Time Off Makes All The Difference

Always expect the unexpected.

I’ve probably heard this proverbial phrase a million times from my parents, but growing up, I really didn’t experience the so-called “unexpected”. What is it, and just what exactly does it mean?

My formative years seemed to embody the definition of a “normal” childhood: biking around town, taking violin lessons, doing well in school, and so on.

As I wrapped up my freshman year last spring, it appeared that everything was going just as I had planned. I thoroughly enjoyed my classes (yes, even Expos), I made new friends, and I finally found my extracurricular niche on campus as a Crimson Sports Board editor.

Like any ambitious freshman, I wanted to impress my superiors on the Board. I picked up stories that nobody wanted, and when I was elected, I picked up three beats–women’s basketball, track, and men’s volleyball. I picked up two more going into sophomore year, including the highly-coveted football beat.

Most importantly, though, I thought that I had my career plans all figured out. I would wrap up college, enter medical school, and fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor.

But all of this changed last summer.

Always expect the unexpected.

In the most unexpected time–early August last year–and in the most unexpected of places–on a bench in a research lab at The National Institutes of Health–I realized that something was missing; Despite setting all of those lofty goals for college and beyond, I had left behind one important part of me: my music.

All throughout high school, I was able to balance my academic pursuits with my violin studies. I took violin pretty seriously; I practiced three hours a day, and commuted three hours each way to study with a renowned professor (ok, maybe my childhood wasn’t that normal). By senior year, I seriously thought about becoming a violinist.

But with the lack of a performance program at Harvard, my inability to master the art of time management, and the lure of Harvard’s academic offerings, my musical ambitions quickly faded away and consequently fell down my list of priorities.

On that August morning though, it suddenly hit me that I wanted to give violin a chance as a profession. So why the change?

I guess the root of my indecision stems from my desire of avoiding the “what-if” question.

What if I’d only chosen medicine, and not liked it? What if I’d only chosen violin, and decided that it wasn’t for me? Given the difficulty of both professions–and the sheer amount of time needed for them–is it possible to be successful in one without precluding the other? If I love both, why must I give one up?

Regret has always been the one thing I’ve tried to avoid most, and that feeling of uncertainty dawned on me once again. A year later than expected, I was essentially back to square one. At a crossroads and forced to choose a path, I was afraid of making the wrong decision.

For the first time, I didn’t know how to handle the unexpected. So I did what I felt like then was the unthinkable: I took the fall semester off.

What made my decision so difficult wasn’t disappointing my parents, who come from a culture where academic life was the only path to a successful life, but rather, the fear of Harvard leaving me behind.

In particular, I was nervous about losing the friendships I had developed, the work I had put in as a Crimson sports editor (including giving up my beats), and just, in general, being out of the Harvard “loop”.

But obviously, soul searching took precedence, and leaving the comforts of the Harvard bubble was the only solution.

For an entire semester, I practiced six hours a day. I did nothing but play the violin, and music quickly became a part of my life again.

I occasionally got my fill of Harvard by emailing with blockmates and perusing The Crimson website. I even got to watch the Crimson’s thrilling come-from-behind victory at Yale on national television.

Before I knew it, the fall semester had come to an end, and I now find myself back in Cambridge with newly defined goals influenced by passion rather than expectations.

It’s been over a month now since my return, and it’s amazing to see just how much has changed for me over the course of a semester.

I’ve finally overcome that feeling of uncertainty. I’ve learned that music and medicine, at its core, are intrinsically connected in the sense that both serve as therapeutic treatments–one for the soul, the other for the body. I’ve learned that, with the right guidance, time management, and a bit of luck, it is indeed possible to become a doctor by day, violinist by night. As Yogi Berra said, “If you come to a fork in the road, take it!”

And I intend to do so.

From a sports point of view, I was impressed with just how many new players have dominated the Crimson sports scene. With freshmen such as Louis Leblanc, Victoria Lippert, and Kyle Casey leading their respective teams, I quickly had to learn—and relearn—a lot of names as a Sports writer. No more Chris Pizzotti ’08-’09 and Sarah Vallaincourt ’08-’09 tearing up the gridiron and ice, but rather, new faces like juniors Collier Winters and Liza Ryabkina leading the Crimson to successful seasons.

At the same time, I find it equally astonishing just how much has stayed the same. The anxiety I had of being left behind was quickly put to rest as I was welcomed back by my community in Currier House. My fellow editors at The Crimson made me feel like I hadn’t even left at all, as I felt as comfortable as ever walking into the Sports Cube to talk about sports.

In retrospect, my time away was at times difficult, frustrating, and lonely. Yet, it allowed me to discover what I’m most passionate about, and what I truly strive to be.

So what else did I learn from this whole experience?

Always expect the unexpected.

—Staff writer Kevin T. Chen can be reached at ktchen@fas.harvard.edu.