A few weeks ago, I entered a steaming hot shower with the looming knowledge of two midterms awaiting me. Naturally, I began some meditative breathwork for a mental reset. Ironically, my third meditative breath could have very well been my last. Seconds passed, and I woke up on the bathroom tiles, soon catching my reflection: my face, dripping with blood.

About 15 hours later, the doctors diagnosed me with a severe concussion and multiple facial fractures. I was so consumed by chasing what’s ahead that I disregarded my body’s needs for water and oxygen.

When I arrived home, I lay supine on my Death Star bed sheets, crestfallen, convinced that my life would never be the same. I was afraid of where I would be after these next few weeks, afraid of falling behind and hearing about my peers thriving while I lay there, discarded by something I never asked for. But, most of all, I started sinking into a state of loneliness, missing the people I cherished in my life and wondering where I would be without them today.

I felt as vapid as the white ceiling hanging above: internally berating myself for rushing to study and discounting the extra breath I needed that led up to that foolish crash, falling into a cyclone of shameful regret. Thankfully, my mom observed my sharp pang of shame and said, “When God puts you on your back, look up.” 

So, I did. 

Immediately, that white ceiling transformed into an open canvas; splotches of restless regret were reimagined through strokes of reflective gratitude. My anxieties from all the noise I allowed to get to me dissipated, and for the first time in my life, I felt my soul and mind in harmony. I wanted this feeling to last forever; I had never felt so at peace simply existing.

But the longer I sat with myself, the deeper I pondered one question: Why does it matter if I can’t share this peace that I gained by deliberately slowing down?

Now suspended between my Death Star bed sheets and that blank ceiling, I realized I couldn’t locate myself without locating the people around me first. The people that I failed to prioritize because I was too busy, or too swamped with what my school life demanded of me. But my newfound stillness brought me clarity, and I knew it would be my people who would fulfill me with purpose. 

I remembered a quote from Marcus Aurelius: “That which is not good for the beehive cannot be good for the bees.” A bee can harvest as much honey as it desires, but if estranged from its hive, it will die before the next sunrise. Their purpose becomes fruitless without the community it intends to serve, but when all the bees work in harmony, they become a superorganism.

When I returned to school, everything was slower and lighter. I followed my friends closely, experiencing their daily lives, which ranged from sound mixing in Dolby Atmos or hosting an event to help foster kids get through college. Each interaction, friend or not, was cherished because I knew this very moment was the only one in my control. By not hiding or performing, but by listening intentionally, my gratitude snowballed for my hive.

As our time at USC progresses, midterm grades and internship results can quietly impact our sense of self-worth. When left unchecked, this mentality can lead to us judging those around us by these same metrics. We stop seeing people as beings and start seeing them as credentials or statistics.

Psychologist Matthew Lieberman found that the brain treats socializing with others as its own physiological resource — “our brains respond to social pain and pleasure just as powerfully as they do to physical pain and pleasure,” he wrote in a UCLA study. In other words, the lunches eaten alone over homework or canceling plans for another Friday night study session are small sacrifices that subconsciously build up.

Last Thanksgiving break, my great uncle shared with me his experiences in attending his 60- year high school reunion. He said that when one gets to his age, you couldn’t care less about your job or money — it’s the chuckle and the pat on the back that reminds you what matters. It took a traumatic brain injury for this wisdom to enter itself in my life.

So don’t just take it from me, take it from an 80-year-old veteran of the game. Cherish the small moments that linger with you and find stillness within them. When you do, your ceiling reveals itself to be a suggestion, waiting for you to paint it into an open horizon.

Live for and listen intentionally in the moment, because embracing a lifestyle driven by gratitude will allow peace to find you. Once you’ve freed yourself from the shackles of regret and shame, the honey from your hive will taste that much sweeter.