My North Star

“Let me get a good look at your face, dear.”

Nineteen year old me looked back into the eyes of the old woman sitting across from me. Encased within the privacy of a quaint apartment, my caregiver and I sat close to each other on a soft, worn-down bed, listening intently to what the fortune teller had to say. I just had my heart broken a few months back, and after my first year of college was a bust, my caregiver didn’t want to see me waste away any longer. That was why they brought me to the best Buddhist psychic in town. My caregiver needed to be a part of this pivotal, life-changing moment as the old woman read what the stars had in store for me.

“I see now. You don’t need to worry about the guy you are currently pining for. I see that in your future, you will be chased by many men, but the one that will be for you will be relentless in his pursuit. He will have a very outgoing personality, wear glasses, and will be the only person who will truly see you and understand you. It also seems like he will be quite tall, and may come from a different cultural background. But most importantly, he will come from a good family, and he will treat women with respect.”

“For some unknown reason, you will reject him numerous times. Yet still, he will always come back to you. Though you may find him distasteful, eventually, you both will share a happy union. I wouldn’t recommend dating until you are 23 years old.”

I couldn’t believe that my future could be so bright when all I had ever known was the same depressing routine of my daily existence. I pondered how someone as hopeless and helpless as me would ever be worthy of love. However, if I wanted that bright future for myself, I needed to forge a new identity, a version of me that was easier to love. And so I would take the prophecy that was handed to me, and bury it in my heart for years to come. The prophecy would serve as my compass, bringing me to the heights of accomplishment that I’d achieve in my undergrad. And though I would get the chance to meet the man of my dreams, things wouldn't go as I had envisioned. But instead, I was given the gift of self-realization, catharsis, and perhaps a chance at real love.

“... I love you all. Please try to find peace as best as you can. I wish you all well.”

It was a bright, late morning. People bustled around me amidst the chatter that filled the coffee shop. The astringent taste of cold brew lingered on my taste buds as I stared at the words on my laptop. I just finished typing out a suicide letter within my third week of being here. I felt my face flush as my head disconnected from my body, drifting away to another distant place despite the lively stirrings of the morning.

I had lost the boy from the prophecy before starting graduate school. Four years had passed since I first heard the prophecy. One year since our fateful meeting. When I saw him, my eyes locked onto his tall figure as he emerged from the train station. My heart skipped a beat when the sunlight hit his glaring glasses as he eagerly chatted away at another person walking next to him. Later that day, on a late night walk, he confessed to me that he just knew he would meet the love of his life within the next year. Bless the stars. He was the one from my prophecy. Here was my missing puzzle piece, seeking his other half in me. I had finally found my Polaris. However, my reverie came to an abrupt end with one simple phone call two months later. He chose someone else to be his North Star, and wished me well as I continued my search.

NO ONE can know about my dirty secrets. I NEEDED to keep them if I wanted to survive at a place like grad school. It was a miracle that I was able to keep my secrets from my colleagues up to this point. I needed to ensure that I never got too close to anyone during my time here. Keep them all at an arm's length from me and my secrets.

A couple days later, my letter still lingering in the back of my mind, I got ready to attend my seminar with Professor Vega. Vega’s sharp sense of humor and boundless compassion made me see them as a role model. If I ever wanted to be successful, I needed to do everything I could to convince them that I could become their favorite student. External validation could perhaps keep my neurosis at bay.

I tried to read Professor Vega’s face during their seminar to see what types of student commentary were impressive to them. If Vega gave a reassuring nod and raised their eyebrows, that was a good sign. Eager to impress them, I shot my hand up in the air.

“Yes?”

“I thought it would be good to ask… or perhaps this wasn’t… considered?”

