Featured
Stories

Eri Ikezawa (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

 

Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff? 

 

Toes curled right over the lip, hearing the whispers of the breeze, felt it skimming across your arms like skipping stones, as you peered over the precipice? A landscape of sea stacks lies below, like the maws of an undiscovered beast, the seafoam frothing around the tallest rock pillars, the pointed canines in its endless mouth. The current is torrential, lapping violently at the cliffs, eroding the surface grain by grain. You wonder how deep it is, thinking if it’s possible to break the surface once you enter its yawning depths. 

 

So, do you take a leap of faith? Or do you stay, right at the edge, precarious but still safe? 

 

That’s how I feel sometimes, navigating my way through uncertainty, right before I make a concrete decision that has the potential to change the course of my life as I know it. 

 

Now, as a quick interjection, I must confess I am not an adrenaline junkie. I don’t like heights, I don’t like extreme sports, and I am easily frightened. Honestly, the moments before I make a life-altering decision may, perhaps, be the only times where I will voluntarily endure an adrenaline spike—moments that feel as if, for example, I am going cliff jumping. 

 

I remember when I entered my first year of university, I was riddled with crippling depression. My sleep schedule was non-existent, my moods were erratic, and my mind was fraying into infinitesimal pieces that I felt I couldn’t glue back together—and my grades reflected the dismal condition of my internal state. 

 

I remember I would spend time either staring blankly at my load of homework, knowing I should start, or I would sleep at random hours of the day. The homework would stay mostly unfinished until I was scrambling mere hours before it was due and whatever minimal material I would try to study before tests was out as quickly as it went in.  

 

I felt lost. 

 

I was uncertain about my chosen area of study, I had minimal confidence in my social skills, and I was panicking about my future. Even as I type this, I feel a phantom veil of anxiety, frighteningly reminiscent of those times. Eventually, my mom asked me if I wanted to live in Japan with my relatives for a semester. 

 

In that moment, I felt as though my mom—with the best of intentions—had lured me onto the cusp of a cliff dive, pushing me gently until my toes were hanging off the edge. My heart had been racing, and my breathing became short, my vision narrowed until all I saw was the endless abyss of…the unknown. 

 

All I could think about were the cons in that moment. If I deferred a semester, then I would be behind everyone else—a pariah in the eyes of society’s tacit expectations of students. I had never lived with anyone besides my parents—much less in a different country with a vastly different culture. I didn’t know if my knowledge of the language was enough to get me by and I didn’t know if I was brave enough to take the plunge. 

 

There were so many reasons not to, so many reasons to sit securely away from the edge, tucked away safely in the lush field of my comfort zone. 

 

But against all odds, and to my own surprise, I decided to go for it. 

 

Long story short, although I experienced difficulties and hardships while I was overseas, the plethora of knowledge, valuable experiences, and introspection I was able to indulge in was wholly irreplaceable. 

 

During that time, I was able to garner appreciation for spending time on my own. I would take long walks by myself, relish in the aloneness, sculpt burgeoning half-formed thoughts about myself into something more concrete. I also discovered my love and aptitude for language, ardent and passionate. As I was immersed headfirst into Japanese society, it was easier to discern the immediate differences between Western and Eastern cultures—from there, it was easy to derive what I appreciated most about each one and what attributes I think could stand to improve. 

 

When I returned to Canada, I felt refreshed and composed. 

 

It is like breaking the surface of the water below after that initial rush of adrenaline as you finally take the leap off the edge—the winding roaring past your ears on the drop, a fragile entity hurtling towards the dark abyss. But then, you break the surface and all you feel is the immediate biting sensation of the cold water surrounding you. 

 

And once you get accustomed to it, it feels nice—it’s refreshing. 

 

Once you take that first inhale in, it feels euphoric, a victory after a long struggle standing at the precipice—now a pinprick in the distance above you. 

 

That’s how I feel retrospectively looking back at my decision to go to Japan. 

 

Although, it took me great fortitude and commitment to decide to be alone after feeling alone, a prisoner in solitary confinement of my mind and my depression—it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. 

 

I came back to Canada with a new determination to focus on my academics—switching my major from psychology to linguistics, a product of my newfound love for languages. I had a greater appreciation than ever for my parents, for my home, for the country I live in. I had a better knowledge of how big the world really is, and as a result, my mind vastly opened up. 

 

It taught me that life is a gamble at times, that I must juggle between the risks and benefits of a situation, before ultimately coming to a decision. I realized that the comfort zone is merely a temporary solution to ward off future anxieties and fears, but that I would not experience self-actualization or progress if I voluntarily chose to stay stagnant. 

 

—

 

My name is Eri Ikezawa and I have an extended minor in psychology and a major in linguistics. I’m still on the path to quelling questions about myself and the direction I want to head in, but in the meantime, I have always wanted to find a way to help others and contribute to a community dedicated to personal development and self-love.