mention, “My daughter (my mom) is already 51,” brought the weight of those years crashing down on me. Not long ago, I thought of 80 as a distant milestone, an abstract number. But now, it has taken on a tangible reality. Behind those 80 years lie fragile bones, insulin imbalances, cloudy eyes with bluish rims, skin marked by age spots and wrinkles, and a widening communication gap with the younger generation.

Aging, for reasons I can’t fully explain, always carries with it a profound sadness, like an invisible countdown or a sword hanging over us. It’s as if everyone is silently aware of something unspeakable, yet no one acknowledges it openly. Instead, it manifests in other ways: the health supplements on the table, the wheelchair in the shopping cart, the travel plans hastily made, and the section of the bank account quietly set aside.

What is empathy?

I often claim I’m not skilled at empathy, yet my emotions betray me at unexpected moments. I don’t believe anyone can achieve perfect empathy. “What we ultimately understand and appreciate are things that, at their core, mirror our own experiences.” Perhaps I’m not truly empathetic, but rather adept at linking others’ experiences to emotions that resonate with my own. When someone I know passes away, it triggers a wave of feelings about the fragility of life, its fleeting nature, and the helplessness in the face of inevitable loss—emotions that demand acceptance.

These irrational thoughts and emotions might stem from a deep reverence for life, or perhaps they are instinctive responses, woven into the fabric of our being.

Is death truly frightening?

There was a time I sat by a river, watching a woman push a baby stroller, contemplating the cycles and milestones of life. We begin as children, cared for by others; then we become adults who care for children and the elderly, only to eventually return to a state of dependency in old age. It’s a vast, unbroken loop. From the moment we’re born, we carry the burden of completing this cycle. Whether we follow the well-trodden paths of others or forge our own, our lives are brief passages within this eternal cycle. Strangely, despite my frequent anxiety about my health, in many moments, I feel no fear of death at all. Often, I exist in a state of “not enough,” yet in certain moments, I find myself reaching a sense of “beyond enough.” This oscillation between “not enough” and “beyond enough” mirrors the swing between pain and exhaustion, creating a smaller loop within the greater cycle. Perhaps most people experience occasional fears of death—an intrusive thought, a reaction to internalized information from the world around us, leaving us uncertain of how to respond.

Growing up seems to mean confronting more goodbyes, more permanent farewells. In the not-so-distant future, I will inevitably face more death, both indirectly and directly. Perhaps, one day, I will experience compassion fatigue, yet the conversation about life and death is one without an end, whether it involves strangers, family, or myself.

Between a temporary goodbye and a permanent one, there lies only a longer wait.

What is it about summer that captivates the human spirit? The essence of summer seems to hold an ineffable allure. For me, summer represents freedom from the oppressive weight of winter garments and the luxury of extended, idle days spent in the rooms of air conditioning.

Many summers ago, I once wrote: “The most vivid memory is of us racing down that empty street on a summer night, my feet in sandals, glancing back to see if he was catching up.”

Now, as I revisit that sentence, the street, the race, even my own self from that time—none of it comes to mind. I’ve always prided myself on having a good memory, but today, that once cherished moment has transformed into an echoless void. It’s made me realize that memory operates in ways beyond my control. The disparity between the tangible words on the page and the void in my mind is speaking in a poignant irony.

Was there something intrinsically special about that summer? As I pondered, I found myself shaking my head: “In truth, all the summers blur into one another.” Perhaps that summer was unique, yet in retrospect, it blends seamlessly into the continuum of summers past. As adulthood settled in, summer became synonymous with picnics on grassy fields and the gentle haze of sunlit tipsiness— always chasing after something ineffable, yet somehow stumbling through the years in a daze.

Not too long ago, I wrote: “This summer is different, very different, probably the most memorable of all.” It felt as though I had finally grasped the fleeting essence of eternity and the profound juxtaposition of the ephemeral and the eternal. It was the sudden realization of both “this is it” and “this is just it.” Despite the words I wrote down, I sensed the inescapable destiny—just another summer.

