Enough Take #2

By Nhi Nguyen / Spring 2025

I.

At 4.17 in the morning, I am not up, but my body is– tight shoulders and a stiff neck signal a restless night. I woke up from my bad sleep position– I slept sitting. I slept sitting up again. I did not mean to fall asleep. My cheek is imprinted with a faint, greasy grid.

My laptop is still open, a square of cold, blue light in the dark room. It illuminates the dust motes dancing in the stale air, a private, sterile galaxy. This room has become a cell. It smells of burnt coffee and the hot plastic of an overworked laptop fan. It smells of anxiety. In a panic, I pick up my phone, check the time, rub my burning eyes, and get back to work.

Google Docs lights up. The title stares back at me: Work-life balance and syndrome of burnout. The cursor blinks, a relentless, tiny heartbeat counting down the seconds to the 7:00 AM deadline. My own heart pounds in sync with it.

This isn’t unusual, if not a regular part of my routine. My night routine looks like this: be woken up by pain, panic, chug the leftover of cold, acidic coffee, go back to work, and repeat. Along the way, somewhere in the cycle, my body picked up the depletion. Exhaustion became a part of the job description, a deep, cellular weariness that no amount of sleep can touch. But stopping isn’t an option. The Academic Machine doesn't pause. It doesn't sleep. It certainly doesn't put up with weaknesses, and winners do not rest. It must go on, so must I.

Growing up in a typical Asian household taught me that my achievements speak louder and hold more weight than anything, even when nobody says it explicitly. At least, my parents never addressed it specifically, but I could see it. I could see it when my mom’s face lit up with a brilliant, radiating pride when I presented her with perfect A scores. I could see it when my dad bragged about my academic achievements on the phone with relatives.

To my naive mind, pride is not unconditional; rather, it is earned, quantified, and evaluated. Grades become my currency metrics, where As will be appraised and Bs are the bare minimum. The equation belonged to a justifiable The Machine, to which I believe. My self-worth, I mean. It is composed of many factors: number of certificates, medals, and good grades in the report. I internalized and comprehended this cold, hard logic of the playbook very well, and as a matter of fact, we– all play by the rules. Effort in, approval out. It seemed fair. I was a child, and children crave structure. What I couldn't have understood was that The Machine was designed to be precision.

I remember my first perfect score. Second-grade math. A simple addition and subtraction worksheet, ten points total. When my teacher handed it back, the paper felt electric. A bright red "10/10" was circled at the top, a smiley-face sticker next to it. It felt like I had discovered a form of magic. The number was a key. It unlocked a door to pure joy. That afternoon, I didn't walk home; I ran, the paper tightly held in my sweaty hand. I embrace and wave it as if it is my victory flag. I burst through the front door. "Mom!"

But the magic was fragile. The magic did not last. A week later, another worksheet. The score– 9/10.

The rules changed without warning. By middle school, a 90% wasn't cause for celebration but concern. "What happened to the other ten percent?" my father would ask, his brow raised not with anger, but with a worry that felt infinitely heavier. The system itself became the Colosseum. "Who got the highest?" teachers would ask, posting test-score ranks for all to see on the classroom wall. A tangible tension would fill the room. My classmates and I became walking GPAs, our social status determined by our position on the ranking sheet. Friendships became "competitive" alliances. "You got a 98? Can I study with you?" became the new format of social interaction, replacing shared gossip and laughter. Just like robots, we were programmed to strive for the highest achievements.

I could not forget the time where my interest does not match The Systematic Machine. It was seventh-grade science, a unit on ecosystems that I found genuinely fascinating. I had studied for hours. I even meticulously crafted flashcards with definitions of "photosynthesis." I drew food chain diagrams in my notebook that went far beyond the textbook's requirements. I loved the material. But the test was full of tricky, multiple-choice questions designed to trip you up. When the result landed on my desk, the world tilted. Despite excitement and mock test practices, a big 59% was scrawled in red ink at the top. The number was an accusation.

My teacher, Ms. Tam, made me stay after class. "Did you forget to study last night?" she sighed, her disappointment a physical weight in the air. She wasn't angry. She was disappointed, which felt infinitely worse. I had not just failed a test. I had fundamentally devalued myself in her eyes. The word attached directly to my head, I think to myself “You don't work hard enough”, just like how the main character forms toxic motivation in “Hate the game, not the player.”

