I lived without my right hand for two months. Here's what I learnt

On a random Monday, I felt a little pain in my right hand. I ignored it, as you ignore little pains in your twenties. When the pain interfered with my work as a writer, I went to the doctor. He diagnosed me with De Quervain syndrome — and I was left without a functioning right hand for two months.

Here's what I learnt from it.

My body must entertain myself, or else I get bored... and depressed.

My sick leave quickly got boring, so I decided to turn to my hobbies. Except I couldn't: all of my hobbies involve my right hand. Drawing, sports, writing, doing makeup, going shopping, cycling — all of that was unavailable. I could only solve jigsaw puzzles, watch TV, and read. It was boring and frustrating.

Without work or hobbies, I felt depressed. I ended up laying all day, staring at my phone. I lost appetite and sleep. Part of the reason was being sick, alone, and not knowing if I will be cured soon. But part of it was me being unable to entertain myself. When nothing occupied my mind, dark thoughts took over.

The world is built for able people.

For a one-handed person, the outside world suddenly becomes more hostile. I couldn't open doors or hold them for another person. I could not carry a bag of groceries and pay the cashier at the same time. I could not simultaneously read and hold the metro handrail. I felt uncomfortable all the time.

I never realized how much my city's infrastructure is not meant for someone without a hand, or without a leg, or without sight. The city is only comfortable for those who can run, jump, speak, see, hear, and move both of their hands. And around 10% of the population can't.

My body can adapt to unbelievable things.

I knew that short-sighted people hear better, and those who lose one of their hands develop the second one. However, I thought it is a much longer process and cannot happen in 2 months.

But it did. For the first few weeks with just my left hand, it was incredibly slow and difficult to shower, dress, eat, and wash the dishes. My left hand felt so awkward and out of control as if it was someone else's limb attached to me.

Gradually, I learnt to control it. I started succeeding in washing dishes, cooking, eating, dressing up, writing, and even drawing with my left hand. It was still slow and mentally painful, but it worked.

Every little unnoticeable body part matters.

For 20 years, my right hand let me do all of the things I love. It let me draw, write, work, and do sports. I was a big part of who I was, and I never realized it. And the same goes for my other body parts — brain, legs, the left hand, and fingers. I needed them all. Each small part of my body contributed to letting me live the life I'm living, and especially my right hand.

When I was sick, I thought this realization will stay with me forever. But as I got better, I forgot it all. I quickly forgot how painful and disabling it was to be a one-handed person. I forgot how hard it was to use a smartphone, open doors, do clothes shopping, and use the subway. I forgot the empathy I felt towards disabled people at the moment.

I guess that is how we, able people, manage to always forget about the disabled folks. Because as long as you are able, as long as you have eyes, ears, hands, legs, and an average brain, you don't realize that the world is not built for everyone. To feel it, you need to actually lose your abilities. And I wouldn't wish anyone a disability.

I will to my best to remember just how frustrating it was to live without a part of my body for two months. I'll try to remember that many live like that for decades.

This Summer Will Be the Coolest In the Next 100 Years

It’s 35°C or 95°F in Minsk, Belarus. City dwellers post lifehacks to escape the heat. Some have A/Cs at home. Some keep fans blowing on cold water. Others leave their apartments to go to the countryside. We left the two-million city, too.

The further away we were going from Minsk, the lower the temperature became. In an hour, it was already 25°C or 77°F. While Minsk is covered in dark grey heat-absorbing concrete, the rest of the country is green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, and swamps. Our destination was a combination of all — Narochansky National Park.

As I was walking around trees that are older than my passed great-grandmother, I was thinking how ironic this summer is. People have been harming and destroying the nature to build their big cities and their big economies. But when they see the outcome — the heat — they turn to nature for escape.

You’d think it would finally make us consider what our way of life leads to. Well, it certainly doesn’t. Since Narochansky National Park opened up for tourists, it started to have a pollution issue. People came, had fun, and left their waste behind. To raise funds for cleaning the forest, the Park had to establish an entrance fee — 2 Belarusian rubles or $0.59.

The price reflects how much we value the nature. No one considered what would happen without this and other forests: faster global warming, air pollution, species extinction — you name it. It costs more that $0.59.

While I was walking around those old-ass trees and deep clean lakes, I was thinking, “Is this something my grandchildren are going to see?” I cannot be sure.

