When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Doctor. Not necessarily the healing kind. In fact, I just wanted the title. That was my plan: no matter what field I go into, go all the way. Be the best. Be a Doctor.
But something took that away from me. My academic castle was swept away by a psychological wave. I thought it was punishment for rising too high. I had made myself a god, and that tends to evoke jealousy.
I learned to settle into humble life—hid myself away where the temptation to be great was naught. Once came the response: “What if you get the chance to go back?” Honestly, I doubted I would. Pride is hard to destroy and, therefore, restrictions eternal.
But then the doors opened wide, and I trembled in fear. A trap it seemed to send me back into Hell. But I stepped through the door, hoping that mercy was something real. To my relief and to my horror, my pride had indeed been shot.
It wasn’t what I expected. Pain much outweighing pleasure. And yet self-contradicting, I moved forward. The girl who has the potential but is crippled by self-doubt. It is the struggle to be a perfect god, when a god I am most definitely not.
Now here I am again. The next door opened. This one promising to lead to my childhood dream. And par with self-contradicting me, I both desire and loathe it. I no longer think it is a trick or a trap. I’m just beginning to doubt that a child knows best.