I once believed that writing could immortalize experiences. But when my mind fails to revive those cherished memories, how does what’s written differ from a mere fairy tale? My deep sorrow isn’t about the events themselves, but the realization that even the most significant moments eventually fade into mundane anecdotes shared over dinner. Or worse, they vanish entirely from memory, forgotten by everyone, including the one who lived them.

So, what is summer? It has transcended being just a season; it has become an evocative image, a cornerstone of aesthetic contemplation. The mention of summer conjures vivid scenes that encapsulate its essence. Perhaps after an exceptional summer, each successive one strives to recapture the spirit of that defining moment.

As temperatures reach their peak and then gradually descend, so does the fervor of summer. Whether it symbolizes sun-drenched beaches or the vibrant pulse of life, no matter how diligently I attempt to etch every memorable moment into my mind or bestow them with special significance on paper, in the end, people disperse, leaving nothing behind and taking nothing with them.

Summer and eternity have never been nouns to describe the concept of time, but rather, measures of magnitude.

Side note: memory is highly based on repetition. The reason why I forgot that particular event was probably due to a lack of repetition. Therefore, I guess it wasn’t that significant after all. Sad, but also not sad. The nature of forgetting is very sad, but once it’s forgotten, there’s no subject for the sadness to direct towards.

Or could be that my memory ain’t that strong.

You might say: “That’s why we have cameras nowadays!” They work the same as words. They capture facts, not the moment itself.

“That’s why we need to live in the present!” Yeah, I agree.

(I’m so done with editing lol whatever it seems alright so im handing it in as my monthly writing hw)

I finally woke up from a very long dream, at least, I think I did.

Outside the window, the cicadas’ chirping drew me away, transporting me back a year. Back then, I harbored a question deep within: “Will I recall this moment in the future? When warmth embraces me again, the breeze caresses my face, and cicadas’ song fills the air?” I sensed that soon, these vivid details would blur into a single, distant memory. Countless thoughts and uncertainties would eventually untangle, condensing into a fleeting feeling while the rest faded into oblivion.

I engage in a dialogue with my past self. I assure her, “At least now, a year later, you remember. And those thoughts? You were right. Everything you envisioned has happened, the highs and the crushing lows alike. We couldn’t embrace each other then, but now, I can honestly say, it’s all fallen into place, just as you feared and hoped.”

Last summer, I circled my fears endlessly, afraid to face them yet yearning to understand them. I dreaded forgetting and being forgotten, haunted by a persistent cloud that neither rained nor allowed sunlight through. What I feared then did come to pass. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, or maybe I truly understood what lay ahead.

As I sit there, zoning out, suddenly I mutter to myself, “Ah, shit.” These memories have blurred, now condensed into a single, poignant point, anchored at my twenty-two-year-old self. Standing at my current twenty-three-year-old vantage point, I can’t fathom why it condensed to a mere point, despite my desperate resistance. I begin frantically searching for any physical evidence that my memories have actually happened.

Time is finally out of my control, despite my inner turmoil. New memories flood in, forcing the old ones to be rearranged to make room. Sorting these tales feels like organizing books on a shelf, displacing the old to accommodate the new. Sometimes, flipping through those dusty old narratives feels both achingly familiar and painfully foreign. Regardless of their beauty, the swirling dust prompts me to hastily close them after a few pages, returning them to their place. It could be impatience or resignation to the relentless accumulation of time’s dust.

Echoes from a year ago ripple through time and space to find me, leaving me both bewildered and hollow. It seems my past self had foreseen this moment, anticipating my reaction now. She wrote: “You might be judging a lot right now, thinking how young and dumb I was, struggling to process all the memories and information. But I am really, really sad and scared. My rational mind still works, so don’t worry.” She feared judgment from her future self; she was terrified of her own emotions, using rationality as a shield to feel better. In the end, I’m not judging, but my heart aches for that vulnerable self.

