Narrative Writing: Stumbling into Stoicism ​This piece explores resilience, emotional regulation, and inherited values through personal storytelling. It showcases my ability to analyze human behavior, convey psychological nuance, and build a clear emotional arc—skills that translate directly into content strategy, UX research, and story development work. How to take an exam: •    Skim through the entire exam first. •    Don’t waste time on questions you don’t immediately know; answer everything you’re confident about first. •    Once done, return to the questions you skipped. •    Try your absolute best to answer them. If there are only ten minutes left and you're hopeless, get creative—but be discreet, and don't get caught. My father shared this particular nugget of wisdom when I was about six or seven, around the time kids start taking their first exams. I’ll plead the fifth regarding academic dishonesty, though. I took this advice less as literal instruction and more as a lesson in creativity, staying calm under pressure, thinking outside the box, and recognizing that there’s always another way out. My father embodies those qualities perfectly. He’s the kind of guy who could talk to a man pointing a gun at his head and somehow walk away alive. He started his life in a remote village without electricity or running water, yet his sharp instincts and relentless hustle carried him forward. Life tested him repeatedly—he failed at countless ventures. But each time he fell, he got back up and figured out his next move. Through literal blood, sweat, and tears, he gained business insights only learned in the brutal, dog-eat-dog world of commerce. If you think I’m exaggerating, I’m not. He was scammed or betrayed by close acquaintances for large sums of money at least half a dozen times—just the ones I personally witnessed. Ironically, it’s usually the people closest to you who cause the most damage, simply because they know you best. Having moved across the globe, traveled extensively, grown up with an entrepreneurial father, and worked years in retail and professional environments, I’ve encountered an unusually wide range of people for someone relatively young. Those interactions have given me a broad frame of reference and a genuine curiosity about how others live. This openness pairs perfectly with my love of learning. I don’t form opinions quickly. I study, observe, and wait until I understand something fully. It wasn’t intentional, but somewhere along the way, I became rather stoic. I started looking at everything with analytical detachment. It’s served me well—keeps my mind from reacting too fast, keeps my ego in check, keeps me open to new ideas. But even stoicism has its limits. Just when you think you’ve mastered the art of “expecting the unexpected,” someone you grew up calling uncle—a family friend—shows you how fast people can change. Watching someone discard years of friendship for the right price is deeply disillusioning. By the time I was ten, our family had just risen above middle class. Then we hit reset. We moved to the States, back to zero. My dad refused to work for anyone else, so naturally, he opened a small business. For the first time, my mother worked outside the home. She hustled just as hard as my dad—raising four kids, supporting the family emotionally and practically, and somehow still holding everything together. Both of them gave everything to create a stable life for my sisters and me. By nineteen, I started seeing my parents as people, not just “parents.” By thirty, they’d already had their fourth child—me. Now that I’m approaching that age, it hits differently: they were basically kids raising kids. And that shift makes empathy a whole lot easier. We still argue. But I don’t carry resentment. I can’t control how they raised me. I can only control how I respond. Choosing to see them as young, struggling parents freed me from bitterness. And that, my dudes (gender-neutral), is stoicism in action. Stoicism means accepting what you can’t control, and focusing on what you can. Instead of spiraling about the impossible, it invites you to focus on the possible. It echoes my dad’s exam advice: don’t get stuck on what you can’t solve right away. Answer what you can, then get creative with the rest. This logic has turned out to be one of the best tools I have for managing OCD and anxiety. When my brain throws terrifying, irrational thoughts at me, stoicism reminds me: they’re just thoughts. They’re not reality. Even at my worst, I repeat to myself: They’re just thoughts. I’m okay as long as they stay thoughts. I’m not actually public enemy #1. I didn’t set out to be stoic—but through a combination of my father’s teachings and my life experience, I stumbled into it. And it’s saved me more than once. Another unspoken lesson my father taught me was resilience. No matter how many times life knocked him down, he got back up. And not just got up—he leapt toward opportunities most people couldn’t even see. He didn’t talk about hardship. He didn’t dramatize it. He just lived it. And through that, he modeled something powerful: strength without noise. Of course, I inherited this in my own way. I became exceptionally good at compartmentalizing. Even during periods of severe mental (and sometimes physical) distress, I managed school, jobs, internships, and family responsibilities. I kept going. I pushed myself relentlessly. My brain labeled me a failure at every turn, no matter what I accomplished. The cognitive dissonance was baffling, but familiar. Despite how bad it got, I never let life pass me by completely. I tried my best to seize the moments, even when my own mind fought against me. Had I listened to my constantly doubting, spiraling and irrational thoughts, I might’ve checked out entirely. Instead, I lived—even if at times, it was only through muscle memory. Living, even passively, is still better than not living at all. Now, almost two decades into this journey of chaos, humor, and healing, my parents are finally thriving. They’re not flying business class or staying at five-star resorts, but they take international trips, fly economy, stay modestly, and actually enjoy their lives. And that brings me a kind of joy I didn’t expect. They earned it. Given the way I was raised, it’s no surprise I abandoned comfort in favor of potential. No surprise I became the kind of person who constantly asks, how far can I go? After all, I really am my father’s daughter.