Crap. I couldn’t choke out a coherent question. Vega stared at me intently as I felt the classroom grow smaller and stuffier. I stared down at my lap to avoid making eye contact with them or any of the other students in the class. I tried my best to hold back as the lump formed in my throat… but eventually, a tear started trickling down my burning cheek. The room grew quiet as my classmates stared at me, perplexed. I got flashbacks to the numerous times I would cry in the middle of class growing up. I knew what I had to do. I rationalized my tears, stating that I simply had anxiety issues throughout my life. I reassured them that they didn’t need to pay me any heed. When this happened one too many times, Vega calmly invited me to chat privately in their office, inconspicuously tucked away at the back of the department. In the gray shadows of the small, dimly lit room, their eyebrows level, they began,

“It’s okay if you need to cry. I often find that the strongest people need to cry because they’ve been strong for too long…” Vega handed me a couple of tissues to let me wipe my tears. All I could muster was some sad muffled weeping. Sensing that I wasn’t willing to open up about what was bothering me, they continued,

“I’ll tell you a little something about myself…”

Vega shared their life story with me, their struggles, and the joy that they eventually found for themselves. Afterwards, we sat in silence for a bit, my gasps occasionally interrupting the still air. In my exhaustion, before I realized, my lips started moving on their own volition.

I went off about how my caregiver used to follow me to class and scrutinize my homework. They never gave me the space to learn from my mistakes. Everything about me felt like a complete lie. The only space where I felt safe was singing, since that was embodied within me and something that they couldn’t force me to plagiarize. Despite my incoherence, Vega gave me a tight hug to ensure that I could trust them. But now knowing that Vega knew my dirty secret, I needed to watch my back. A dull ache rose behind my eyes as my head grew dizzy, remorse flooding my brain as I regretted my confession. Of course, someone like me couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut, and so now the burden of the secret has become Vega’s burden too. A guilt-induced pang hit my stomach after having to rely on Vega in that capacity.

As the quarter went on, the shame continued eating me alive. Some days I was convinced that Vega wanted to get rid of me since I was a giant disappointment of a student. My stomach would drop whenever I had an upcoming meeting with them as I waited in the bleak, long hallways of the building. In those meetings, Vega would try their best to reassure me that the work I delivered was good. I prayed that something or someone would put me out of my misery by making me vanish.

Towards the end of the quarter, when my therapist came to learn that I had a suicide letter ready to print, they demanded I call my caregiver to take me to the ER. Otherwise, they would have the police escort me. Shit. Though I didn’t want to bring my caregiver into this, it’s better than being brought in by an actual police car. I’m sure Polaris would mock me for my frail spirit. Maybe that was why he abandoned me.

“Alright alright I’m coming! I’m getting there as fast as I can OKAY? Stop trying to rush me!!!” My caregiver hollered on the phone as they drove over to my residence.

I was suddenly sitting in a comfy hospital stretcher, with my caregiver by my bedside. The thin hospital curtains enclosed us, granting a brief privacy. As my caregiver squeezed my hand tightly in theirs, they whispered to me,

“Sweetie, I know you’re not really suicidal. I think you’re just overwhelmed, but I can take care of you now, since you’re so close to home. I suggest that we make up some excuse to the nurse, and tell them that you’re actually okay now, alright?”

Right. After everything that I’ve put my caregiver through, I could at least do that for them. I shouldn’t make them worry about me so much. So when the nurse appeared on the telehealth screen, I quickly snapped into acting mode. I told the nurse the suicide note that alarmed my therapist was from a month ago rather than a more recent development. I was able to convince them that I was mentally well with my personable and bubbly demeanor. Seeing no need for in-patient treatment, they quickly discharged me. Phew. No need for a 5150. My caregiver smiled as they drove us back home, police cars littering the highway. Polaris, who saw everything that went down through my eyes, was telling me I did the right thing. I was sure I made my caregiver proud that day.

The new year was upon me, and I needed to get through my second quarter at Stanford. Since it was time to get well, I decided to sign up for a wellness course. As I eased myself into the class, I was relieved that here, I didn’t have to prove to anyone why I was at Stanford. Instead, I simply had to submit some weekly intimate journal entries and talk about my feelings. I was pleasantly surprised at the end of the school year when I received an email from the teaching team. I had been invited to come back as a teaching fellow for the next academic year. Warmth flooded my chest with excitement - something I hadn’t felt since I started school at Stanford. I may have finally found a space where I actually belong. I gave myself a quiet summer to reflect on my first year at Stanford, embracing the liminal space that was taking hold. When the yellow leaves of autumn greeted me for the new school year, I was ready to face the second year of my program with more fortitude.