Reflecting on this now, I feel a sense of relief in finally confronting the questions that once plagued me, yet a profound melancholy remains—an ache for my past self, and for each fleeting story that burst like a firework and vanished. I know my tendencies; I often lose things unknowingly, realizing too late. Each time I grow fond of something, alongside joy comes the inevitable sorrow of its unknown departure. Whether it’s losing an object or losing the part of myself in affection for it, the sadness of loss is ever-present. As time progresses, regardless of what’s lost, I continue losing things, piece by piece.

Loss, ultimately, is a constant state, but the path to it is excruciating. As I stand at this new juncture, I understand that memories, like cicadas’ songs, will fade. Yet, their echoes shape who I am, with the threads of joy and sorrow, reminding me that every moment, even those lost, contributes to my life. The melancholy of loss lingers, a hauntingly beautiful shadow that walks with me, whispering of the transient nature of all things.

In simple words at the end of the article: No matter how deeply I delve into them, the themes of time passing and loss always circle back to stories and ourselves, with their essence unchanged from the very beginning.

People are strange—they love stories with sad or open endings but secretly wish for happy ones. Honestly, they all have their own appeal. They are just stories, in the end.

TLWR: revisited The Little Prince. Turning 23 in a few days, so, it’s a bday post.

When I was 13, a decade ago, I first picked up this book. At first, “The Little Prince” didn’t seem too exciting to me with its title and being labeled as “children’s literature.” But I decided to see what all the fuss was about. To me, it was just a tale about a boy and some strange creatures and plants.

Back then, it was just another book that I tucked away in my memories as okay, not amazing, but decent. I used to think the best books were the ones that made me cry, and since I rarely cry over literature, those were the ones I considered top-tier. The next level down were the books that held my attention for a long time. For instance, “A Song of Ice and Fire” took me a long time to finish. I remember thinking while reading it, “Great stories, but my parents definitely won’t approve, so I’m reading it (sort of rebelliously).” Basically, I judged books solely on their plots, without thinking too much into deeper meanings.

This year has been particularly challenging for me, prompting me to revisit “The Little Prince” as a way to reconnect with its fundamentals. Among its many themes, the one that resonated with me the most was the exploration of adulthood.

Long time ago, I often found myself pondering why all adults seemed to adhere to a similar pattern: they wore serious expressions daily and repeated the same routines without any apparent boredom. I once asked my dad why these adults didn’t opt for a life of adventure, choosing to travel the world instead of commuting on the subway to work five days a week. His response was simple: “They just can’t.” I was puzzled by this explanation.

Even at the age of 22, I struggled to comprehend the essence of adulthood. As I began contemplating the realities of life and the passing of time, I realized that I was gradually transforming into that very type of unexciting adult.

“Act your age,” they all advised. Consequently, I started concealing my daydreams, reserving a space for thoughts deemed inappropriate for my age. I increasingly engaged in adult responsibilities, despite lacking a full understanding of their significance. I suppressed the silly questions in my mind, aware that more mature individuals would likely ridicule them and urge me to adopt a more realistic mindset.

Becoming an adult entails a balance between reality and fantasy. Fantasies used to hold a greater sway over my life, allowing me to live carefree days filled with daydreams. However, as I matured, reality gradually encroached upon my reveries. I found myself swinging back and forth between the demands of reality and the allure of my fantasy world, feeling somewhat lost in the process.

People frequently reassure me, saying, “You’re still too young; you’ll understand eventually.” Whenever my impractical daydreams surface, I’m compelled to suppress them with a more rational mode of thinking. Despite my efforts to conform to adult norms and behaviors, my mindset remains largely unchanged from the moment I first posed the question, “Why are adults like this?”

