This student was accepted at Brown University.

It felt like I threw myself out of a plane without a parachute. My eyes firmly
shut, I feared for my life as I plummeted towards the ground. In hindsight, perhaps
half coming out at a public restaurant wasn’t the brightest idea. Then again,
living as the half-closeted queer kid meant that I was all too familiar with
intimidating situations.

I asked my mom: “What would you do if I had a girlfriend?” She instantly replied
that she couldn’t understand. Immediately, my heart dropped and the emotional free
fall began. She explained that Americans choose to be gay for personal enjoyment,
which in my Korean culture is an attitude that is severely frowned upon. I sat
there like a statue, motionless and afraid to speak, blindly hurtling towards a
hard reality I hadn’t expected. Rejection cut me deeply and I started to feel the
itch of tears welling in my eyes, yet I had to contain myself. I couldn’t let the
pain seep through my facade or else she would question why I cared. All I could do
was keep looking down and shoveling food into my mouth, silently wishing I could
just disappear. That night, I realized it would be a long time before I could fully
come out to my mom. My eyes tightened as I continued to fall.

In the following weeks, I started noticing how discomfort played a natural part in
my life. I recognized the anxious reactions of my classmates as I argued with my
Christian friends when they said my queerness is a sin. I observed the judgmental
glances my mentors gave me as I passionately disagreed with my conservative lab
mates over my sister’s abortion. Eventually, my friends decided to censor certain
topics of discussion, trying to avoid these situations altogether. I felt like
vulnerability was the new taboo. People’s expressions and actions seemed to confine
me, telling me to stop caring so much, to keep my eyes closed as I fall, so they
didn’t have to watch.

Had others felt uncomfortable with me in the same way I had felt uncomfortable with
my mom? Do they feel that our passions might uncover a chasm into which we all
fall, unsure of the outcome?

Perhaps it was too raw, too emotional.

There was something about pure, uncensored passion during conflict that became too
real. It made me, and the people around me, vulnerable, which was frightening. It
made us think about things we didn’t want to consider, things branded too
political, too dangerous. Shielding ourselves in discomfort was simply an easier
way of living.

However, I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t my comfort, but rather, my discomfort
that defined my life. My memories aren’t filled with times where life was simple,
but moments where I was conflicted. It is filled with unexpected dinners and
unusual conversations where I was uncertain. It is filled with the uncensored
versions of my beliefs and the beliefs of others. It is filled with a purity that I
shouldn’t have detained.

Now, I look forward to tough conversations with a newfound willingness to learn and
listen, with an appreciation for uncertainty. I urge others to explore our
discomfort together and embrace the messy emotions that accompany it. I try to make
our collective discomfort more navigable. Since that dinner, my relationship with
my mother is still in free fall. It’s dangerous and frightening. Thankfully, the
potentially perilous conversations I’ve had with my friends has given me a newfound
appreciation for my own fear. I’ll admit, part of me still seeks to close my eyes,
to hide in the safety I’ll find in silence. Yet, a larger part of me yearns to
embrace the dangers around me as I fall through the sky. I may still be falling,
but this time, I will open my eyes, and hopefully steer towards a better landing
for both my mom and me.