And so I took pictures.

Face-Palm Questions or Sex Education in Bulgaria

“I wish I could be a normal kid with a normal dad and a normal dick,” said Adam Groff, the character in one of the Netflix’ most popular TV shows Sex Education, according to Deadline, Hollywood news agency. Adam is not the only teenager having concerns about his body and relationships. Puberty, according to Psychology Today, American magazine, is problematic and “no time for a young person to be uninformed about what is going on in their bodies.” Fortunately for Adam, he can seek help from Otis Milburn, the character of the amateur teenage sexologist in Sex Education. What about real-life teenagers?

In Bulgaria, the country with the highest teenage pregnancy rate in the European Union, sex education (SexEd) as a part of school curriculum is still in development, according to World Health Organization. Nikoleta Popkostadinova, journalist and founder of LoveGuide, Bulgarian sex education platform, believes that such ratings are not the teenagers’ fault. “Kids lack the proper information when they start their sexual lives,” she said. “They are not promiscuous or anything else. They just don’t know.”

LoveGuide, Popkostadinova’s project, was founded in 2015 in attempt to change the situation. At first, sex education classes only were held all around the country. Now, in addition to lectures, LoveGuide has an online platform with SexEd videos and articles, which provide teenagers with a more anonymous way of receiving information. According to Popkostadinova, however, kids are welcoming and happy to receive sex education in class as well. “We had pupils that said that they didn’t go to school the day [LoveGuide held lectures for them], but when they heard what kind of classes they would have, they decided to show up,” she laughs. “They are not reluctant [or ashamed] to talk in front of their peers. They are so looking forward to it! They talk about their menstruation, about having sex, about growing up, about having problems with ejaculation, masturbation, etc.”

Despite the sensitivity of the topic, Popkostadinova believes that separation of boys and girls during the classes is unnecessary. “It’s very important to know about each other and what’s going on with the other sex,” she said.

Screenshot from LoveGuide’s animated YouTube video on how to recognize a victim of sexual violence. Illustration by LoveGuide.

From 100 questions LoveGuide website receives every week, “all … are face-palm questions,” said Popkostadinova. “[Kids] are heavily misinformed,” she added. Teenagers she speaks to often know nothing about contraception or pregnancy. “They literally ask, ‘If we wash up really well, is that good enough?’ ” Popkostadinova said.

Even though LoveGuide is a SexEd platform, about half of the incoming questions is about communication and relationships, not sex. “Sex doesn’t happen in a vacuum. First people talk, they like each other, they tell each other that they like each other, they touch [each other’s] hands, they kiss, and eventually they have sex. It’s not [coming] from ‘Hello, let’s have sex.’ And kids know anything about this process [either],” Popkostadinova said.

LoveGuide’s YouTube video screenshot about how to deal with a broken heart. Photo by LoveGuide.

Personal boundaries is another important topic raised by LoveGuide. “No one talks to [kids], and they don’t know what’s okay and what’s not. We have a lot of content on preventing sexual violence,” Popkostadinova said. The mother of a 10-year old, she advised all parents to start talking to their kids about their boundaries from the age of three. “SexEd is not when you start having your puberty issues. It’s lifelong education,” she said.

The Eyebrow Specialist | Olha Belova

Ouch! One by one, promptly and sharply, tweezers held by petite hands in medical gloves are removing the hairs of a woman in her forties. As her disturbed skin is reddening, her smile is only getting wider. Done with the 15-minute procedure, the woman readily holds out money to the hands in medical gloves and spends the next minute looking in the mirror posing and smiling. Her eyebrows are now done.

Tweezers are the main instrument to create the shape of the future eyebrows. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

“When people ask me, ‘What do you do?’ I usually say, ‘I hurt people, and they pay me for that,’ ” laughs Olha Belova, 21, with her hands now ungloved. An eyebrow specialist, Olha has spent the last one and a half years drawing on women’s faces in “BrowBar by AlexGan” in Sofia, Bulgaria. Before that, she used paper for her creative pursuits in the Art Academy in Sofia. “When I started doing eyebrows, I recovered from my depression after the university failure,” says Olha.

Olha preparing paint for her client in “BrowBar by AlexGan” in Sofia, Bulgaria. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

For the new job, Olha’s art skills were useful but not required. “Here, you need to see symmetry. If you don’t see it, you will not draw eyebrows well,” says Olha.

