I was a little goodie-two-shoes who read everything I could get her hands on. I must have been pretty annoying, using big words that I didn’t really know how to pronounce. 

The thing is, I could rebel in my books.

With my nose in a book, I could be anyone or anything. Whereas the world around me taught me that it wasn’t so safe to be loud or bring attention to myself. Actually, perfection was safe: perfect grades, overachieving and waking up at 4am to study for exams, even if you’re just a kid. That was safe. 

It was nice actually, all the admiring eyes. It was nice that people thought it was so impressive to get such high marks. And a full-ride scholarship to a top school, and more scholarships and opportunities. I mean, that’s privilege speaking. In so many ways I loved it. In so many ways, I have so much to thank for it. It allowed me to break out of abject poverty, for one. 

And there’s a part of it born of pain, of fear and of shame. 

That somehow I believed I was fundamentally unworthy – and that overcompensating with the compulsive aggregation of accolades, of degrees, of money, of success would somehow make it feel better; would prove once and for all, my ultimate worth. 

And through this work, I’ve learned – I’m not alone in feeling this way. 

My best friend in college was an incredible girl. She was bright – intellectually, and also in the way her skin shone like there was sunshine beaming from underneath it. She danced when she was excited, and would run to hug me when she saw me. And she was cool, seamlessly moving through social groups and still somehow finding her way back to me. We had jokes about what we would be like as old grannies, sipping tea and trash-talking the world from our porches. She teased me that she would show up to my wedding in a burqa. Most of all – we were full of a sense that we would change the world. 

And then one day, in a railway accident — and as fast as I could blink, she was gone. The day before, we were staring at the ceiling together after a long day of studying and she asked me “Why are people scared when they are dying?” I remember shrugging because dying was the furthest possibility from my mind. We were so young and oh so smart. 

I vowed never again to live life so disconnected from the poignant reality of death. We are all dying, in fact. And only through that reality could we experience being alive. And maybe through a wisdom I didn’t know then – Vivian was pointing to this with her question. Why do we fear that which is inevitable and everyday, and maybe the only guarantee there is in life? 

Most importantly, the reality of death makes living with yourself under such oppressive terms (i.e. the requirement of perfection, or trading every moment for “success”) absolutely intolerable.