As we mature, the luxury of exploring our inner child often slips away. Each passing year brings a burden of knowledge, layering complexity onto what once seemed simple and beautiful. Everyday objects like cars and houses lose their whimsical charm, replaced by calculations of worth and utility. We prioritize tangible benefits, overlooking the intrinsic value of experiences and the joy of simply appreciating life’s wonders. Our pursuit of immediate gains consumes us, leaving little room for gratitude or reflection.

In our relentless quest for certainty and measurable outcomes, we may project an image of bravery. Yet beneath this, lies a deep-seated fear of embracing our own immaturity. Are we truly becoming more mature, or are we simply too afraid to acknowledge the richness of remaining childlike in a world that demands adult responsibility?

Am I truly embodying rational adulthood in my twenties, or am I merely conforming to societal expectations? Each time I find myself needing to conform to the prescribed norms of adulthood, I experience a visceral discomfort. The act of indoctrinating myself with the “correct” adult perspectives feels like a form of mental coercion. Despite feeling a resistance in my very being, I ultimately give in to the pressure to adopt the more mature, rational, and socially accepted behaviors and beliefs.

The child within me still jumps around with excitement, hoping to see her dreams come true. In her eyes, nothing is impossible, even if the odds are slim. Most of time, they are not coming true, she would start crying over these stupid adult rules: “Why can’t we?” Yet, time and again, I always end up breaking her heart and telling her: “Sorry, but we can’t do that, we just can’t.” Now, she sometimes retreats into her own little space, living with her unrealistic daydreams, aware that I’ll always reject them.

“They just can’t,” I finally understand what my dad meant all those years ago. Am I any different? I guess not. This year, I’ve had to let go of so many things, not because they weren’t important enough, but simply because “I just can’t.”

Well, I’m turning 23 in a few days. I hate growing up, but it’s inevitable. I’ll keep carrying the weight of adult responsibilities, hoping the little me doesn’t get too disappointed in the reality.

It was a fantastic year regardless. I’m grateful for everyone who supported me and for everything I experienced. Without all of you, I wouldn’t be who I am today. So, thank you for being here. (and thanks to chatgpt for the language support lol.) Until the next time :))

Love,

Lin

TW & TLWR: talked about death, which might trigger some people’s anxiety. read with caution and don’t take words too seriously. stop reading if you feel uncomfortable. a very incoherent piece of bs that’s gonna take you 5 minutes to read at a speed of 300 words per min.

General flowchart: an okay intro → stuff i saw online → personal identity and psychology → ethics of death → a random summary and a few extra points

Today, i’m diving into something swirling around my head, though I’m not exactly sure what it is. This writing might come out a bit jumbled because my thoughts are all over the place.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about death, not in a gloomy way or anything. I did some googling on the topic, and I have to admit, reading and watching stuff about it made my heart race for a bit. I guess that’s what they call an existential crisis. One thing every human eventually faces is death. It’s like this big mystery nobody really knows about. I asked some friends my age about what they think about death, if it scares them or why. Turns out, a lot of them fear not being able to see the future or being forgotten.

Back in the day, I used to complain about how long life seemed, assuming I’d live till 80. I felt stuck in this never-ending routine, even though I was barely 10 and didn’t know much. But now, bam, I’m already in my twenties, and life doesn’t seem that long anymore. Still though, I hate monotonous life like sisyphus rolling his stone. Yeah, I get it, I have to accept it, it’s just annoying.

I can’t help but wonder what the point of it all is. It’s one of those questions everyone asks themselves at some point, but you never really get a satisfying answer. Out of curiosity, I looked up people’s near-death experiences and what it feels like to be in a coma. Obviously, those aren’t real death, but it gave me a glimpse of what it might be like. Personally, I once blacked out for a few hours after a bike accident (probably had a mild concussion). It was just like others described: a rush of adrenaline followed by nothingness. No pain, no memories, just blank. I guess it’s that emptiness that freaks people out the most.

There’s a ton of stuff connected to death, but I’m only gonna talk about a small part: identity, psychology, and ethics.