In this Brow Bar, specialists do not measure the proportions of the future eyebrows and use accurate eye and a simple brush for their work. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

The next client comes, and Olha directs all her attention to her. “When I see [the client], I already know what her eyebrows will look like after the procedure. I already know how light or dark they will be, how long I should keep the paint on, etc.,” says Olha. Despite this, the client’s will is considered the law. “I explain to them, ‘This will not suit you, it will make your face more robust, masculine, etc.’ But if they insist, we do such eyebrows. However, it relieves all the responsibility for the result from us, because I warned them,” says Olha. With such attitude, her latest dissatisfied customer was eight months ago.

Olha negotiating on the size of the future eyebrows of her client. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

The artist and the client finally agree on the shape of the future eyebrows, and the process begins. Olha is moving with confidence and speed, but she is not in a rush. “I’m experienced, and I’m trying to make the [painful part of the] process faster. You can’t really make it smoother. However, if I see that the girl is in much pain, I pull hairs out one by one so abruptly that she cannot even have time to feel [it],” explains Olha.

She is going back and forth from the client, checking her artwork from the distance and making tiny adjustments. “When it comes to eyebrows, a millimeter is a lot,” says Olha.

Olha making adjustments of a millimeter size to the eyebrows of her client. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

However similar this activity may look to regular drawing process of any artist, it is not. Instead of paper or textile, Olha is drawing on the live human being. When the procedure is over, Olha’s face stays concentrated and reveals no sign of satisfaction. She lets the client look at the mirror and waits for the approval. Only hearing it she smiles. For this artist, her satisfaction matters much less than the canvas’. “When you see a happy person leaving after the procedure, it gives you more energy to continue your craft,” says Olha.

Instruments waiting for disinfection before the next client. Photo taken by Anastasiya Pantsialei

Toads Who Know Their Puddle. Russian Community in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria

“I know my puddle. My puddle is my favorite Blagoevgrad,” says Olga Voroshilova, who moved here with her Bulgarian husband in 1996 from Saint Petersburg, Russia. In Blagoevgrad, a city in Bulgaria populated by 70 thousand people, according to the Bulgarian National Statistical Institute, Voroshilova works as a graphic designer. “Many Bulgarians do not give a damn about their country. According to the statistics, out of eight million employable people, more than one million moved abroad. Professors have left. Engineers have left,” she says. Proud Voroshilova values sense of belonging more than the higher standard of living. “If I go abroad, what would I do? Clean the houses in England?” she says.

No, thank you. Not only did Voroshilova stay in a small town in the world's fastest-shrinking country in the world, according to the UN, but she also cofounded the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad. First a humble idea of few female Russian migrants, it became a start for what is now known as the Alliance “Union of Compatriots,” an entity officially registered and protected by both Bulgarian and Russian governments.

Bulgaria Influenced by the USSR

Marina Rulko, Russian language teacher originally from Tambov, Russia, moved to Blagoevgrad with her Bulgarian husband and son in 1980. Back then, the Soviet government sponsored the so-called “Clubs of Russian-Bulgarian friendship” in every Bulgarian city. “Everyone who came from the Soviet countries was well-protected,” remembers Rulko. She even got an apartment in Blagoevgrad for free as a member of the Russian Club.

Then in 1989, the Soviet Union collapsed.

Streets of Blagoevgrad in the 1970s. Photo from the personal archive of Jordan Stoyanov.

In the Dark

Doctor Kiril Aleksiev, Deputy Director of the Blagoevgrad Regional Historical Museum, was only 10 years old at the time. He studied Russian since primary school and had warm feelings towards the country. Dr. Aleksiev remembers how Russian propaganda on Bulgarian media was suddenly replaced with an American one. “In that period, we had an expression, ‘Is the movie good or is it Russian?’ ” he laughs. Dr. Aleksiev compares the Iron Curtain of the USSR with the “Velvet Curtain” created a few years later by American media. “We watched ‘Rambo III.’ We all hated the nasty Russian commander,” says Dr. Aleksiev. “American movies created a cliche about the Russians.”

Streets of Blagoevgrad in the 1970s. Photo from the personal archive of Jordan Stoyanov.

