Statistically speaking, how likely is it that anyone will ever find their soulmate?
Sure, it’s probably possible, but just how possible? There are what, like, seven billion people on the planet? Most of which are living in completely different parts of the world and who you will most likely never meet.
So really, is it feasible that somehow you and your “soulmate” would end up in the same place at the same time, and then go on to fall in love forever? Is that even a thing?
Is there really a way that two people could be destined for only each other?
Maybe this seems like a pessimistic outlook on things, but I like to think of it as an abstractly optimistic approach.
Think about it this way: if there are billions of people in the world, the chances of finding your one perfect person are extremely small. But that also goes to show that the chances of finding someone to fall in love with are just as large.
Love and relationships are all about compatibility, right? So, seeing just how many humans there are, there could be thousands of people out there who are potentially compatible with you.
So, even if it seems hopeless, there really are plenty of fish in the sea. Seven billion fish, to be exact.
But hey, what do I know? This is coming from somehow who looks forward to the day after Valentine’s day because of the discounted chocolate prices.
Dear Unknown, for letting me take a load off of my heart and mind, and be selfish.
School, for forcing me to wake up and do something with my time and dig deeper.
The color gray, for being happy, sad, and beautiful.
Snacks and study breaks, which go hand in hand.
The bruises I earned.
The days that I feel productive.
The days that I feel okay with myself.
The days that I feel happy.
There is so much I could put down, but for now this is what I’ll share. There is too much in life that I take for granted, there is too much that I don’t thank you for. So this is my big “thank you” for the things and people in my life that don’t hear it enough.
When we were kids, we spent the entire summer in the pool.
We would bounce around in the water for hours on end, using our feet to push off the sides so many times that we would get blisters on our toes. By the time we got out, pruned and sunburnt, our feet would be bleeding from scraping them on the concrete so much. But we didn’t care. Mom called it pool toe.
I remember how we used to eat breakfast as fast as we could, and then we would play rock-paper-scissors to see who got to jump in first. We swam from morning until night, only pausing for a lunch break of watermelon and pretzels.
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Your hands always shriveled up faster than mine did. You used to tell me it meant we were turning into fish, and I was convinced it was true. You also swam faster than I did, but sometimes, if I was lucky, you’d let me win some of our races.
Whenever there was a breeze it would get too cold in the water. To warm up we’d haul ourselves out of the pool and lay with our stomachs down on the concrete deck, like lizards on rocks.
I remember my tangled, sun bleached hair, and the smell of the special shampoo Mom made me use that prevented it from turning green from the chlorine. I remember family commenting on how bloodshot my eyes were, but I wasn’t bothered. I didn’t mind if my eyes were a little bit red and sore, so long as I could avoid the inconvenience of strapping on goggles.
We had changing lights for when we swam at night. I would stand on the diving board, staring down into the water below. The green water meant there were alligators lurking; so I obviously couldn’t jump in, for danger of being eaten. Blue meant sharks, so once again there were some risks. But when the water was pink, it was clear of all man-eating creatures, so it meant I was free to dive in.
When we were kids, we thought days like those would last forever.
I miss it. When we didn’t care if our fingers were shriveled up like prunes, or if our noses were bright red and peeling, or if we had pool toe.
Last year Liu Yifei was cast as Mulan, Kelly Marie Tran became the first Asian American lead in a Star Wars movie, Bangtan Sonyeondan – better known as BTS – became the very first K-artist, besides PSY, to ever win a Billboard Music Award and the first K-group to ever perform at the American Music Awards and Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. BTS also continue to break their own records in the Billboard standings and seem to only be growing in popularity.
Photo Credit: billboard.com
Only a month into 2018 Asian representation is looking up and just a couple of days ago BTS again made history as the first K-group and second K-artist ever to earn a RIAA Gold CertificationRIAA Gold Certification for their remix of their son “Mic Drop” with Japanese American DJ Steve Aoki and rapper Desiigner; and just today (February 4) Chinese Canadian singer Kris Wu became the first Chinese Artist to ever preform at the Superbowl Half-Time Show.
Photo Credit: nerdist.com
These examples are just a couple of the milestones that have been met in just a short amount of time. Hopefully these two events this year, and several from late last year, are indicative of how the rest of this year, and the future, will go on the Asian/ East Asian Representation front.
I used to think we were, but I also used to think that you told me everything. I thought you trusted me. It wasn’t until recently that I found out I was wrong.
I’ve always been aware of just how different we are but that never mattered to me. I would do just about anything to relate to you. The older I get the more I understand that we are different people.
Your friends are nothing like my friends and for the past four years it seems like you would rather be with them than with me whenever possible. Why do you choose to be close with certain people, why do you try so hard to be like them?
Sometimes I feel like we’re making progress, and then the next day I feel like you’re more distant than ever.