You can’t talk about death without talking about life and why we’re here. When you really dig into it, you end up with stuff like existentialism, nihilism, absurdism, and some religious stuff (important but too broad, so I’m skipping it). I’ve bounced around between these different ways of thinking, but right now, I’m kinda sitting between existentialism and absurdism: life is absurd but still gotta create some meaning to it. What does it mean to live? Well, it’s everything from meeting your basic needs to finding your purpose. Why do we live? Probably ’cause we have to, but also ’cause we wanna chase that dopamine hit however we can. To really live your best life, you gotta figure out who you are.

Someone once asked me to define what makes a person, what sets them apart from everyone else. I’ve had this dumb theory since I was a kid: a person is just a mix of possibilities from all the possibilities out there. We’re shaped by all sorts of factors, some of which we control and others we don’t. So basically, we’re a mix of genetics and experiences, all rolled up into one. Sure, we’re all unique in our own way, but when you really think about it, there’s always gonna be someone out there who’s kinda like you.

Then there’s the whole question of whether we stay the same person over time. People change all the time, but can you really change someone else? There are these two extremes: the body theory, which says it’s all about your physical self, and the soul theory, which talks about some unexplainable soul thing (i don’t believe in it but i don’t hate the idea). Everything else such as brains, personalities, and memories lay somewhere in between. I won’t go into details about how each works, my conclusion is they all contribute a little into a personal identity – we change and we don’t change depending on the situation.

Consider this: Imagine someone undergoes a significant shift in personality due to a traumatic brain injury or another life-altering event. Are they still the same person they were before? If not, does that mean the person they used to be has essentially “died” Perhaps we can accept minor changes as a natural part of life, but where do we draw the line? At what point do these changes make someone unrecognizable to their own family? And how much can we trust our own perceptions of who someone truly is?

It’s pretty obvious that what really matters to us as a person lies somewhere around the brain area. One question I love asking myself is: how do you know if you are you, not someone else? Let’s take an extremely specific scenario:

Person X and Person Y were close friends despite their differing beliefs. One fateful day, they were kidnapped by a mad scientist who had a bizarre experiment in mind. This scientist somehow managed to swap X’s thinking and reasoning skills with those of Y. Although X retained all of his memories and personality traits, he found himself thinking like his best friend Y, even on matters they used to disagree on. X pondered over this strange turn of events, attributing it to their close bond.

As the experiment continued, the scientist proceeded to strip away one aspect of X’s personality and memory each day, replacing it with Y’s. Eventually, X’s body contained all of Y’s information, and vice versa. Despite this complete exchange of traits, X and Y were still considered alive, albeit swapped, without any physical brain replacement occurring.

However, the scientist decided to take things further by discarding all of X’s memories and personality traits, along with Y’s body, into a junk machine. Only Y’s memories and personality remained within X’s body. In this scenario, it could be argued that X had effectively “died,” as his essence was replaced entirely by Y’s.

Now, onto the ethical stuff about death. We’re talking about things like abortion, the death penalty, suicide, euthanasia, all that heavy stuff. Morality is all about figuring out what’s right and wrong, but most of the time, there’s no clear answer. The ethics of death involve things like when we say someone’s dead, who gets to decide when someone dies, and how death affects everyone around them.

The reason it’s so hard to agree on this stuff is because everyone’s different, and death is kinda final. When someone dies, it doesn’t just affect them, it affects everyone around them too. Take, for example, a person fell into a deteriorating locked-in state (they couldn’t move or speak at all, but had consciousness), and they wanted to keep living but couldn’t express their desire. The doctor told their family all the possible treatments and outcomes, one of them included minimal treatment and extubation. Then, the family decided to go with minimal treatment. In this scenario, everyone played a role in the death decision process except the person themself. There are many other scenarios that are frequently debated in deciding who gets to do what and where the line should be drawn to mark life and death. (Well, Elon Musk’s chip might change this scenario, but you get what I mean here.)

My head is hurting, so imma wrap it up here.