It was a period or rising nationalism and uncertainty for many Russian-speaking migrants in Bulgaria, including Victoriya Bogdanska, who grew up in Saint Petersburg, Russia, and moved to Blagoevgrad in 1989. It took Bogdanska a few years to learn Bulgarian, and until then she felt uncomfortable to speak Russian in public. “I was going to Sofia by bus, and I was talking to another girl in Russian. We were [shamed by other passengers]. Most people were kind, but some [were not],” she says.

Russian Club in Blagoevgrad

In 1995, a common friend of Rulko and Bogdanska introduced the women to each other. They decided to create the Russian Club and were quickly joined by other Russian-speaking migrants in Blagoevgrad and the locals. Rulko explains, “The local community has diverse interests. Someone likes politics, and someone worked in the Soviet Union. Someone has studied Russian, and someone was growing up with the Russian culture. And this giant body of citizens felt the cultural vacuum.”

They were rejected recognition from the Bulgarian government for two years. In 1997, the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad became official.

Since its foundation, the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad successfully fills this vacuum created by the Soviet Union collapse with numerous annual events gathering hundreds of people from around Bulgaria and abroad. 

Maslenitsa

Russian Club’s most famous event is Maslenitsa, a traditional Russian holiday celebrating the start of spring with pancakes, symbols of sun. Common holiday activities include burning the straw effigy symbolizing winter, jumping over the fire, singing, dancing, playing competitive games, and, of course, eating pancakes. 

Teams participate in the Maslenitsa competition of pulling the rope in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska.

Victoriya Bogdanska rewards the Maslenitsa competition winner with a special gift in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska.

The holiday became an object of interest for Russian government officials. In 2000, Chairperson of the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad Bogdanska was invited to Sofia, Bulgaria together with other Russian activists in Bulgaria to meet Yury Luzhkov, the major of Moscow at the time. At the meeting, everyone except Bogdanska was asking for money. When her turn came, to the surprise of everyone in the room, Bogdanska said, “We have everything. We do everything by ourselves.”

This immediately caught the attention of already bored Luzhkov. Bogdanska showed him the album of the Russian Club, a bulky book where all the pictures and documents connected with the Club go to. The major got especially excited by the pictures of Maslenitsa celebration in Blagoevgrad.

Coincidence or not, but the very next year Maslenitsa was first held in Moscow.

Ninth of May

An essential annual tradition for the Russian Club is Immortal Regiment, where the local community walks up to the World War II statue with red carnations and portraits of their ancestors in the military.

“It is an opportunity to tell [this story] to our children and grandchildren,” says Voroshilova, holding her tears. Every year, her daughter comes to the event from another Bulgarian city.

From left to right: Marina Rulko and Victoriya Bogdanska lay flowers at the WWII statue in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria during the annual "Immortal Regiment" event. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska.

While walking to the WWII statue, Rulko makes the crowd cry by telling Russian military poems, and Bogdanska sings with Elena Bardarska, another founding member of the Russian Club.

“Maybe [doing this] only one time a year is really too little, but how we do it is just heartbreaking,” says Voroshilova. 

The Immortal Regiment event gathers hundreds of people from Blagoevgrad and other Bulgarian cities. Olga Voroshilova smiles in the military clothes and with a portrait on the left. Victoriya Bogdanska holds the Russian flag in the center. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska.

Alionushki

The duet Alionushki, consisting of Bogdanska and Bardarska, is invited to sing at numerous events and concerts around the country. Not professional singers, they still move the audience with the songs the Bulgarians know from childhood.

Duet Alionushki sings at the 2018 Annual Meeting of Compatriots in Sofia, Bulgaria. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska

The Russian School

When in 2011 the nationalism in Bulgaria started to fade, the members of the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad decided to open the Russian Saturday school for all the children in the city. There, the kids learnt to draw, sing, and speak Russian.

From left to right: Victoriya Bogdanska and Marina Rulko plan the activities in the Russian School in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. Photo from the personal archive of Victoriya Bogdanska.

Unfortunately, because of limited funding, the school had to close in just two years. 

West or East?

According to the informational portal KonsulMir , the Alliance “Union of Compatriots” was formed in 2000 to promote Russian culture and protect the Russian citizens abroad. The alliance now consists of 36 Russian Clubs around the country, including its founding member, the Russian Club in Blagoevgrad.

