Between Two Stages

"As long as our well-being and worth as persons are deeply linked to economic productivity, income, a specific way of doing family, then every person's dignity is essentially at risk." — Teo You Yenn, 2018, This Is What Inequality Looks Like

I had almost closed the first chapter of my PhD as fruitless. Mostly because I tied its worth, and my own, to the outcome of my Aptitude Colloquium, and in my mind, I failed. That sense of failure was so consuming that it dimmed every other milestone around it.

I attach this image because the present parallels that moment in time. At 18, the anguish in my final chaotic bow was born of an operation two weeks prior, just as I've now had a medical procedure fall right between two colloquia talks. At 18, reading This Is What Inequality Looks Like taught me that in a society where inequality is an outcome of meritocracy, the work-for-reward logic becomes necessary, even when life gets in the way, and especially then. This is no less apparent today. In fact, it is more prevalent than ever among younger Singaporeans. I've learned that all too well, but I've also come to realize what consequence it holds.

Being a Singaporean abroad brings a strange dichotomy to life. In the two weeks before my Behavioral Studies Colloquium talk, I was skiing, ice-skating, winter-hiking every morning. I went on to deliver what should have been the brightest moment of my academic career so far. And yet I felt embarrassed, as though I had failed to uphold the dignity of a successful Singaporean, one who would have spent those early-morning hours working. Conversely, when I chose to let work be a distraction from pain, and a mask for the side effects of my procedure, I felt embarrassed to say I work in a lab that values health, balance, and scientific excellence. For me, it was always one or the other. The dichotomy confuses me still.

At the same time, I wonder if growing up with success as an expectation has dimmed the significance of the journey toward it, and over-emphasized the arrival. At 18, the storm of that final piano recital stripped me of the confidence to be alone on a stage. But I stood in front of a room of 50 people and gave my doctoral plan without trembling, and I wanted to be proud of myself. A year ago, I knew nothing about how my PhD would take shape. But I presented something coherent on many levels, and I want to be so proud of myself for the unending struggle it took to get there. Yet when I think about how my AC presentation fell short, I can no longer say that I am proud. Instead, I tell myself: "You were horrible for not having been able to fight through both sickness and work." This is the ugly outcome of success being an expectation. The achievement is ignored.

I don't know if there is a way to fully embrace the stark difference in upbringing and culture, and to thrive in every aspect of life and career. I don't know if it's a process of trying and failing, of learning which parts of life to hold onto and which to release, and of not being embarrassed for always being different.

But I still want to tell myself: I did well on 11 March. There are ups and downs, and the PhD is neither fully a means to an end nor fully an expression of scientific passion alone. It is a journey where I learn more about myself, about people, and about life.