The light that lives within

I’d like to think that I’ve done many hard things in life: I moved to a new country; I learned to speak English fluently in a household that did not; I got accepted into the college of my dreams as a first generation student. But learning to love myself was the hardest thing I’ve ever learned to do.

Growing up in an Asian household, compliments rarely existed. Loving myself did not exist because I was not taught or shown how to love. The words exchanged were often a request to help out or a critique of how to do a certain thing better. When I thought something was good, my grandma always taught me how to make it better. 

My grandma’s income was a direct product of the number of clothes she sewed each day. I saw this for myself, as I sat adjacent to her on a cardboard box in lieu of child care. More was always better and, in a way, these experiences helped me learn to never settle for less. My grandma’s influx of corrections eventually molded me into becoming a detailed oriented person and one who works hard to make things happen, because I was expected of nothing less. It was a different form of love that was abundantly shown. Yet the expectation that I always had to strive for more made me a person who was continuously unsatisfied. I could always get better grades or do more extracurriculars. And as I got older, this changed how I thought of my appearance, too. 

It wasn’t until I turned 20 that I started to learn what “self love” meant. It started when I spent two weeks on the 20 floors of 33 W 42nd St. Unlike most places, the University Eye Center was a place I already felt at home. Home to me was New York City, and so the hustle and bustle of the clinic floors in the middle of Manhattan was a natural rhythm I quickly adjusted myself to. Spending time on the clinic floors rather than lecture halls reminded me of the competence I had as an individual and future clinician. This experience filled me with hope. The optometry students reminded me that, above any of the high standards I had defined for myself, my curiosity and passion in learning was more than enough. I had shown up, asked questions and demonstrated that I cared. 

I never expected to fall in love with optometry. But optometry showed me that when one door closes, another one opens. It showed me what it meant and felt to be a part of a community that uplifted one another. Having the opportunity to be a part of the community showed me the extensions of optometry beyond a diagnosis and treatment. There was a realm of health care policy, public health, research and innovation that I had yet to explore. 

In an open house session, Dr. Guilherme Albieri — Vice President of Student Affairs at State University of New York College of Optometry — gave an analogy that struck me. He compared hyperopia in vision (the ability to see far but not up close) to the way students like myself often saw goals. Worrying so much about my future was hindering the potential achievements I could be making along the way. But just like most refractive errors, they could be corrected. I had to work on the way I thought of myself and take it day by day. To love myself was to start believing in myself from within.

In learning what it meant to care for others, I began to understand the importance of caring for myself. Unlike the past two years during which I tried to find happiness in achievement, I turned inward and started prioritizing myself. I made time to read books and dance again. These hobbies weren’t a waste of time. Making time to do glissades and jetés across the floor helped take my mind off the daily stresses of university life and re-energized me outside the barre. As much as I worked on my balance in relevé, finding balance in my own life was the ultimate key to what I defined as success. I started prioritizing time with friends, the people who saw me for who I was without disguise. 

When I was down, I leaned on my big (Willie) physically and emotionally to remind me of my light within. He supported me unconditionally with patience and held me as I cried until my eyes became swollen. He reminded me of all those future eyes that were waiting to be saved. His unwavering acceptance of myself became a light that stayed when it felt close to burning out. It takes a village to raise a person, but it only takes one to remind another to stay. 

As I learned, love exists in many forms. My grandma showed her firm love in teaching me to become a competent individual. My big showed up and stood with me in the darkest of times and reminded me of how strong I was. Optometry and dance showed me the ways in which the things I love can also be shared with others. Making time for the things that made me feel loved helped me learn to love myself in my own light. 

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

Anne Li is a junior from Brooklyn, N.Y. majoring in Psychology.