It’s kinda wild to me how we can all have such different opinions but still agree on some basic stuff. We all go through life forming our own identities, but when it comes down to it, we’re all searching for meaning in one way or another. Then, when we encounter either real or fake scenarios that are linked to life and death, we react in similar ways: curiosity, fear, anxiety, grief, helplessness, etc.

Life’s gonna throw some curveballs our way, like physical decay and loneliness, but that’s just part of the ride. Maybe things will change in the future with all this fancy technology, but one thing that won’t change is that humans are born alone. Don’t dwell on it too much, just enjoy the ride. Just a few weeks ago, I was unsure about the whole concept of building a family, but now I get why it’s a thing.

So yeah, life and death might seem pointless in the end, but the journey’s where it’s at. And who knows, maybe I’ll find my own way to happiness instead of following our ancestor’s old path. But hey, marriage and kids might still be in the cards for me ’cause I love doing human stuff. (actually, 98.99% of chance i will be following our ancestors lol)

Also, there might be a way to achieve immortality one day, but I’m not sure if that’s gonna be a good thing. Plus, I’m probably not going to see it happening in my lifetime → none of my business. But anti-aging and other science researches are very cool. (lol not me going an extra mile to be as neutral as possible)

Thanks for listening to my ted talk today. Catch you next time, and remember to find joy in living.

Love,

Lin

tmi but kinda good to know:

https://www.acpjournals.org/doi/10.7326/M23-1361

TLWR: Explored what love is for a bit, and concluded that it’s complicated. The writing is all over the place, so it’s not going to be an easy read 😬 (Even AI told me to improve my structure coherence to make it more reader-friendly, oh well… LOL.)

What is love? Is it specific or general? What makes people fall in and out of love? Is it arranged through a specific combination of events? Does it precede actions, or are actions the catalyst for its emergence? Consider the unique bond between a mother and child – does love evolve before or during and after pregnancy, and why are there exceptions where a mother may not love her child? Furthermore, if an individual develops love for someone after a period of time and specific conditions, is it conceivable that the same combination of circumstances with a third individual would yield a similar affection?

I made several attempts to tackle this topic, facing the challenges due to its complexity. Despite feeling a bit inadequate in terms of knowledge, I decide to take a shot at writing about love, especially with Valentine’s Day coming up soon. While my discussion predominantly revolves around human-to-human love, it’s worth noting that many of these reflections can be extended to encompass the human-non-human connections, be it an affection for a pet or a fervor for a hobby.

To dig a bit deeper into what love is, the English concept of “love” can be understood to some extent through the lens of the Greek terms—eros, philia, and agape. (skip the gray box if don’t need the background info and credits to IEP and SEP.)

To sum it up, love encompasses various forms beyond the three mentioned. The ongoing debates about the superiority of one form over another are not a path I choose to tread, recognizing the subjective nature of this emotion.

Definition and nature of love

Distinguishing love from other personal attitudes, such as liking, poses a question that often involves considering factors like constancy and commitment. While these criteria offer valuable insights, it remains a challenge to categorize every case neatly within a singular set of standards. Consider this illustration: an individual may find themselves entwined in a perpetual and committed relationship, yet the essence of love remains absent from their experience. Conversely, the inverse holds true as well — one might encounter the fleeting and transient embrace of love, escaping its grasp as swiftly as it arrived.

Many assert that love inherently embodies selflessness and empathy, yet uncovering the relationship between love and these attitudes is crucial. The key lies in discerning the direction of selflessness and empathy within the context of love. Take empathy, for instance; its manifestation can vary significantly between the one expressing it and the recipient. The perceptual differences between individuals can lead to diverse understandings of love. What one perceives as an act of love may be interpreted differently by another. Furthermore, attempting to standardize these attitudes from an observer’s perspective becomes nearly impossible. While someone may declare their empathy based on commonly accepted standards, true empathy is inherently personal to the giver. Similarly, defining selflessness proves elusive and is subject to individual interpretation. One can claim their selflessness while being perceived as an act of selfishness by another individual. The critical question arises: are selflessness and empathy sufficient for the creation of love? Can love still exist in the absence of these two components? This complexity challenges the notion of a one-size-fits-all definition of love, encouraging a more diverse exploration.

