There are two routes to improvement in revision. We can make the writing better by removing lots of words. Because some of the ideas here are so important to you, you say them frequently. Every redundant word should go, and every sentence, too. The reader cannot face your experience as you have done, so you have to write about it tautly, for the reader's attention, which is differently organized.

We can make the substance more valuable to you by turning from the past to the future. You are now at a new beginning, your writing says, in which the goals of your practice are your happiness and helpfulness to others, not pleasing or living up to your father's expectations. In this sense, having come through mourning, you are now entering law school. But you have a year's learning already under you, so the process of revision now involves seeking out a more specific idea of what you intend to do, where, with whom, and how much you need in order to sustain that practice and that life. Time to get out the crayon and start drawing on the wall.

Blind Faith

-- By TristonFerguson - 14 Apr 2023

“You cannot have the good without the bad, otherwise you will not have an appreciation for the good or the bad.” February 4th marked the one-year anniversary, and I am still grieving. The compass that once subconsciously guided my life, more importantly, my career aspirations has disappeared from the Earth and did not leave any advice or guidance for me to follow. I remain hurt, incomplete, confused, and distraught. However, a new feeling has slowly creeped into my grieving process and has assisted me in remaining hopeful. The feeling is a source of strength that helps me persevere when faced with obstacles and challenges that are a direct result of losing my father at a time when I needed him the absolute most. Bible scripture defines the phenomenon as, “the substance of things hoped for and the evidence for things not seen.” The foundation of my life is no longer dependent on the approval of my father. I now and forever will function and operate from a place of faith.

The morning I found out my father passed away exists as an intangible moment that I would frequently revisit when I would seek closure. I thought that revisiting the moment would give me a sense of closure that I so desperately desired. However, the desire to heal and move forward required that I dissect the relationship I had with my father and the substance that the relationship consisted of. This could not be done by revisiting a moment in which he was no longer present.

For years, my purpose was consumed with pleasing others, primarily my father. I would imagine the day that I could afford to offer him the quality of life that I felt he so desperately deserved. The desire to please my father dedicated nearly every aspect of my life. The earliest example of this came at the age of five when he gave me my first baseball glove. At that moment, baseball became a significant part of my identity. And while I enjoyed the sport, I simply wanted my father to be proud that I was engaged in an activity that brought him a significant amount of joy. I had faith that if my father saw me playing the sport he loved growing up, I would feel like I served my purpose as a son. However, it became clear in my mid-teens that playing baseball simply was not enough. One evening, in my grandparent’s library, my father opened an encyclopedia and showed me the term “Ivy League.” He told me that he wanted me to get there because “that’s where the smartest kids go and become successful.” He reminded me of his desire to attend such an institution whenever possible. Eventually, my purpose as a son quickly shifted from being the best shortstop and left fielder to the best student I could possibly be. I joined every club I could, participated in academic-oriented extracurricular activities, and, more importantly, I gave up the sport I had known for over a decade to pursue a more scholarly set of goals in hopes of further pleasing my father. My scholarly focus shifted me to speech and debate during my junior and senior year of high school.

When I first stepped foot on Columbia’s campus, the emptiness I felt inside myself had remained. I still longed for my father’s approval even after achieving what I thought would make him the happiest. Without him physically with me, I was left confused, hurt, and without a true sense of direction or purpose. This had a significant impact on my mental health and left me with a feeling of emptiness that could not be filled. However, with every passing day, along with the feeling of hurt, confusion, and anxiety, I developed a feeling of hope that was rooted in my understanding of faith. My new hope was to discover myself outside of the parameters established by my father and to do so faithfully. I went into law school wanting to practice corporate law with the hope of being able to one day become a partner. However, I was never able to articulate a real concrete reason as to why I wanted to subject myself to practicing a type of law that brought me no real joy. My answer was always rooted in my desire to provide my family with an exceptional quality of life. Simply put, if I were rich and was of high status or importance, then my father would have to accept me, and I could in turn fulfill my father’s desire. However, I have come to learn that my father’s love was never conditioned on my ability to hold a particular position, but rather to simply be proud of the work that I accomplish. Even though he never expressed it, I have faith that I can accept this assumption to be analogous to what my father would have said to me if presented with the opportunity. The passing of my father not only marks the end to our relationship on Earth, but also the beginning of our relationship with him purely in my heart. This time however, I am operating blindly with faith serving as my compass. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen. I am hopeful that my faith will not guide me down a path to pursue perfection or approval, but to simply be happy and help others.

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