I abruptly became an only child. I had to spend the rest of my childhood with just mom and dad. Sometimes, I blamed him for leaving me alone. I would silently ask, ‘If you were here, would you have listened to me and helped me resolve my difficulties? Would I have been able to follow your path without any concerns?’ Of course, no response ever came.
Yet, on days I felt unbearably sad and struggled to cope, he appeared in my dreams. He always came at the close of my darkest days, offering comfort when I needed it most. Compared to other only children, I am lucky. I have memories of a complete family: mom, dad, my brother, and me living a normal life together. Still, I miss those times immensely. I miss the way he would listen to me and talk with genuine care behind jokes that always made me laugh.
For a time, my boisterous school life eclipsed the emptiness I carried within. Every joke, every whispered conversation, and every fleeting moment made me feel alive – until my closest friends transferred to other schools. Without them, classes lost their charm, hallways stopped calling my name, and lunchtime was literally a time to eat lunch, not to hang out. It was akin to what I felt when a thrilling concert was over – the world carried on, but I felt detached. Though new students arrived in place of my friends, my world had already collapsed:
I was watching life in a different time zone through a foggy window while wearing noise-canceling earphones. I barely spoke to five people out of 400 in school and mastered looking away to avoid eye contact and hellos. One day, my biology teacher, one of the five people, asked, “Are you okay?” – a simple yes-or-no question most students would automatically answer “yes”. I hesitated, then replied, “Why?” He looked at me and said, “You look devastated.” His words pierced through my silence. When he repeated “Are you okay?”, I could not bring myself to answer. All I could do was nod, then rush to the bathroom, lock the door, and cry.
For sure, I was not okay. My grades, once a source of pride and motivation, deteriorated into a blatant reminder of my shame. I was a car out of fuel. Despite oversleeping, I remained exhausted. I dreaded waking up, facing the monotonous repetition of another day. A persistent headache throbbed on the left side of my head, while my heart felt stuffy and pounding. I lost the will to do anything, stopped expecting kindness or connection from others, and abandoned hope for a brighter future. Each night, my reflection in the mirror bore swollen eyes – a proof to countless hours spent crying for reasons I could not even articulate. Within me, a massive snowball of sadness grew, refusing to melt, no matter how brightly the sun shone.
For that insurmountable snowball, frozen too firmly, time was the answer I could come up with. A day under the sun melted more than an hour could, and a week was better than a day. I decided to take a step away from school. I became like a plant – spending most days on the couch staring at the wall or on the bed staring at the ceiling. In fact, I was worse than a plant. It adjusts and uses energy efficiently. My mind, however, wasted energy spiraling in endless loops.
Slowly, after months of resting through the pain, I did not push myself to do something tremendous. I started small: waking up an hour earlier, making my bed, memorizing five vocabulary words, and reading ten pages of a book. Then, as recommended in the book I read about routines, I added running to my to-do list and forced myself to meditate while running. They gave me a sense of accomplishment and motivated me to continue – step by step, without pressure.
I started with 5 km runs, which felt exhausting. Gradually, I increased to 6 km, then 7, 8, and 9. Now, my average pace has improved, and 5 km has become an easy run for days I do not have enough time. I broke free from the box that had cast a dark shadow over my life. It was not dark because there was no light – it was dark because the box was closed. The world had always been welcoming, but I had built a wall as a barrier. I formed new relationships in my new school, psychology club, orchestra, and more. My grades improved too, sparking a renewed sense of motivation.
At first, I attributed my emotional turmoil to my brother’s absence, believing that it explained everything. I was wrong. It was not anyone else – it was me, expecting something from nothing. My stress derived from my inability to find someone to relieve it, and the accumulation only worsened my frustration. But 2024 taught me an invaluable lesson: everything happens for a reason. My battle with depression and time away from school, my first big failure that felt insuperable, was actually a turning point – a milestone in becoming an independent, strong person.
It allowed me to confront my struggles and find my own way to deal with them. I poured my emotions into my pink diary or typed them out, untangling the intricate knots of my concerns. Then, I reset my goals and made small, deliberate accomplishments to begin with – waking up early, making my bed, memorizing, reading, and exercising. As these habits strengthened my resilience, they prepared me to tackle bigger challenges – AP exam, SAT, transferring to a new school, joining clubs and bonding new relationships.
I am now ready to open my well-designed, custom umbrella when caught in life’s unpredictable heavy showers. My 2024 was like running uphill against a strong wind – it left me breathless but built my endurance. Without that wind, I would not have grown, and the run would have been dull and uninspiring. Moreover, uphills make downhills more satisfying, and each challenge builds strength for the next. Everything has its purpose. My 2024 was a painful yet necessary process – one that built my muscles, which can only protect me and generate forces if constantly strengthened.
By: Minsuh Kim
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