Love is comparable to a double-edged sword, embodying a duality. On one side of this emotional spectrum lie the realms of happiness, excitement, and contentment — positive emotions that elevate the human experience. These emotions create a heightened expectation, an anticipation that love, in its various forms, will bring about a perpetual state of joy and fulfillment. These expectations are intertwined with positive experiences, whether acquired through real-world interactions or mediated representations in various forms of media. However, on the flip side, when these expectations encounter the stark reality of unmet desires or the unfortunate loss of a loved entity, love transforms into a source of profound sadness, disappointment, and grief. The dissonance between the idealized expectation and the often imperfect reality gives love its paradoxical nature, where its potential for joy is entwined with the possibility of heartbreak. This dual nature underscores the sensitivity of love to external circumstances, emphasizing its vulnerability to the fulfillment or denial of expectations, thereby shaping the positive or negative emotional outcomes.

Like many other feelings, rather than existing as a static and unchanging emotion, love reveals itself as a dynamic force that intricately weaves through the human existence in various cyclical patterns. One prominent manifestation is observed in familial love, an intergenerational transmission of affection that forms a continuous cycle within families. Moreover, individuals may cultivate a profound sense of self-affection as a response to the perceived lack or insufficiency of it. This self-love, however, is not immune to the intrusion of doubts, which may emerge as individuals grapple with internal conflicts or insecurities. These doubts, acting as subtle disruptors, contribute to a gradual weakening of the positive feelings associated with self-love. The cyclic nature of love, depicted through familial and self-oriented contexts, underscores its adaptability and responsiveness to the ever-changing circumstances of life. Love’s ability to evolve and transform based on experiences emphasizes its profound impact on human emotions, as individuals navigate the interplay of fulfillment and deprivation in the realms of affection and self-regard.

The question of whether love is innate or shaped involves an examination of emotional responses and individual perceptions. Love’s complexity becomes evident as it is not universally defined, with individuals varying in their emotional reactions to specific stimuli. The subjective nature of love is further emphasized by the role of perception and interpretation. While certain emotional responses may have biological roots, the reciprocal aspect of love, often fostered by the belief in mutual affection, introduces a relational dimension. Another external scenario involves the recipient’s role in shaping the process of love. A notable example is in developmental studies that explore how the parent-child relationship influences a child’s future capacity to maintain relationships. This interplay between innate predispositions and external influences highlights the uniquely evolving nature of love in each individual’s life journey.

In contemporary society, the pursuit of love reflects an inherent longing for emotional connection. The dynamics of falling in and out of love are influenced by various factors: 1) the fulfillment of fundamental needs such as reproduction and intimacy, and 2) the pursuit of higher needs like companionship and self-fulfillment. Notably, when these needs go unmet, the likelihood of falling out of love increases, emphasizing the relationship between individual expectations and the multifaceted nature of love, as previously noted. Is falling out of love equivalent to being selfish? Maybe a little. It’s like a defense mechanism provided by our mind and body to protect us from further dissatisfaction or pain, which isn’t a bad thing under some situations (not including immoral behaviors here). Morality is another super topic that I’m scared to step into, so I will skip it for now. While the reasons for experiencing love seem apparent, the underlying causes of establishing loving relationships remain somewhat elusive. It could be rooted in a biological imperative for increased security, or it may represent a psychological yearning, transcending physical love and embodying a more profound form of emotional connection.

