On mundane weekend mornings—treasured moments I now mourn in retrospection—my mom would share her philosophy. Much of it ricocheted off my hardheadedness. I was eager to start a new painting or irritate my neighbors with some of the instruments that littered my living room; as a teenager with endless interests, I rarely paused for conversations about the hypothetical. But when she analogized me to a barrel, I was taken aback. She reasoned that the shortest stave of a wooden barrel determines the volume of water it holds, parallel to a person’s greatest weakness being the determinant of their arbitrarily defined value. I disagreed strongly. We both knew she was talking about my reticence.
My parents made it their mission to cultivate a well-rounded barrel; all I knew, for upwards of a decade, was bouncing from gymnastics training to art class, all while dreading public speaking afterwards, then finishing with soccer (or whichever sport I was meddling in) before bracing for a competition on the weekend. I learned two things over these hectic years: one, that I have a remarkable ability to take an interest in almost everything, and two—a more sobering realization—that my value tethered to how I ranked in those competitions. These two revelations carried into my take on academics.
My passion for learning had gotten me through the stressful years of high school where my weakest subject, English, turned into an unexpected source of pride and enjoyment. Then, the realization that I wanted to directly help other people—that I wanted to become a doctor—dawned on me. But on a whim, upon discovering Neuralink, I stood in awe of biomedical engineers and aspired to become one myself. With each impulse, university admissions loomed nearer, impatient towards my indecision. In January of my senior year, business and engineering were the draw. My justification? It was the only choice that would preserve my interest in every discipline, from the strategic decision-making that accompanies commerce to the number-crunching nature of STEM. Although business initially seemed foreign to me, its emphasis on making substantiated decisions echoes the analysis and depth I loved so much about my English classes. Ivey would nurture my communication skills, conquering my shortest stave, and transform my written fluency into a confidence that extends to every conversation. Naturally, choosing Western was a no-brainer, being the only Canadian institution that offered me an outlet for pursuing the familiar—STEM—and the unfamiliar—business. My decision-making process was reversed, leaving me to realize the benefits of my choice in the coming year.
When I moved in during September, the stunning architecture I once visited upon receiving my acceptance now seemed to loom in on me. The intimate classrooms of high school, where each person could carve out a unique reputation, now bloomed to an irreplicable size. My excitement about meeting peers who shared my hobbies was subdued by insecurity about the amount who seemed ‘better’ than me, by my naive and one-dimensional metrics. And yet, every AEO and HBA student I had met all seemed to have a distinct niche. I had to unlearn that being on the podium is the only measure of success and validator of painstaking effort. It’s not just about how high a GPA you can attain, or the sheer amount of extracurriculars you have, or the fleeting impression you leave on a stranger; it’s everything about you, in tandem. And so, the comparison between me and the next person is not so stark.
Those mundane weekends did not go wasted—my mom’s wisdom planted itself staunchly in the back of my mind, feeding my stamina in conquering discomfort. Despite my initial skepticism, the deduction of myself to a simple object, bound by uncomplicated wooden staves, is a much more digestible metaphor than the complicated reality of being human—especially one who strives to be perfect.
The barrel I have cultivated grew its capacity significantly upon coming to Western. Having a suite of case competitions, mock trials, humbling class presentations and bombed interviews behind me, I now feel more prepared than ever to take on challenges, especially those that directly combat communication. I met memorable, new people who were not competitors, but peers who embodied complementary strengths and fresh insights. I sought refuge in my quiet interests and expressed myself through art and writing. My fear of public speaking is no longer a deterrent in seeking opportunities—the only next step is finding, and growing, the next-shortest stave.