I want you to care about me. I want you to like me. And I know that you do, but you show it so rarely that I almost always forget.
So when you do little things like not inviting me places or blocking me on social media – things that normally wouldn’t bother me coming from people I don’t care about – it feels like betrayal.
Even when you are so unkind and when you act like you don’t care, I always forgive you. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to forgive, but I want you to accept me so badly that I pretend not to be bothered.
Sometimes I think you don’t have very good judgement and it scares me. I worry that you don’t take care of yourself. I worry about you more than you know.
When you let me in it means the world. When you shut me out it makes me feel like I don’t matter. And you don’t even realize it.
Maybe it will be better when we’re older. Maybe I’ll just have to accept that we’re different people, that we have different goals and different views. Maybe I just care more than you do, maybe I shouldn’t care so much.
The memory of you fades more and more each day I grow older.
What I remember is the crashing waves against the sandy coast lines of Malibu.
The wind blowing into my hair from the rolled down windows.
The blinding sun shimmering in my eyes, and I’d squint hoping it’d go away, unaware of how I’d long for the feeling again in the near future.
The bright blue sky in the distance.
The cheeseburgers that somehow always tasted better near the ocean
The laughter in my heart, and my squeaking voice as I’d sing off key to my favorite Abba songs with you and Rachel.
There wasn’t a care in a world during those moments, but they never lasted long anyways.
I remembered the endless nights just as clearly as the endless days.
The hours of screaming. The hours of crying.
The secondhand cigarette smoke and uncleaned bedrooms.
The weekends moving from your place to dad’s.
Child support money being gambled away on lottery tickets, and gas money for late night drives when I’d rather be sleeping.
One day I was pulled out of school early. I said goodbye to my friends, to my crush, and to my teacher, unaware that I’d never see them again.
Unaware that I’d never step into a school building again until fifth grade.
Unaware that I’d never live the life I longed to have until you weren’t there to experience it with me.
I never said goodbye. May 14th you made a promise to get better, but you never kept that promise for me or my sister. You left me, and never came back. Sometimes I see you in the crows that’d never leave me alone, and they’ve always annoyed me, but I’d take their beauty for granted because I never knew what it meant.
I blame you for leaving me. I blame you for worrying about the relationships in your life that constantly broke your fragile heart more than your own daughters who loved you more.
Photo Credit: Tumblr
I hate you for never being the mother I always wanted to have.
I was ten years old. I’ll never have a mother to help do my hair for my senior prom. Instead, you chopped it off to my ears when I was nine, and left a curse on me so it’d never grow back.
You left me.
I’d never have a mom to meet my first boyfriend, to move me into college, to watch me go to law school and take on the world I always craved to explore. I have aunts, but is that really the same?
It’s been six years. All you are to me is a faint memory. A small memory, similar to a memory of passing smoke in the air. The same smoke that’d leave your lips. The same smoke from a habit you never really broke.
But you, my mother, are everything I loved and hated at the same time.
You are the sound of my favorite band, and the warmth I felt when I finally hugged them for the first time. You are the stars in the galaxy; the ones I don’t look at enough, but I know they’re always there. You’re the scent of oceans on a summer day, and the sweetness of my favorite cookies.
But you’re also the sound of terrifying police sirens coming to get me when I know I’m safe in my bed. The vision of snarling fangs glowing from a beast growling under their breath. The thought of betrayal; when those I love most don’t love me back, but you did.
At least I thought you did. You’ve told me so many times, but did I believe you? I always wanted to, but love is such a frightening concept to me that I can’t recognize even when it’s right in front of me. I can’t appreciate it like other people do when they love their own family, boyfriends, or best friends.
You’ve made me into who I am today. You’ve lit the match that sparked the fire in my soul. You made me appreciate music. You made me curious about the world. You gave me happiness in the smallest ways even when we didn’t have much.
But you also ruined me. You isolated me from the world, and when I returned to it I was fearful. It took me so long to learn how to communicate again, how to express myself, and even then I’m not sure if I’ll ever have the same, fiery spirit I had when I was a kid full of happiness and innocence. You made me closed off, and I might never forgive you for it. I can never fully place my trust into someone else’s hands, because it’s already been destroyed by yours.
But I thank you, Mother. You gave me life, though a part of it died with you.
But even then, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Do I miss you? No. Do I miss the thought of what you could’ve been? The thought of having a mother to watch me grow up? I miss that everyday.
So, Mom, I hope you’re happy up in Heaven. I never really believed in God, but I know you did, and I hope you’re happy there if that’s where you wished to be. Because after all the pain, the sadness, the tragedies, and heartbreaks you’ve been through, all I wish for you is happiness.
I know who the love of my life is. But I haven’t met him yet.
I know that he will love music and maybe play the guitar and we’ll both know how to speak Spanish. He will want to travel the world and he will care about conserving resources and the environment.
