Grad photo musings

Today's sudden outburst of unstructured writing is brought to you by The Princess Diaries rerun on Netflix.

Sunday from-duty mornings when I have the condo all to myself = priceless

Let me start by explaining that The Princess Diaries was one of my absolute FAVORITE movies back in grade school. Watching it now through the eyes of a 20-something-year-old, I see how much of the way I am today was affected by this movie, along with the original book series by Meg Cabot.

If you're a fetus who doesn't understand what the movie is, or a male who previously dismissed this movie as another "chick film" and avowed to never ever see it, then I shall explain the premise. Mia Thermopolis is a super awkward, clumsy, frizzy-haired 16-year-old who suddenly learns that her father, whom she has been separated from her entire life, is actually the heir to the royal throne of the fictional European country of Genovia. The book series (and the first movie) centers on Mia's struggles with overcoming her self-doubt to accede to the throne and becoming the Princess of Genovia.

Yeah okay, off the bat, it sounds like a so-so plot. But it isn't so much the plot that mattered to me, but the characters, and how they were developed throughout the story. I relate(d?) a lot to Mia. Like her, I'm also timid, clumsy, awkward. And admittedly, I also have a pretty low self-esteem. It's entirely understandable to me that when Mia is presented with the opportunity to take on the role as Genovia's princess, her knee-jerk reaction is to turn it down, saying she's not qualified to do it. Quite logical, given that she was only 16, couldn't even pass gym class, and was terrified of public speaking. But towards the end of the movie, you can tell that everybody else who knew Mia well - her grandmother, her bodyguard, her best friend, her mother - had no doubts that Mia would excel at the job (after a bit more training and hairdressing of course). 

I relate so hard to Mia because I feel like I'm blind to my own strengths. I'm super critical of myself, and when I hear a negative comment from other people, I see it as an affirmation of what I've always been thinking of about me. Here's a very good example. 

I call myself "stupid" a lot. When I don't know the answer to something, and everyone else in the group seems to know it: Stupid. When I make a joke and nobody laughs or even notices: Stupid. When I forget my keys in the morning and I realize only when I'm halfway to school: Stupid. Stupid has become my nickname for myself. But hardly do I ever think, Smart. Kind. Diligent - all good things in myself just get drowned out by the one cold voice proclaiming, Stupid. 

Last year, I turned in my Strategic Management thesis, confident I would pass. Confident that I had done the hard work that was needed. Confident that I had it in the bag, and all I needed was to do an oral defense and I was good. But when the time of the defense came, I failed it. The panelists found my strategies "misaligned," and I had to revise my paper or risk failing the course. 

That happened exactly a year ago, and I do consider it to be one of the darkest times in my life. I don't have depression or anxiety, but at that time, I felt like I had fallen into a black hole of negativity. When I failed my defense, I felt like my worst fears about myself were only confirmed: that I was indeed a failure, that I was indeed stupid, that I was indeed worthless. It's so painful to write about, even a year after the incident. I'm actually tearing up a bit now :( But I'm pretty confident that nobody will read this far into my post, so I don't really care anymore.

Anyway, I had never felt so shitty in my life. I was always crying, but I would never let anyone see it. My workmates, who by then had already all passed their defenses and had nothing to worry about, would always ask me how I was going with my revisions. And I would put on an emotionless face and say, "I'm doing okay." But at the end of my long 36-hour duties I would come home, ready to work, and then end up in a puddle of tears at my laptop. 

It. Was. Not. Good.

But I worked through it. I don't know how, but I did. 

And I passed.

And when I passed, everyone was happy for me. My boyfriend. My family. My friends. They all smiled and hugged me and congratulated me. And that's when I realized that really, none of them doubted that I would pass. To them, me passing my StraMa was as natural and as expected as Christmas coming every 25th of December. Nobody was surprised.

No one except me. I wasn't sure I was gonna make it. I, or the dark voice in my head, had talked myself into believing that no matter what I did, I was doomed to fail. That despite my best efforts, the universe has it in for me, and that there would be no point in working hard anymore because my fate was sealed by my own innate stupidity. 

Whew. Okay, this post got dark pretty fast, didn't it?

Watching Mia now making the decision to take on the crown, I was taken back to that moment. Mia had so much self-doubt and self-loathing. Just like me, she couldn't see the good things about herself, she never realized she was capable of achieving something big. She would never do justice to the people of Genovia. She was no fit for the crown. She is the worst choice.

I think both Mia and I have a supremely annoying tendency to underestimate our own abilities. And that's why I love her so much, because she found a way to overcome that. 

A couple of days ago, I received my med school graduation picture. It's a good-sized photo, roughly the same length as my forearm, perfect for hanging on a wall in my living room. In the picture, you'll see me, wearing a yellow, green, and blue toga. Blow-dried hair hanging straight down to my shoulders, any stray strands meticulously edited out of sight. My false lashes curl up to my trimmed and shaded eyebrows, lending to the illusion that my eyes are wider and shinier than they actually are. My prominent cheeks in a perpetual state of blushing. And on my lips, two swipes of a generic drugstore lipstick in a shade that the free makeup artist thought was fitting for me. 

I found myself hanging on to the wooden frame, gazing into myself, and thinking: It's not me. I don't look like that every day. I wouldn't even know how to replicate that look on myself. My smile is crooked. My teeth are too big. My eyes are not equally sized. 

And yet...

I see a girl who went through five years of med school. Who gave up being with her family for work. Who worked hard and studied, who slacked off and watched movies, who took tests and passed them, who adopted two guinea pigs and raised them, who wrote a thesis and failed, who climbed out of a black hole of sadness, who made it to the hospitals and hated it, who took care of strangers and loved it, who got yelled at and scolded by her seniors, who shrugged it off after weeks of killing herself over it, who became part of the pioneering batch of community interns, who takes care of indigent patients and loves it, who is considering dedicating her life to primary care, who is constantly learning how to love herself and see herself the way her loved ones see her. 

That girl is me. And every day, every failure, every success, is a lesson in loving her.