The Importance of Not Being Moldable

Your spirit is telling you something. Listen.

Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

When my sister and I reflect on our childhood we like to joke our parents wanted prodigies. Even if they’ll never admit it, their disappointment when we turned out to be average kids who preferred dolls over inventing new math equations told us everything we needed to know. Like many immigrant parents, I was taught to value prestige, success, and ambition (but they’ll never admit that either). My childhood was spent being encouraged to read and study and being discouraged from playing, particularly by my father. My sister who had a love of toys to make up for my ambivalence of them, gave my father plenty of grief as a result. It wasn’t uncommon for him to wake up one day, sweep our beloved objects of play into a trash bag, and toss them beside the trash can or in some corner of the basement. 

Much of our afternoons were spent pouring over a math book or in front of a whiteboard as our mother helped us learn class content. Report card and exam grade releases were often the bane of my existence in elementary school. Failure wasn’t an option and I found myself failing a lot. Even as I picked up academically in middle and high school, a B on a report card meant severe admonishments and heated glares that would last for days. The expectations were high but simple; if redemption was desired, one must spend every waking hour pouring over textbooks and notebooks, analyzing errors until the coveted 4.0 GPA was achieved. 

Because stable and prestigious careers are also a requirement for familial acceptance, you had three options: doctor, lawyer, or engineer. No, you couldn’t be a writer, no you couldn’t go into interior design, no you couldn’t go into fashion design. So I learned very quickly to be moldable. To not seek environments suited to you, but to find environments you want to be in and to conform accordingly. 

Learning how to fail and do so gracefully is a skill I’ve taught myself over the past four years. I’ve learned to speak and treat myself more gently, blocking out the judgments and critiques of my parents. However, my ambition and desire for prestige still stick. So when I found a job opportunity that would allow me to get the patient hours I needed to bolster my medical school application, I was all in. The benefits were a plus, the hours (and commute) were a bit demanding, but it was exactly what I needed. I was determined to show up and to be successful, even as I stared down a start date that was three weeks after a four-hour-long double jaw surgery. Against the advice of my mother and the hesitancy of my doctor, I showed up the first day, tired but eager. 

The days went on and I naturally found myself struggling to make headway. While many of my peers could jump in and get started I spent extra time shadowing and being retrained. Just as I was looking forward to getting settled in, my hours were cut and my parents encouraged me to look elsewhere. Only a month or two in, I didn’t want to believe it. I put my head down and went to work. Consistent meetings with higher ups trading nervous glances as they discussed my performance became a regular occurrence. I was confused as I didn’t see my peers being pulled into similar meetings, but I took it in stride. I did my best to listen to feedback given, completed tasks, made mistakes, and fixed them. 

As I quietly understood that every mistake made was being watched and reported, work became laced with an air of anxiety and dread. The pressure was on, but it was no trouble. I would just keep going until I got it right. 

So when I was eventually fired, underneath the feelings of sadness and disappointment, was relief. Despite my efforts, the surgery made it difficult for me to catch up to my peers (as well as a liability to the company). Things I was learning for the first time, they had already done at least once. Additionally, the list of goals I needed to complete before applying to medical schools would require additional time a 35-hour workweek wouldn’t allow. The commute also proved to be a lot more taxing than I anticipated. Looking back, I recognize that my termination was a decision made after a meeting regarding my future plans, placement preferences, and continuation of post-op doctor appointments. Things that most likely couldn’t be catered to. Looking back, I can recognize that no matter how much I got right, my days there were numbered. 

The most important lesson I learned was that my health should’ve come first and I realize how lucky I am for my performance to be the only thing that suffered during my time there. Never again will I overlook the importance of compatibility when it comes to job searching. Never again will I ignore red flags of reduced hours and routine meetings with HR. Never again will I ignore warnings from my family when I speak up about my experiences at work.

When I reflect on this experience, I wish I had been more unyielding. Not in my attempts to improve my performance, but in my attempts to leave a workplace where I was never going to be successful. Rather than trying to squeeze into a sweater two sizes too small, I wish I had set it aside and gone for one that was a better fit. Of course, this is something I could’ve realized sooner had I not treated this opportunity as the only one. I also could’ve realized this sooner if I understood that quitting while you’re ahead, isn’t the same as quitting and bowed out before things got too far.

So, as I stare down a possible second opportunity, I will do well to remember not just to sharpen my eye and ask questions, but to be unyielding. I will do well to remember that sometimes no matter how badly you want something, if it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. Sometimes the best thing to do isn’t to push forward, but to let go.

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