The Conscious Bridge

The other day, I was looking through my things from elementary school and found an activity where we were supposed to share what we like doing in our free time. I had put “napping.” My mom and I had a good laugh about what a lazy child I was—instead of playing sports or seeking other entertainment, this eight-year-old would rather take a nap. I was also low-key amused at myself. I value sleep more than anything to this day because I need to make sure I am recharged each morning. Otherwise, I feel low energy, lack motivation, and, in the worst-case scenario, get depressed. So, to discover that this was somehow my favorite activity, I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or a little weird. Generally, kids don’t like to go to sleep, even when they know they’re tired.

I feel that small discoveries like this about your past self are valuable enough to be acknowledged. They allow your wiser, present self to truly understand where you come from and how you operate.

I had a similar feeling of amusement when I looked back at how I studied English in Malawi. My level was far lower than my peers’, and this was so obvious from my surroundings that I had to protect my own feelings. I did this by validating them every single day through journaling. I didn’t have anyone to talk with deeply, as there was no one else in the house who spoke Japanese. It’s completely understandable why I had to do what I did to adapt and survive, yet my older self feels so much inspiration from it. I can hardly believe that the determined child who journaled her way through is the same person who, as a grown-up, sometimes had a hard time holding herself together.

I have hated school since I was young. In elementary school, I struggled to understand math and was also busy trying to prove that I deserved the same respect as Japanese. In secondary school, I was forced to switch to English and ended up relying solely on memorization to get through tests and exams. In university, I felt responsible for fixing my parents’ marriage while also finding ways to earn money to claim my independence from them. The assignments were overwhelming, and the expectation to participate in class was something I didn’t thrive in; I would rather read on my own and figure out how to earn the credits to graduate.

Because of this unapologetic mentality, I never thought I was smart. I was convinced that smart people were those praised in school for their academic performance, and I certainly couldn’t dedicate myself to becoming that. I used to ask, “What is the point of learning math? What is the point of writing reports on Rome if I don’t aspire to be a Eurocentric historian?” You have to have critical thinking skills, they would say. But what they didn’t tell me was that I did have critical thinking skills; they just weren’t the kind the system valued. (Note that when I say “they,” I am referring to the societal system we all live in.)

Now, having completed school and grown both mentally and physically, I am employed by corporations capable of offering a high salary. Looking back, I feel my younger self was much smarter than I am now.

I think about all of it—who I was in my younger days, how I somehow overcame those challenges, and how those experiences shaped me. As I reflect, a little voice sometimes tells me, “You’re stretching; it’s not that deep.” But I know now that nothing in your mind is too deep. The thoughts might be wrong—that is very possible and requires a different way of navigating them—but in my case at least, the yearnings of my soul are my most valuable guidance. Whatever my soul rejects, whenever it needs rest, and whatever it dreams and imagines for the future—these are the truest compass points for thriving in this life.

Some simplify this and call it “follow your heart.”

With that being said, I am not completely happy in my life right now. I am happy that I have a good family; I love my husband dearly, and I have wonderful friends. But I cannot ignore the system we are living in, a system we have normalized to a point of profound unease. Why must we exploit ourselves—both mind and body—for a workforce that does not care about us?