“And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” – The Fellowship of the Ring
By Melody Wu
Graduating Chief Financial and Print Officer
Every morning, the sun rises. Every morning, I eat two boiled eggs and a slice of toast. And every morning, my dad drives me to school. In the car, we usually talk about self-improvement. He always taught me that consistency and wisdom were the foremost foundations of what makes an individual successful—not on paper, but in life.
“In the same way the sun never fails to rise every morning, you must do the same,” he would say.
My bad attendance is not a secret to anybody. Unfortunately, the majority of my absences were due to health issues I experienced my sophomore and junior year. A lack of wisdom and foresight led me to overexert my body for the sport I loved: cross country. I would wake up every day to hustle, and while I enjoyed the activities I did, I also look back now understanding that the process was simply unnecessary. I sped through my first two years of high school; I joined a ton of extracurriculars, overcommitted, and was clearly confused about my direction.
Only later did it occur to me that always showing up, always trying my best, and always pushing myself to a dangerous limit proved in vain. I wasn’t really doing anything, while simultaneously doing everything, and this reflected in my inability to stay consistent in my pursuits as I naively ignored continuous warning signs.
“There is a time for the sun to rise, there is a time for the sun to set, the sky knows when to bid farewell.”
It’s not easy to accept that the body has limits. To actually be able to stay consistent and accomplish the goals that really mattered, I had to literally and figuratively slow down. My junior year, I remember being in the middle of a cross country race while simultaneously pondering an AP Chemistry question I got wrong a few hours prior and planning a fundraiser for my club. Then… nothing. I passed out.
I missed school the next two days. I was anemic for two years, and it wasn’t until the end of my junior year that I realized that not being able to handle my own situation was the fault of my poor planning. I had to let go, and I eventually did, but I didn’t release myself before I made it everyone else’s problem.
Yet, even with all of this frustration and mismanagement of my time and energy, I will never be ashamed of what I’ve been through. A new sunrise will appear, offering me something to hold on to as I step into uncertainty. It wasn’t for naught. I did learn, and I did grow; I just chose a much more painful way to go about it. My dad never lets me forget that despite all of this, there is no reason to be discouraged.
“I love you.”
As the sun settles on the horizon and my high school career comes to an end, I can’t help but feel a warmth all around me. I can’t see it, but its undeniable presence carves an ever-valuable, enduring enigma—hope.
Sister: “So you like the warm, fuzzy feeling of not knowing what’s gonna happen next?”
Me: “Yeah, that’s called hope.”