This Friday, I am anchored in restlessness.
I have a journey to Seoul awaiting me this Sunday, yet even the anticipated vibrance of the cherry blossoms—blooms I have longed to see—cannot overpower the heavy darkness that has settled over today. My heart keeps drifting back to those few months in Seoul years ago, when my husband was pursuing his fellowship at SNUH. It was, without question, the most luminous chapter of my married life. We lived in a tiny basement, a humble abode by any standard, yet there was no dearth of happiness within its walls. I can still feel the rhythm of my walks by the Han River, the crisp morning runs to Paris Baguette, and those quiet, late-night stopovers at 7-Eleven. These moments are etched into my memory as a beautiful, sacred part of my history. It was in Seoul that I first carried my daughter, and for years, I have yearned to walk those same streets with her, to share the origin of her story.
Surprisingly, even that profound thrill is drowned in my tears today. They are scanty tears, thinned by the dry eye of my disease, yet they are overwhelming in their weight. As I write this, an OPD session looms, and I find myself unable to summon my usual empathetic mask. Today, I do not want to hold space for anyone else; I only want to feel for myself.
“Fill your cup first,” they say. I have tried to fill mine in more ways than one. I have learned to delegate, to depend on others for the smooth functioning of my home, and I have drawn boundaries with a firm hand. Yet, on these odd days that surface once in a while, I find my cup not just low, but empty. It is as if I have nothing left to give. On Fridays especially, the burden of sitting through the OPD and absorbing the pain of others becomes an impossible labour, knowing that in a mere hour, I will be the one glued to an HDU bed and an infusion pump.
As I reach the HDU and prepare for the infusion, the reality of the small things hits hardest: the 26-gauge needles we imported specifically for a pain-free experience are exhausted. We are left scrambling for makeshift arrangements. Meanwhile, the incessant calls from patients, colleagues, and residents continue to pierce the air. I am beyond exhausted. What do I tell them? Do I simply say, “Don’t call me”? How do I explain the relentless cycle of a rare disease that even my medical colleagues struggle to comprehend? Why must I be admitted every single week?
My mind rushes to the patients I’ve treated who were “awfully quiet”—the ones who lacked the energy for discussion and simply nodded “yes” to everything. I used to wonder why they are so disinterested in their own treatment . I understand them now. This Friday, I cannot find the strength—or perhaps, I simply do not want to find it. Maybe this dark, quiet corner is a comfort, reminiscent of those still summer afternoons of childhood, cooled by air coolers and the soft, familiar touch of my mother’s chiffon saree. Perhaps I want to inhabit this moment completely, like a child who doesn’t want to be told to be excited about a holiday or to see the cup as half full.
As Anne Lamott wisely noted, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.”
We often mistake “discipline” for a relentless grind, as the grit required to wake up at 4:00 AM or push through exhaustion. However, the ultimate discipline is frequently found in the intentional choice to stop. Choosing rest—both physical and mental—requires a sophisticated level of self-mastery because it demands that we silence the internal critic that equates stillness with laziness. It is the practice of protecting your future capacity over your immediate ego. I have chosen to push myself again and again. Stretched my limits to accomodate others. Today , I choose the stillness of my cup – may be tomorrow I can decide if its half empty or half full .
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