Closed Doors

I remember writing a poem not so long ago for my English class.

One year ago, I stood on the stage of the Rochester Riverside Convention Center as a winner. It was my first year in DECA, and as a student finally ready to take on a club, I was eager to join and compete.

Overall, I spent four months really creating that project.  An independent business plan outlining a company called Organica, “Nourish yourself, improve your health!”  I still laugh at the memory of myself sitting in the dark corner outside of the “Lavender Room”, where I was supposed to present.  In the dark, crouching, in 3.5-inch heels, with my notecards and bulky computer, I sat and re-read my notes, drilling them into my head.  

At the same time, two students from a school in a neighbouring city came up to me, asking if I was alright. I, in my afraid and nervous tone, squinted at them in the dark and just said, “Yes.”

Beside me, they shared their project, we wished each other luck, exchanged Instagrams, and agreed to stay in touch. I entered that room feeling like my heels were the only obstacle. With "Perfect Love" by House of Prince as my personal runway song, I humbly strutted to my interviewer.    

It was Ash Wednesday.  And to put it simply, I was afraid to present.  But my judge was warm, she made me feel happy, and overall, it was FANTASTIC.

ICDC was tough, but not in the presenting aspect of it all.  I enjoyed the travels, the people that I was with, and I enjoyed having my own bedroom, as I was the only girl who qualified for ICDC that year.  But, though the Florida weather was warm, the vibes were there, and it felt like an extension to my vacation a week prior in Key West, I never stayed in one state for longer than a day.  

Back at home in New York, my team and I were preparing for another event that included attending the national semi-finals of an economics competition.  25 schools from all over the nation, all packed in one building in Manhattan, my favourite place to be.  It was the first time in my school's history that we attended, and I was ready to be there. I took four flights in four days.  New York to Florida (Day 1), Florida to New York (Day 2), New York to Florida (Day 3), Florida to New York (Day 4).  I can brag that every day, I get to enjoy a home-cooked meal from my mother.

On my first whole day in Florida, though I was not able to use my Disney tickets, I was invited to SeaWorld, where my friends and I rode rides, and overall, skipping all of the details, it was very fun.          

The minute I returned home from ICDC, I opened Canva once again and began my new project. LumenKIND MED.  My eyes tear as I think about the company that I spent May to March creating.  Because how upsetting it may be, to tell yourself over and over not to feel bad for yourself, I feel bad for myself every time I wonder about what could have been with LumenKIND, my one-of-a-kind project.  Because I am human, and it might be hard to admit.

After spending 10 months and five days on LumenKIND, I was confident that my company would go far, as I modeled it off of my past experiences with memory care, with the people around me being the sole reasons why I sought reform in the pharmaceutical/dementia care industry.  

And similarly to the year prior, I walked into the interview room, nicely, and began my presentation.  I knew I did well.  The night before, I had to leave DECA’s opening night earlier in order to study for my company.  Because LumenKIND is worth so much more to me than watching a show or a piece, because my objective was to one day be the one on the stage.  

At the same time, when I was working on LumenKIND, I applied to one year long neuroscience research program in New York City.  My favourite subject, and my favourite place to be.  Writing my essay on LumenKIND, and about my grandmother, about my roots, and about my history made me feel more anchored in the program, though the acceptances were supposed to be sent in March.  25 students for 25 mentors, 25 open spots.

And as I stood on the stage this year, my name was not called, not for the top ten, not for placing, and I watched as someone whom I trusted turned their back from the stage.  And as I was frozen, the fear center that was responsible for fight or flight, the fear center that Metamine, a dementia drug, tries to control, the same drug that I was presenting a lesser

dosage of for using LumenKIND, my mind was on autopilot, and the only thing I could do was walk through the crowd, down the escalator, and into the bathroom line because I had to wash my face, though no tears ran down my cheeks, and the only thing I could think about was my time and my missing schoolwork.  

Because in that moment, I could not feel bad for myself, because I had to turn around, leave the line, and go back onto the bus where I once felt hopeful.  I sat down, hoping that there was some kind of mistake.  Because feeling hope was the only thing that allowed me not to cry.  

On the bus, I received an email.  An email from the program that I applied to.  I have gotten an interview.  And, while listening to “Smalltown Boy”, all I could do was smile, through relief, because I felt as if I was down, there was a light at the end of the tunnel.  

All days led to the interview date, and all days led to me hoping that there was some kind of mistake from DECA, that I would be getting an email any minute from my advisors telling me about this mistake, that I would be on the plane to Georgia with the project that I spent 10 months on in my backpack, and a suit in my suitcase.  