That evening at home, there was no yelling. Their silence was a weapon, far more cutting than any angry word. At the dinner table, my father pushed his chair back without looking at me, the newspaper rustling with unnecessary force. My mother served me my food as usual, yet avoiding my gaze. The silence in the room was a living thing, thick and suffocating. I had broken the norm. The approval I so desperately craved was withdrawn. I sat there, pushing the food around my plate, the sound of my spoon scraping against the ceramic unnaturally loud. I wanted to scream. To explain. But the words were trapped behind a wall of shame. It was a painful feeling of how other people would only see the result but not my effort and passion about the topic. This moment sparks an uncertain feeling about the righteousness of The Machine that I have always trusted in.

II.

High school came, turning education into a full-blown bloodsport. Every assignment became a frantic calculation. I began to chase after the letter grades, not the knowledge. Perhaps I was being strategic, planning on how I could land me in my dream schools, my dream jobs, my dream social status. From spending the last 15 minutes of break time solving extra math work to cutting screen time for an additional extracurricular, all, hoping for a better resume.

I stopped reading for pleasure. The fantasy novels I once died for were replaced by dense SAT vocabulary workbooks. My comic books, once my obsession, gathered a thick layer of dust in the back of my closet. The aspiration was real. I told myself it was worth it. That this was the path to my dream.

The pressure began to manifest physically. My body started to rebel, screaming for a rest my mind refused to grant. Being the class lead, I could never let my guard down, especially with the upcoming SAT and the fact that other folks are waiting expectantly for my one slip so they could climb up in our class rankings. The final examination. The stepping stone to my dream university. I had prepared for months—practice exams, tutoring sessions, flashcards memorized up to a tiniest point.

But the worst always comes at the critical moment. A heartless fever hit late at night. The thermometer read 102 degrees. A wave of dizziness washed over me as I sat up. Rescheduling wasn't an option. This was the last possible date. My mother, her face etched with worry, pressed cold medicine into my palm as I walked out the door. "Try to do your best," she said, her voice tight.

I stumbled into the testing site anyhow, gobbling pain pills. The testing center was cavernous, freezing. I shivered uncontrollably in my three-layer sweater, the cold seeping deep into my spine. I remember shaking through the reading comprehension section, my head pounding a savage rhythm against my skull. The questions were suspended in space in front of me as I fought to focus on dense passages about 19th-century British politics. The words swam before my eyes, refusing to align into coherent sentences. During the math portion, a wave of nausea rose in my throat. I stumbled to the bathroom splashing cold water on my face trying to clear my head unsuccessfully and returned to my seat because what else was there to do? Quitting was not a choice. When the proctor finally called time, there were numerous questions left empty. Tears unconsciously dripped onto the table. That day, my aspiring soul had left me with the next two weeks of anxiety for the result.

Nothing more to expect. When the scores arrived, it was the death penalty. Not because 1290 is a poor score, but due to the inadequacy of the world I was trying to enter.

The reactions were worse than the score itself. My parents did not yell. They did not need to. The disappointment was sensible, a cold fog that filled our house. "We paid for all those prep courses..." my father talked to no one in particular, his voice trailing off. Friends who got better scores suddenly spoke to me in whispers, as if failure was catching. For the first time, I questioned the system– the Machine I had dedicated myself to. The system that once gave me motivation. The system that got me applause. If one test could reverse years of effort, what was the point?

This was my metamorphosis. Not into a creature locked in a room, but into something just as isolated. Since when have I become a worker bee? Industrious. Loyal. Dedicated to the hive. My whole life had been flying from flower to flower, gathering the pollen of good grades. I carried it all back, offering the golden honey of my achievements for the approval of the colony. Dreaming that one day I might become the queen I could never be. The hive celebrated the sweetness, but it never knew the cost—the tired wings, the distraught pace.