He’ll be intelligent and insightful and probably a democrat.
My parents will love him and he will get along with my brothers.
When I ask him to go on a road trip at 2 P.M. on a Saturday he will pack a bag and we’ll be driving by 3. He’ll like being outside. He’ll be good at climbing trees.
image via pinterest.com
We will have long discussions about the fate of the world and we’ll never get bored. He’ll know exactly what to say and exactly what not to say.
He will love the beach and will make me laugh until I cry.
We will listen to each other. He will dance with me in the living room, even if there’s no music.
I don’t know his name and I don’t know exactly what he looks like.
But I know he’s out there. I just hope he finds me, and that I’m the one he’s looking for.
The audience hushes as the red, velvet curtains slowly open. There is only a single, shining light poised on a girl. Her tight ringlets framing her face fall out of her rigid ballerina bun. Her soft, lilac dress glistens in the beam. Her big, green eyes glitter.
With a fast, sharp note from a hidden violin, the girl raises, kicking her leg straight in the air, while rotating her pointed foot, still on the ground. Her pointe shoes move in a flurry, fluttering left and right across the stage.
A minute later, her feet finally meet in a plié, as she bows and scurries off the stage. I am the first to stand up and cheer for the girl, my daughter. I meet her smiling face in the hallway, after the performance, bringing her into a warm embrace and handing her an outrageous bouquet of white roses. My eyes well up at the sight of her. I snap a picture to remember this moment.
My pride and joy. My little girl. My partner in crime. My little ball of sunshine.
Photo Credit: pinterest.com
I cannot see into the future, see what job I’ll have, see where I’ll call home. My crystal ball is currently out of order. However, I’ve never seen my life without a child, without a family. I can’t see all the holidays, filled with scrumptious meals and plenty of presents, without a husband and daughter; the winter days with warm sugar cookies fresh out of the oven; crudely-drawn crayon masterpieces covering the fridge and the Polaroids of every little moment lining the hallways.
I dream of my son asking someone to go to prom, my daughter’s soccer team going to play-offs. I can see my son going on tippy-toes to shove a bundle of Christmas cards into the mail, snow falling on his button nose, turning his skin pink. I want to help my daughter learn to walk in heels, laughing as she trips over her own feet.
I see this future as I write letters to my future children, as I jot down names in my phone. I see it in the pride in my uncle’s eyes as he saw his daughter graduate college. I see my future in the plethora of Facebook posts from my aunt.
So, I don’t know what my future holds, nor do I want to. Maybe I’ll score a job as an astronaut or an author, but I do know that what I want, more than anything, is a family of my own that I can celebrate the news with.
On the paper/computer application in front of you is me, or at least all you get to see of me before you deem me good enough or not.
It takes you 650-1000+ words for you to supposedly understand who I am, who I know myself to be and who I want to be. Yes, I wrote the words, I told you the stories, I’ve built from what I have in me, who I think I’m supposed to be. I’ve compressed seventeen years of life into eight or nine paragraphs expressly for your viewing pleasure.
But, reader, this one is different, this one will tell a different story because what you don’t see in the typical “What have you done to better your community” and “What is your passion” supplements (which have a strong undercurrent of “be impressive, we’re watching you”), are the long nights, the tears and disgusting tissues, the pacing, the self-judgment, the pain of feeling so insanely inadequate that every achievement feels like a trivial pursuit or worse- a lie.
Painting Credit: Antoine Stevens
I’m here to tell you that I am more than just 1000 words. I am an incomplete but also fully whole person, and that I have not a f*$%^&g clue who I am, who I’m going to be.
I feel as if for the past six months I have been folding, bending, and working against every instinct I have to somehow force myself into a two dimensional version of myself.
I don’t blame you reader because you will remember that I am a person — a breathing person who worries and is bad at things, who is vain, loves shopping and small trivial things, is selfish and is trying all the time to be good enough for my friends, family, and the opportunities I’ve been granted — behind that application. I hope.
I have hidden behind pseudo-confidence and humor the fact that I am terrified of not being as good as I think I am, that my secret fear, that everyone lies to me when they say I’m good at something to spare my feelings, will be true.
I am terrified to have my future rest in the hands of someone else, because it rests in your hands. I’m scared that what you see on those applications is not the best me because I couldn’t get the right words out.
If I’m completely honest with you, reader, applying to college has made me feel like crap. Everyone else seems to have things figured out, they’re writing easy but I can’t remember how it was to breath without feeling like an anvil is sitting on my chest, without typing triple letters because my hands are shaking so badly.
I don’t know what I want and I don’t know what you and the college you represent want, but I just pray that I am what you want.
I hope that my sleepless nights, my years of homework, my work, my words, my bending and near breaking, my near misses, my wins, my losses, all my books, my stories, my short mostly un-lived life is enough for you, even if you don’t get to see all that in my edited, word pinched application.
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