I used to cry a lot when I was younger, whether it was to vent sadness, anger, or frustration. Despite that, I never understood people who seemed to get teary-eyed over everything; minor inconveniences, major successes, movie scenes, music. None seemed to be particularly emotionally provocative. 

Growing up, I was always told that boys don’t cry. I was conditioned to think tears were a manifestation of weakness, so I began to muster all my resolve to keep them in. This became autonomous with time.

As my ability to cry slowly dissipated, so did parts of my soul. I disconnected from my environment, and nothing felt real anymore. I distanced myself so far from everything I did that barely anything could elicit an emotional response. I existed in a shell with immovable barriers shielding my weak, vulnerable self in a way that supported my desire to resist sentiment.

It got to the point where I found it hard to let people in because I lacked the bandwidth to demonstrate compassion. I would act like a different person at school in order to form less of an emotional connection with those around me. I found reasons to hate everyone and found reasons to invalidate successes because admiration and jealousy are both committal feelings. Hatred, not so much. It’s easy to leave something behind when you convince yourself you despise it, but near impossible to walk away from something you love. I thought that the more I had, the more I could lose. The less I invested, the less I had to feel.

I took “I hate everything” a few steps further. “I hate my teachers and I hate everything I’m learning” became almost failing multiple classes in junior year. “I hate school and it feels pointless” became over a hundred absences in senior year. “I hate how the system works” became nineteen college rejections. “I hate everyone” became “everyone hates me.” “I hate myself” became self-destruction.

In my bubble of negativity, it grew increasingly difficult to find motivation for anything. I was dismissive of everything that I disliked which only gave me more reason to hate it. I didn’t want to feel the guilt, so instead I shut it away. 

Soon, I dropped everything that took effort. I left every aspect of my identity behind and found nothing left. There were countless nights I felt irrevocably empty, not wanting to feel, and numbed with hatred. Paralyzed by Medusa’s gaze, I became unmoving as stone.

Still, even the most solid stones weather over time. A couple of small breakthroughs stalled the kiss of death, and slowly I crawled out of my grave. Emotions started coming back to me.

Never have I broken down more than in these past few months. 

A while back, I found myself binging compilations of old seasons of MasterChef Canada. The show is so much deeper than simply who can cook the best. Each dish and chef has personality and story behind them, such as techniques rooted in upbringing or growth displayed throughout the season. Whether it’s cooking to spite parents or cooking to make them proud, love for the craft shines through it all. I choked up more times than I would like to admit, for reasons so simplistic that they barely sound believable. 

The first time I cried was over a cake. When cut into, liquid passionfruit flowed from the base, revealing a sponge cake executed to perfection. It was technically brilliant, and I cried for its beauty. Then, I cried again while admiring Reynold’s elegant desserts, which left every person in the room in disbelief as he explained that his mother’s hard work to make a living as a pastry chef was his inspiration. I cried for his story and his careful dedication and perfection of his craft. Next, it was watching a seventy year old man jump around like a child after being told his dish was the best the judges had seen the entire day. I cried for his youth-like excitement. 

It makes me emotional to witness others display passion. The uncontrollable rush of sentiment after watching others pour their soul into their craft regardless of potential outcomes and scanning their corresponding emotions after the fact is so exhilarating. Their pain, relief, and joy; each an intricate display of hard work, devotion, and love which spans a lifetime.

Passion is just so fucking cool. I love listening to people ramble about their interests and revere those who do what they truly enjoy. I love watching emotional responses as a result of passion. It makes me feel like if I try hard enough, and invest enough time into something, I too can accomplish something.

I saw it in Billie and Finneas’s wholesome music creation process in their documentary “Billie Eilish: The World’s a Little Blurry.” From their homely bedroom studio where “WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP, WHERE DO WE GO?” was produced to their reactions to the overnight rise to fame of “ocean eyes,” and every event that led up to that moment. Everything has so much more meaning when put into context.

I saw it in Derrick Rose’s fifty point game; a sign of undying persistence after a career-altering ACL tear the season after he was named the youngest MVP in NBA history. I saw it in Naomi Osaka’s victory over her childhood hero Serena Williams at the Australian Open, in Jennifer Yu’s candid interviews at the U.S. Women’s Chess Championship, in NIKI’s radiance at Head in the Clouds, and in Deft’s joy and Keria’s tears at Worlds. 

I get it all now. 

Through these moments, the armor began to crack. My heart began to question the dissociative defense mechanisms I grew to subconsciously employ. I slowly rediscovered how to feel. 

I take this as a sign that I’m finally becoming human again. That I can step into another’s shoes, feel their intensity, and pirouette on cloud nine with them. That I can feel an emotion that isn’t hatred for someone else’s success. That I no longer resent the world. That I can cry, and that I once again want to be passionate about something. That I care. About people, about my craft, and about my dreams. To me, that is what beauty is. 

I remember the latter half of senior year a lot better than any other period of my life despite it not being particularly more enjoyable. I filled every minute with music and now associate certain people and events with certain songs. When they come up on shuffle, I am reminded of the moments and memories. It makes me happy. I like to think it’s because I’ve started to live with intent.

I look back on it all so fondly. Choosing to fully commit to writing and for the first time receiving praise for something I’ve created. Actually putting effort during AP testing, scoring straight 5’s, and realizing that I am still capable. Walking through the halls alone, and realizing that being by myself does not necessarily mean that I am the problem. Skipping graduation, and letting go of the place I hated the most. The painful month of April. I see it all through rose-tinted lenses, because it showed that I cared. Every positive, every negative, and every single event that happened was a result of consciousness. Like I was no longer a heartless body, but one that truly put thought into everything. 

I still don’t know very much. But there are a few things I’m sure of.

I know that my name is Jason and that every day I’m still figuring everything out. I’ve only recently begun to heal, and I now know that giving up is no longer an option. I learned that dreams can come true, that existence is not a lost cause, and that life is not a losing game. I realized that the world can be beautiful if I choose to see it that way, and that beauty can take on several definitions.

The stone has shattered, the weight is gone. The smoke is subsiding, the darkness is slowly fading. The mountain seems more approachable, the journey doesn’t feel so hopeless. I care again, there is once again substance to my soul. My heart has disintegrated and mended, giving birth to a new one, tender and full of life. 

I actually find the world pretty now, and I finally choose to take it all in rather than drowning it all out. I have visions for the future, and I have big dreams. I have strong opinions that I will defend to the death, and causes that I support. I feel proud of small successes, and I feel devastated when I fall short, but I know that it’s all part of the process. I want to grow, I want to meet people, and I want to explore the world. 

I think I’m starting to become human.