That SAT score felt like a fatal sting. The final, desperate act of a bee dying to protect the hive's honor. I had plunged my stinger into the enemy—my own feverish body—and in doing so, I had ripped myself apart. But no one shed a tear for the bee. The other bees, the ones who had found sweeter flowers, simply kept buzzing. The hive only cared about the honey, and mine was bitter. The truth settled with a suffocating weight: a worker bee can never become a queen. It can only work until it can no longer work, and then it is forgotten. The praise was never for me. It was only ever for the honey.

I hated the question, "What makes you special and worthy among thousands of students?" in the college application. Honestly, I did not know. Aren’t my grades enough? They were me. They defined me. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I am sure it was not coming from my heart. I took the last chance to submit dozens of applications. The rejections piled up. "We regret to inform you..." They all sounded like another verdict: Too bad. Not good enough. I retreated, realizing that I had been a failure not just academically, but as a person. The attempt perished to nothing. Hours of dedication crumbled. My parents' late-night toil for my fees felt useless.

III.

Redemption then came, unexpectedly. Not in an Ivy League acceptance, but in a classroom at a community college.

At the beginning, I was upset. Community College was never on my checklist. It was a consolation prize. A mark of failure. But then, I met professors who engaged with me. When I turned in my first essay—a passionate argument about the importance of coral reef conservation—she didn't just give me a grade. She asked me to stay after class. My panic peaked. But she just wanted to talk. "This perspective is fascinating," she wrote in the margins. "You've identified a key gap in the current policy proposals. Have you considered the economic impacts further?" For the first time, someone saw my work as a thought, not a data point.

I met friends who would ask about my weekends, not my GPA. Apparently, those numbers mattered less here. Not entirely, but less. I started to feel the excitement to learn again– the learning for myself, not for any algorithmic evaluation of my worthiness. I joined the International Student club, not for my resume, but because I wanted to. My grades improved, but their weight in my soul grew lighter. I was finally waking up.

On the spring day last year when my UCSD acceptance arrived, I stared at the thick envelope. I didn't tear it open right away. I held it, feeling its weight, thinking of all the late nights, the panic attacks, the moments of doubt that led me here. My parents cried when I told them. Real tears. But the most surprising part? The acceptance was not just a validation. It was freedom. A proof, proving that a small self of me could achieve without letting the Machine define me.

It was the same destination, but an entirely different traveler arrived. The first time, I had offered the system a perfect, hollow shell—a resume polished to a mirror shine. I was rejected. This time, I offered them a person, instead of plain numbers, like how Dr. Martin Luther King once expressed, “We must rapidly begin the shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society”(King). My application wasn't just a list of scores; I “added depth to dimensions” to them by showing my person, who was filled with the explorations of a curious mind. The acceptance wasn’t for the flawless worker bee. It was for the person who had learned her sting, her passion, her voice. The Machine had demanded a perfect product. I gave it a person instead, and the person was enough.

IV.

Late at night, as I go to bed at a reasonable hour, I recall that girl who woke up at 4:17 AM, sacrificing sleep, health, and happiness for the approval of the algorithm. My laptop light is substituted by moonbeams that filter in through the curtains. My shoulders are dropping, breathing is returning to normal. In the other part of the room, my phone is silent—no wake-up calls have been set for the early morning.

The ghost of that girl is still with me sometimes. She’s the flicker of panic I feel when I get a grade that’s less than an A. She’s the voice that whispers ‘unproductive’ when I spend an afternoon reading a novel just for me. The scars from the system don’t disappear. But now, I know how to answer that voice. I know that productivity isn't the sole measure of a life. That rest is not a weakness but a necessity. The healing is ongoing. A conscious act of defiance, practiced every day.

Somewhere, another student is just beginning their own fight with The Machine. I wish I could tell them about the lesson that took me years to learn: Your worth was never in the numbers. It's in the late-night conversations that have nothing to do with school, in the things you do just for fun, in the person you're becoming, independent of any system's calculation. The Machine will always demand more—your joy, your sweat, your time, your youth. Don’t let it. Because you and I—we are enough.

Work Cited

Kafka, Franz. The Metamorphosis. Translated by Susan Bernofsky, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2014.

King, Martin Luther. "‘Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break the Silence.’" NPR, NPR, 27 Feb. 2009.

Anonymous. “Hate the Game, Not the Player.” Course Reader. Winter 2023.