Reflecting is, and always has been, difficult for me. I am comfortable when I am constantly on the move. It is hard for me to stop for a moment and to seize all my thoughts, unchamber the next step, remove the springs from my soles. But feeling the Earth spin beneath me while I remain still is a gentle invitation to slow down.
My experience at Emory University has felt fast. One day, I was moving into Raoul Hall with a tub full of books I cherished from high school, and before I knew it, I was defending my honors thesis. Everything that happened in between only accelerated the turbines of my life, from the student groups I joined to the academic opportunities I pursued. And I loved every part of it. If I wanted to, I could write a love letter to the place that watched me grow into the slightly less naive, more sensible person I am now — but let me slow down.
In college, we often tattoo the hustling culture onto our palms, constantly reaching for the next thing. We submit to our instincts to climb and achieve, and that is expected for students at Emory. However, the cost of this bustling lifestyle is often the betrayal of serenity. We work and work until we suddenly realize the day is gone and wonder if we will have to court the night yet again to finish studying. Responsibilities pile so high that you are terrified that you will knock one down and set off a cascade of failures. At the same time, your friends — who you love and whom you are scared you will push away — are asking where you have been. They are asking you to slow down.
Before I came to Emory, I found solace in reading. During the COVID-19 lockdown, I was reading constantly, discovering joy in working through a tough Fyodor Dostoevsky or James Joyce novel. I kept up the habit my freshman year in college, choosing to stay in on weekends to finish F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” or Richard Powers’ “The Overstory.” That is what brought me comfort amid a new environment. But the next year, school work and academic papers replaced my bookshelf’s previous inhabitants. It was suddenly hard to make room or time to read for pleasure. After that, I hardly did anything for the sake of enjoying the moment. I was either practicing taekwondo or competing at mock trial tournaments, doing research or working an internship. All of these things were enriching, of course they were. But enjoying them meant embracing haste, yielding time in a zero-sum game and surrendering solace and stillness. It is difficult to say what I would have changed to reclaim the luxury of reading the last few years, but I know that there were more than a few moments where opening up a short story and recentering my weight to the pages in my hands would have resolved any problems I had at the moment. To contemplate over a book is an invitation to slow down.
My greatest gift in college came from the friends who pulled me toward them as hard as I pushed them away. I was always told that college would be defined by the relationships I formed. But as I traveled weekend after weekend for various commitments, I allowed text messages from friends to pile up, calls from parents to wither to voicemails and lunch plans to foil at the last minute. I was complacent about and content with the relationships I had, even if I drifted from them. I would sometimes go weeks without seeing my best friends. But they would remind me that love is not a stationary thing, but a living, breathing act and service. Although I did not get this then, I understand now that what I felt every time they asked for a meal to catch up or to come over and hang out was love. I recognize that I was only able to achieve my goals because the people around me cast a net with their arms to support me. To Anna, Eric, Amy, Jeff, Leo, Jacob, Eli, Ben, Ellen and more — thank you for your love and the invitation to slow down.
Reflecting is difficult for me because it means that I have to confront the truth that I am deeply afraid of stopping. When I feel the Earth spin, I want to outrun it. But today, I am a little more comfortable with pausing every now and then to realize that I do not have to be moving to feel alive.
David J. Lee (25C) is from Duluth, Ga. At Emory, he majored in political science and minored in economics. He co-captained the nationally-ranked mock trial team for two years while conducting research as a Center for Law and Social Sciences Fellow. Lee contributed to two political science Ph.D. dissertations and an upcoming book at the Politics of Policing Lab. He wrote an honors thesis on the politics and efficacy of Atlanta’s Policing Alternatives Diversion Initiative, where he also worked as a legal intern for almost two years. Outside of academics, Lee is a competitive taekwondo athlete. He recently won a gold medal at the 2024 World Poomsae Championships in Hong Kong. After graduating from Emory, he will pursue a master’s degree in Global Social and Political Thought at the University of St Andrews in Scotland as one of four recently chosen Robert T. Jones Jr. Scholars.