For the Clubs' members, loving the Russian culture does not mean any less love for Bulgaria. “We are united by our love for Bulgaria,” says Voroshilova. “Bulgarians themselves tell me, ‘Olya, you are more Bulgarian than us.’ ”

Bogdanska adds, “And my friends in Russia say I am more Russian than them.”

Dr. Aleksiev explained the paradox with a Bulgarian joke, “[In the world after WWII], there are two types of nations. One hates Germans and loves Russians. Another one hates Russians and loves Germans. But there are two exceptions. Poles hate both.

And Bulgarians love both.” 

For Old Times’ Sake

It’s one of the rare sunny afternoons in Klaipeda, Lithuania. The old-fashioned ticking clock of local manufacturing shows 3:04 pm. Larisa Šarafutdinova’s official working day finishes at 4, but she does not hope to enjoy the weather any soon. In front of her, there is a pile of newly-arrived books in need: of indexing, pricing, repairs. And attention. Most of them do not receive enough.

“I simply value books,” explains Šarafutdinova. “People come, and I’m sitting here swarming with an old book left by someone negligently. It was torn, and I am glueing it, sticking it up… They ask, ‘Why are you messing around with it? Isn’t it easier to throw it away?’ And then they notice, ‘Oh, Pushkin! Oh, the year of publishing! Oh, that illustrator! Indeed!’ “

Larisa Šarafutdinova shares about her love for the books while looking outside the window: at the city whose people she is hoping to serve. Photo by Anastasiya Pantsialei.

Šarafutdinova works in “Retro Knygos,” the only secondhand bookshop in Klaipeda. Not only the owner but also the accountant, cleaner, programmer and sales assistant, Šarafutdinova can’t afford to hire more help. “With the Internet and electronic books’ growing popularity, [the shop] is not a business anymore. It is a hobby,” says Šarafutdinova. However, she cannot imagine shutting it down.

“The goal of this shop is to give the second, third, fourth, and fifth life to a book.”

— Larisa Šarafutdinova

In “Retro Knygos,” customers can choose from a few hundreds books, the oldest of which date back to the 19th century. Photo by Anastasiya Pantsialei

Larisa Šarafutdinova’s big part of the job is to fill in the Internet catalog of her shop. Photo by Anastasiya Pantsialei.

She loves antiques and believes in their unique aura and energy. “For example, behind my back, there is a painting of the view on Red Square in Moscow. When I hung it there, it changed how I felt sitting, even though it is behind me.” She laughs, “Customers tell me not to sell it, that’s how much it fits here.”

Šarafutdinova values old books: children’s – for promoting kindness and having good illustrations; Soviet technical literature – for clarity. “New books can be amazing, too. It depends! In Klaipeda, we have Kęstutis Demereckas’ publishing,” she says. These books are published in small circulations and sold quickly, for example, Afterwar Klaipeda. Šarafutdinova says, “I sold the last copy of it, my personal one, to one Japanese. Even they are interested in the history of Klaipeda.”

Šarafutdinova learnt to read when she was five. Since then, she has been in love with books. “I have been wearing the glasses from the 3rd grade,” she remembers. “My mom did not allow me to read as much [as I wanted to], and I was reading with a flashlight under the blanket. I was carrying the books in full bags from the library and bringing them back the next day.” Šarafutdinova’s mom only wondered when she managed to read them all?

In “Retro Knygos,” there are books on many topics and in several languages. On the top of the pile, you can see “Walking in sunny Odessa,” in Russian. Photo by Anastasiya Pantsialei.

25 years ago, Šarafutdinova discovered Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. Surprisingly for her, recently her daughter asked her to read the book. Šarafutdinova says, “I understood that something happened. She needed support. She doesn’t like complaining, and she never shared with me about what happened. In every person’s life, there is something theirs. They carry it all their lives with them. In my life, it was this book,” says Šarafutdinova. “It taught me not to give up.”

Growing up in the family of a nurse and a mariner in Klaipeda, Šarafutdinova had many things in her life to give up upon. She never did. As a kid, she loved ballet, music, and art. Her pursuits led her to apply to the Art Academy in Minsk, Belarus. She was rejected by the admissions’ committee and decided to study perspective at the time Road Transport Operation in Riga, Latvia. At that time, her father died, and she worked in sales to provide for herself. Eventually, in 2007, she decided to open “Retro Knygos,” already having some experience in book selling.

