The Spark I Forgot I Needed

Sarah Tian
Jul 13
3 min read

Yesterday, I woke up feeling unusually emotional — and I cried a little.

I think I know why.

The day before, we celebrated Juneteenth. My husband, a close friend, and I spent the day at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, exploring the special exhibitions of Van Gogh and Qi Bai Shi. We ended the day with hotpot and a visit to my favorite matcha ice cream shop — a near-perfect day by any measure.

But something about it unlocked a part of me I hadn’t accessed in a long, long time.

As we wandered through the gallery, we discussed why I’ve never quite connected with Van Gogh’s work. We talked about his life, how he was never appreciated while he was alive.

Later, at the Qi Bai Shi exhibit, I tried using the digital paintbrush station to replicate one of his shrimp paintings.

And then it hit me — a sharp, quiet longing I didn’t expect.

I wanted to paint.

That simple urge — to create something just because it brings me joy — startled me.

I remembered how much I used to love art. I took Art for my GCSEs and looked forward to every single class. I even found photos of my final project buried deep in my old Facebook albums. I remembered how I used to walk into the art room during lunch or after school, pull out my supplies, and get lost in my work.

No pressure. No performance. Just flow.

It’s funny — I never used to understand when people said that school or college were “the best years of their lives.” I used to think, how sad it must be to peak that early. But for the first time, I think I get it.

Those years held a different kind of joy. Simpler, purer.

Laughter with friends over nothing. Silly moods that spun into contagious giggles. I used to be a kid that laughed a lot — especially before middle school. I went to an international school where friends came and went with every passing year. It felt like just when I got close to someone, their family would move away. But somehow, every year, I still managed to find a best friend — someone I could be goofy with, someone whose personality made laughing feel easy, natural, constant.

There weren’t many of them, but they were rare and golden — the kind of friends who made me feel so relaxed that even the smallest thing could send us into a fit of laughter. I think some people are just prone to laughing — and when two of us found each other, it created this giddy, buoyant space where everything felt light.

That day, at the ice cream shop, I felt a flicker of that again. My friend’s joyful, silly energy brought it all rushing back — that rare, effortless feeling I’ve only ever had with a few people in my life. And it reminded me how long it had been.

Laughter with friends over nothing. Silly moods. The giddy freedom that came once homework was done — to read by the balcony, to get lost in a book, to paint for hours, or just to be a kid.

Somewhere along the way, I shifted. From middle school fun to academic focus. From college apps to grad school. From PhD to job search to visa stress. I started living in a mode of perpetual doing. There wasn’t much room for breathing, let alone being.

And then — this one lovely day at the museum, over matcha ice cream and art and laughter — reminded me of who I was.

I cried the next morning, maybe not just because I remembered — but because I was grieving.

Grieving the quiet disappearance of that pure, unburdened joy. The kind that once came so easily, before the weight of adult responsibilities — deadlines, visas, bills, expectations — slowly filled every corner of life.

It made me wonder:

What have you lost, quietly, over the years — that once brought you joy?