All I will say is that there was a mistake.  And I will not say anymore.  Because I would not have been able to catch it.  And as a researcher who inputs values into special software, I, too, asked for input.  

My manual was good either way, better than the year prior.  But my presentation received a poor score.  As a presenter, I was lost, and I did not know what went wrong. And as this questioning of errors ate away at me, on the Saturday of my return to town, my dad and I sat in Rockefeller Center, and for the first time, I cried.    I cried near the married couple next to us, who were likely celebrating an anniversary. I cried in front of the waiter, in front of myself.  

Was I a sore loser?

 I do not think I was, but hope was what I tried to cling to, but even hope was not able to stretch far enough.

I interviewed, and I was authentically me, neuroscientifically nice.  Throughout the week prior, I developed the “you win some, you lose some” mentality because of hope.  My school allowed me to go home for one hour, and I wore my best collared shirt, my favourite sweater, and my ID with my DECA pin.  As I left the meeting, I thought about what I could have said, should have done, and should not have said, but I was confident, and I liked my mentor.

Curled up on the sofa Friday night.  I spent the week counting down the days till Saturday.  I received a message from someone who applied to the program.  Accepted!  I congratulated him, but inside, and physically, I started to shake.  Because I did not receive an email, but then I did, and I was rejected, and I slowly walked away, up the stairs, and into the bathroom, as I did two weeks prior, and in that moment, I cried.

25 available seats, 25 schools at the national semi finals, 25 missing assignments (no, that is a hyperbole...), I kept checking my email over and over, trying to see an email, saying, “Hey, this was a mistake!”, I did not get one.  

What do I do now?  I do not know.  And that is the first time that I have felt true uncertainty.  And it feels bad.  And the way that I can explain it is being hungry and upset, because as I write this post, I feel both.  Because I do not know where I will end up, academically, and how I will do it.  

“Be the one” - DECA

And I applied to the one, I have not won...yet, but it is not over.  I might think it is now, but in reality, I just have to find another way, maybe still reach out to the program asking for guidance, maybe not, maybe finding something else to do, but at least someone knows I am passionate, that I am serious, and that I am ready to thrive.  

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HOPE AND THE BRAIN

Although many parts of the brain and hormones aid in hope, and or false optimism, I believe that a fascinating part of it all is:

The Rostral Anterior Cingulate Cortex (rACC).

Click to receive diagram credits.

When individuals imagine positive future events that often could seem unrealistic, the rACC helps allocate attention to more optimistic and ideal outcomes and circumstances.

As the rACC attempts to filter out negative thoughts and information, positive thoughts increase, even if reality contradicts them. After mistakes, the rACC is active, evaluating emotional distress, as it works to evaluate emotional significance to a stimulus.

Click to receive diagram credits.

Left Brain Dominance and False Optimism

The left hemisphere is more likely to promote false optimism and deny negative realities. As the hemisphere acts as an interpreter, it could ignore certain stimuli in order to create a consistent positive view. The right hemisphere tends to process negative information, threats, and reacting, while the left tries to focus on positivity.

Simple Chemical Knowledge in less than 20 words:

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that increases when anticipating the good.

1. Memory

2. Pleasure

3. Mood Elevation

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Poem

"I, too, was a college kid with a backpack full of books I wouldn’t use. 

A fancy $30 pencil case. 

A smile too big for what would be my future profession.

  I, too, used to sympathise with the rejection letters of my friends. 

Because a good friend sees a person beyond their application.

  I, too, somehow got accepted to a place where my friends were not.    

Sitting at my desk, hoping for May, I read through testimonies of students who I was one day.  

Wondering what would happen if I were not accepted to my university, where I now labour.  Where I was the judge, which I was never able to become.

  I, too,  dreamt of sitting in a court, but instead, I judge others as my line of work.

It was rewarding, the place to be, accepting students made me feel better about myself. 

  Who I was had not been diminished until I rejected one student who had the same wish. 

 He, too, wished to become a judge. 

 When I received a request for financial aid, I had to object.

Because I, too, still listen to others, but they have no clue. 

 That, I, once too, was a kid with big dreams.  

And at the end, as I say goodnight, I remember that this work wasn’t for me. 

 That to someone else, they would want to judge the child that I once was.  

And what would have happened if they rejected me? 

 Would I become the judge that I thought I was meant to be?

  A million nights, I thought of that child, hoping that the rejection was correct and worthwhile."

Goodnight. I am still learning how to move forward, where I am, where I have been, and where I will be. Even when I do not know where I am moving.

Best,

Anastasia K