The pursuit
Tears freely fall from my eyes and kiss
the tops of my cheeks as I search for the right words to express the
overwhelming emotions I feel today. Each tear a culmination of a journey that
at times I thought couldn't be possible. Each riddled with the trials, heartache,
devastation, and pain of the past months. They're also composed of the
disbelief that we actually made it: that we did it. I say "we"
because it wasn't just me that got me to this point, it was the tireless work
of so many people. Those tears are also enriched with the compassion, love, and
confidence of those same people.
When I began graduate school the fall of
2013, only a select few people knew about my CF. I didn't want anyone to know.
I wanted to do this on my ability alone. I've never wanted any special
treatment, any favors, or to be seen
differently than
my peers. I wanted the bar of expectation to be just as high as everyone
else's, if not higher. I wanted everyone to see me, first and foremost for me,
not CF. Most of all, I didn't want any pity. Within the first few days I was
forced to tell a few more people about CF, as I had started the first semester
with an exacerbation brought on by hemoptysis (coughing up blood). I got
through that course of treatment, and would be free to pursue the semester
hiding CF until I had a serious episode of hemoptysis during my student's jury
(a performing final in the world of music). I was forced to tell the rest of my
professors and colleagues the truth about CF and my life. The very thing I was tirelessly
trying to hide from them all was becoming more and more impossible. Little did
I know, that would be the first of many events that CF would impact during my
pursuit of a graduate degree. Little did I know what CF would have in store for
me the second year of graduate school. It's still unbelievable to me, the road
I've journeyed to this very day.
Six months ago I couldn't walk across a
room, I couldn't put clothes on, let alone sing because of complications
brought on by CF. I remember the tears of devastation overwhelming me, not
because I couldn't bound up the steps like I used to, but because I couldn't
sing. The mere thought of never possibly singing again was so very devastating.
Everything I had known and loved had been pulled out from under me. I felt as
if I had completely lost who I was.
So, some life changes were mandated, but
the pursuit of finishing graduate school was not something I was willing to
sacrifice. I knew I had to do whatever I possibly could to finish what I had
begun. CF was not going to win that battle, nor will it ever. The final
semester was not easy, and it was filled with a lot of tears. But it is
something I wouldn't trade for anything. Up until about six weeks ago I could
still hardly sing, not knowing if my final graduate recital would even be a
possibility: the very thing I had dreamed of accomplishing. Again, the faculty
and my colleagues went above and beyond the call of grace to be ever so
supportive and encouraging. I have been shown more grace by them than I deserve
in a lifetime. Little did I know exactly what I'd all learn from my semesters
at graduate school. Yes, I learned to be a better musician, better teacher, and
gained better insight and knowledge into music as an art form, but most of all
I gained perspective into what it means to truly live, love, and be grateful
for every person that fills my life.
The Honor of a Lifetime
Last night, in a recital hall filled with
the most incredible people, I gave my graduate lecture recital. From a hospital
bed and oxygen literally 6 months ago to a stage performing some of the most
difficult music I've ever done. I cry because it shouldn't have happened: all
odds pointed towards no. I cry because as I looked out into the audience I saw
my own reflection and the belief that they each had in me. I cry because of the
grace I was so generously shown. I cry because I know it wasn't just me
standing on that stage, it was every person who poured themselves into me over
the past two years. I cry because CF did not win. We did.
I reflect on these past two years and it's
hard for me to fathom the journey. It's hard for me to realize how quickly they
have slipped through my fingers. What is most difficult for me is the thought
that I must start a new chapter, move on from those relationships that have
become such a significant part of my life, to start a new pursuit: a new
journey.
I leave you with a phrase that meant the
most to me in one of my recital pieces, "Beyond all hope, I prayed those
timeless days we spent might be twice as long." I look back at my time,
relationships, experiences, and lessons learned, and I wish each moment would
have lasted twice as long. Beyond all hope you each believed in me, filling me
with more life than you each will ever know. Thank you will never be enough.
Love to you all.
Thank you to every person who made last
night possible.
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