Silver linings

Six years, one week, and one day ago, I watched my house burn down. Six years, one week, and one day later, I can still close my eyes and relive the entire night. Being in the car with my mom and pulling over four times to let fire trucks pass. The growing knot in my throat that made it hard to swallow when I realized they were going the same way we were. The surrealism of turning the corner on to our street, knowing, just knowing, it was our house, but still having to see it to believe it. My sister, barefoot in the snow, talking to the firefighters because that was the night we found out how amazing she is in a crisis. Seeing my dad cry for the first time ever as he watched everything he had worked so long and hard for since coming to this country go up in smoke.

I didn’t cry until I called my friend. I distinctly remember watching the flames and saying, “Brit? It’s me. My house is on fire.” and then I lost it. I took three showers that night, but could still smell the smoke in my hair when I went to school the next day. I burst into tears when I saw my AP Biology teacher and told her I couldn’t take our test. Until that point, I had been lucky enough to be fairly shielded from misfortune, and my thoughts took the same direction most people’s do in times of suffering—why my family? Why me? How could this experience possibly have a bright side?

It took me a while to figure out the silver lining. The rug was swept out from under my feet, but I picked myself back up, forced to ask myself one of the most difficult questions that life can throw at you—what have I learned?

All hardships pass, and without them, we wouldn’t appreciate the good times.

Every year, around the anniversary of The Fire, I think about how far I’ve come from that night. Here I am, eating cereal at midnight in Elmo pajama pants, with one of my dearest friends less than 10 feet away from me in her room, at one of the best universities in the world. Coach K just got his 1000th win. With all the stress and craziness, sometimes I forget the good. Especially around this time of year, with recruitment and job fairs running rampant, my mind is so preoccupied with matters that feel imperative—like getting that one line on my resume to sound just right and worrying about what strangers think of me. I forget that my own two feet carry me through the heat and snow and rain—sometimes all in one day, thanks North Carolina—and that the cut on my knee will heal. I forget that the stress will pass and the tears will dry and the laughter will come back.

This is not me telling you that those things—tests, grades, finding a job, among others—aren’t important. And I won’t belittle how you feel when those things build up to the point that they fill your lungs and you can’t breathe, particularly at a place like Duke, where the plethora of Type A individuals place the need to succeed on a higher pedestal than personal happiness. I just want to remind you that everything will be alright. The anxiety and hurt will fade, leaving only the luxury of a memory and the blessing of forgotten sorrow.

Life is not a linear time-invariant system. For those who have not taken BME 354, let me put it in layman’s terms. Life isn’t fair. Bad things happen to good people. But the hardships in life are what make us what we are, and scars give us stories to tell. Every kick you take when you’re down should be what fuels you to get back up. Six years, one week and one day later, I am grateful for the experience that I went through, because every time I think about it, I am pulled away from the daily seemingly overwhelming insignificances.

I don’t know where I’ll be in a year, but I hope I don’t forget my own advice.