The oldest book Šarafutdinova keeps in her shop is this Bible from the 19th century. She is not ready to sell it or even exhibit it to customers yet. Photo by Anastasiya Pantsialei

Šarafutdinova is now a mother of two and a grandmother of four. She advises her children to find the job they love, not the one that pays well. “Every person should have something they love doing. Without a partner, a person feels lonely. Without a passion, a person feels unhappy,” she says. “These diplomas gather dust in the tables. They are not the most important. You have to develop in something that you fall in love with, your stream of life.”

Šarafutdinova dreams about good future for her children and grandchildren, and people around her give her hope for it. “The youth now tries to read in Russian,” she says. “They read Dostoevsky, Chehov, Bulgakov. They all have their interests. Not everyone reads. Some of them do photography, something else. They are sapid and interesting. That’s how I see the youth and people here. Yes, what a good public.”

Silent & Visible

I met this old woman once, and, as old people often do, she told me everything about her life. When we were parting, she said: “What a decent and interesting young woman you are!” I realized I said no words other than “Oh!” “Yes” and “Wow!” during that conversation. So how could I have seemed interesting?

I think it was about my appearance. That day, I did not wear any attention-seeking makeup or clothes. I was wearing sweatpants, trainers, and a jean jacket. But I also have short messy blonde hair and quirky rings, which point out that on some days, I look very different — and possibly interesting.

I wish this old woman called me interesting because she was genuinely interested in talking to me. I wish I managed to put some meaningful words into the conversation. Yet I was silent. And she could only comment on my looks.

It reminded me of the book Invisible Women by Caroline Criado Perez. It talks about how data gaps make women invisible to those who build our world. For example, those who first clean the streets from snow for (male-driven) cars and then (female) pedestrians.

While Perez’ book cannot stop amusing me, as a woman, I don’t quite feel invisible. On the contrary, I often feel like the center of attention.

I could be wearing a pajama and a hoody with greasy hair and no makeup, and I will still get catcalled. I would be stared at, made comments upon, or even asked my name and phone number. I would be frustrated, and my Dad would say, “How are men supposed to meet you then?” And I just want them to treat me as a human. I don’t want to be an object for male subjects when I am actually a female subject with an object. And my object has nothing to do with men.

So I think women are visible, just not in the sense Perez wanted them to. But women are definitely silent.

And maybe women should be vocal. Maybe male-female interactions should be less about the man talking and looking at the woman and more about equal vocal and aesthetic interactions.

Maybe I want to spend an hour in a monologue with a pretty guy with him only saying “Oh,” “Wow,” and “Yes.”

So that when parting, I would tell him he's interesting.

Is There Life After Graduation?

When I got my Bachelor’s degree on a random Sunday afternoon, I did not feel anything. I was sick and wanted only one thing: sleep. Some water would have been nice, too.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve finished my 18 years in preschool, school, and university. I do not remember ever living as a non-student. In high school and university, I often thought of this day with a panic fear. When someone asked my younger self, “So, what are your plans after you’re done?”, my heart would shrink, and my palms would cover in cold sweat.

But as I graduated, I felt peace. At once, I did not owe anything to anyone. I did not owe my professors schoolwork, and I did not owe my parents any more achievements. I’ve done everything everyone wanted, and now I was free.

Thoughts started crossing my mind: “I could go to Cuba right now, and no one can stop me,” “I could marry,” “I could apply for Master’s,” “I could rent an apartment and buy a rabbit.” This world of possibilities is not scary at all. It’s exciting and peaceful at the same time.

I do not rush to dive in. I take it as slow as I can. My day consists of sleeping, working 8 hours, spending time with my family, doing housework, and going to sleep. There is no deadline to look out for. Just starting my 20s, I have all the time in the world.

Am I afraid of procrastinating and postponing my dreams until I’m 40? Also no. First of all, I have no ‘big dream’ I have to achieve to die in peace. Second, I have never been the type of person to sit around and do nothing.

Academia makes you think that life is about deadlines. In academia, life is deadlines. Everything is time-sensitive and seeking your attention. Everything screams, “You are not doing enough.”

Academia is right about many things, but it was wrong this time. Life has just one deadline, and it’s death. Until it comes, I have no reason to hurry.