Finally, the question arises: is love a universal experience? There is no one particular definition works for every case. But in terms of the feeling itself, I argue in favor of its universality, much like many other human emotions. Despite the environmental influences and innate factors, the essence of love remains constant. It may manifest differently from person to person or in relation to various subjects, yet its core essence remains unaltered. This mirrors the universality of suffering; though categorized into different forms and degrees, subjectively, the pain an individual feels from losing a cherished teddy bear can equate to the anguish of losing a loved one. Hence, the elusive nature of love defies measurement or strict definition, allowing each person to experience a unique type of love that may not be universally acknowledged.

Let me succinctly summarize the key points in this messy passage. Love exhibits a dual nature, yielding both happiness and sadness, a duality rooted in our expectations, which are shaped by environmental influences, whether actively or passively acquired. Moreover, love operates in a cyclical manner, displaying both conservative and fluid dynamics, influenced by both innate interpretations and external factors. Finally, the universal craving for love, driven by both biological and psychological factors, hinges on various elements, including the fulfillment of needs, shifts in personal perception, and the dynamic nature of love itself.

At the very end, I can hardly conclude or answer anything. In essence, the questions about love prompt an exploration of the dynamics at play, urging me to move beyond rigid classifications and embrace the fluidity inherent in the human emotions. It beckons me to appreciate the uniqueness of each expression of love, acknowledging the diverse ways individuals perceive and experience this profound emotion.

Anyway, I’m simply an observer and a pattern-finder, trying to make conclusions based on some social phenomena and personal experiences, aaand maybe a tiny bit of research. After this long-ass not-so-bs passage, I’m just going to click submit and rest for another month LOL. Thank y’all for stopping by and making it this far to the end. Happy Valentine’s!

Love,

Lin <33

The dawn of 2024 has arrived. Time for some reflection. (Though I do it all the time LOL.)

Keywords of 2023: love, mental health, self-growth, and goodbyes.

I held high expectations at the close of 2022, completely unaware of the challenges that awaited, little did I know…

I tumbled out of love, grappled with anxiety and insecurities, and lost trust in myself. I constructed a self-imposed prison, trapping myself in constant guilt and rage, making the tail of 2022 the darkest period of my time.

I questioned the essence of love repeatedly, constantly seeking validation and pondering the authenticity of my feelings as potential alternatives to my insecurities.

I dove into a phase of distraction, engaging in endless swiping and enduring boring small talks to numb myself. Love lost its appeal, and I sought validation as a lifeline to ease the pain of my self-created prison.

I got into medical school, achieving the seeming “dream,” that became the straw I clung to for escaping the literal prison of my own making. I was resolute, yet apprehensive about the unknown future. Little did I anticipate the consequences of the decision I would make four months later.

I fell in love unexpectedly, blurring boundaries in a relationship that defied existing definitions—a unique interactionism within the contemporary dating landscape. Once more ensnared, I found myself lost in contemplation, unraveling the mysteries that lie beneath the surface of love.

I experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows, feeling the adrenaline rush of the golden hour and confronting extreme sadness amid the hustle between the outer world and the devastation within.

I bid farewell to the most difficult goodbyes, the kind that lingered in my thoughts for months — seven years of my life, the people and things I held dear, and a significant part of who I was.

I faced doubts stemming from life transitions and heartbreaks, struggling to recognize myself. I embarked on a long journey of finding myself, navigating through challenging days and nights as a walking hollow vessel—emotions passing through without leaving a mark.

I forged a deep connection with the outer world, learning the essence of self and the right way to love others and myself. I discovered the importance of keeping passion alive in today’s mundane world, emerging as a new and better version of myself after an extremely difficult process.

In 2023, I shed more tears, laughed harder, became more vulnerable, and loved more deeply than ever before. It was a year of adventures, a mix of gentleness and madness, love and heartbreaks, pushing me toward a higher plane of existence. As someone who used to struggle with goodbyes, I learned to bid farewell with courage.

At the beginning of 2024, I say goodbye to 2023, grateful for the lessons and the shaping it provided. Thank you, 2023, for taking care of me. (TBF, it was a nasty year LOL.)

I guess I do live for loving and being loved for a little bit more.