Since teaching fellows have the opportunity to share a story with the wider public, I started getting to work. I decided to write about my dirty secrets. Get them out first, and then see if I felt they were worth sharing. Once I began, the words wouldn’t stop. Secrets kept pouring out of me, over and over. I didn’t hold back, and wrote from the first time I cheated on an exam, to the time I glanced over someone else’s shoulders as they wrote my college essays. I kept spewing word vomit, which would sometimes be accompanied by actual vomit as well. To ensure that no one would see my confessions, I resorted to writing in the wee hours of the night. The shadows grew long and stretched in my lonely bedroom. They were the only witnesses to the clicking of my keyboard and the nakedness of my being on the page. After each purge, I would walk briskly in the deep of the night while blasting various songs into my headphones. The pain and soreness I felt in my legs served to slow down my racing thoughts. As I watched the sunrise, dragging my feet, I would feel a heaviness lift from my shoulders. Police cars and sirens would greet me on some of my walks, which would snap me back into survival mode. Polaris was watching me, and if he knew what I had put down in writing, he certainly would NEVER come back…

For this fall quarter, I needed to sign up for a notoriously difficult course to fulfill my degree requirements. This course was taught by none other than Professor Betelgeuse, whose vibrant energy and philosophical perspectives made them beloved by the department. In our first class, Professor Betelgeuse posed the following icebreaker question.

“A combination of fate and effort,” I replied. God I sounded so pretentious to myself. But at least my answer induced an enthusiastic laugh from Betelgeuse. I did genuinely feel that fate and effort are what brought me here. The assignments for the course were no joke. Still, I remained determined and pushed myself to attend office hours religiously. Despite my fears of being perceived as incompetent, I slowly began to feel safer asking Betelgeuse and Rigel, the TA, for help. The excitement Professor Betelgeuse, Rigel, and my classmates exhibited whenever I showcased my projects slowly gave me confidence to allow others to bear witness to my thoughts and ideas. When we reached the end of the course, I gave my all in my final project, which became a showcase to our little community. Amidst the laughter filling the large room, my heart started to whisper to me. I should use what I learned in this course to tell my story. Once I stepped outside, though, a police car awaited me… Polaris wouldn’t want me to tell my story…

Regardless, I followed my heart. As I spent the next three weeks translating my story, my fingers and hands effortlessly strung together the words and images that would build the narrative. Each key press solidified in me a resolve to use my well-earned skills to tell my story. Then it hit me. I should willingly offer my dirty secrets to Betelgeuse. Maybe I didn’t have to face this alone. So I booked an appointment. The days leading up to our meeting were filled to the brim with police cars. “Don’t tell your story… Don’t tell your story… Don’t tell your story… What would your caregiver think of you?!?” they’d keep screaming at me in my head.

Finally, the momentous occasion came. Betelgeuse invited me into their office, located at the heart of the department, sunlight illuminating all corners of the room. It was time for me to stop hiding.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about?” they started.

“I was thinking about using what I learned in your class last quarter to tell my story, but also wanted to double check that it would be alright with you since it’s quite scandalous.”

“All the things that we’ve learned in the class are free for anyone to use! That knowledge is yours. Do you want to talk a little bit about your project? You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to disclose.”

“Yes…”

Oh boy. Here I go.

“...at the heart of my story, it’s about how my caregiver forced me to cheat on a substantial amount of my academics before I headed off to college. And though the cheating stopped once I started undergrad, I was still dealing with the guilt and repercussions of living through that. I was so mentally unwell for such a long time, but I think telling my story could perhaps give me the chance to finally process my past.”

“... That is a lot to process… I feel very honored and grateful that you trust me. Please know that I am willing to support you in any capacity I can, since that is such a heavy burden to carry… But I can imagine the impact your story will have for children who are subjected to this against their will. We all have mountains to climb to learn more about ourselves, and it seems like this story is your mountain… May you be well as you continue this journey.”

Wow, not only was Betelgeuse not disappointed in me, they respected what I was trying to do.

“I’ve… brought a little bit of what I’ve worked on over the break if you wanted to take a look? I would love your artistic feedback to see how I can make the narrative more compelling.”

I felt myself tearing up as I showed them my project, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.