A return to the same stage.

The same stage. In my final year of high school, I played the piano here, and held a microphone as an emcee. Years later, I returned, once again with a microphone in my hand. Only this time, I was sharing my own story. Walking back into school after all these years felt quite extraordinary. The familiar hall, the familiar corridors— so many places seemed to have barely changed, and most of the teachers who had taught me were still there. One Friday, without any advance notice, I walked into the office. The first person I saw was Teacher Yi Yi. The moment she saw me, she called out my full name, almost without a pause. I was genuinely surprised, and a little delighted. After all, it had been almost ten years since I graduated. Even after being away for so long, someone could still recognise the student I had been at a glance. And on this visit, I met almost every teacher who had taught me, and had a few words with each of them. Some asked what I was doing now. Others talked about former classmates and the latest gossip. It almost felt as though I had not been away for quite so long. That feeling is difficult to describe. The campus that once seemed so ordinary, day after day, felt different when I returned years after graduating. Suddenly, every familiar person and every familiar place felt precious, and I found myself wanting to stay just a little longer. In that moment, I truly felt— this was still my school. —— For this assembly talk, the audience included students from the first year of junior high to the final year of senior high, as well as teachers who had once taught me. So, while preparing, I spent a long time wondering: what could I say that would give people of different ages something to take away? Rather than tell everyone how impressive medical school is, or how wonderful it is to be a doctor, I wanted to share, as honestly as I could, what I had seen along the way and the patient stories that had moved me. What do you actually learn in medical school? What does a doctor actually do each day? Who might be suited to this path? And what about the confusion, doubts and choices that are not always pretty, but that you really do encounter? At the very least, I hope that one day, when someone starts wondering, “Should I study medicine?”, they will remember more than “If your grades are good, go into medicine.” They will remember that someone once came back and told them what this path actually looks like. I also loved the interaction with the audience. When something was funny, laughter really did sweep across the hall. When a story grew heavier, the lively room would suddenly become quiet. When you are standing on that stage, you hardly need anyone to tell you whether people are listening. Those moments of laughter. Those moments of silence. Those few moments— I still remember them very clearly. Perhaps the happiest part of this visit was not simply finishing a talk. It was being back in this place, seeing my former teachers again, exchanging a few words with familiar people, meeting new teachers, and standing on a stage where I had once stood before. There was a simple kind of happiness in realising: even after all these years, I still love coming back here. I think that if one short talk could help a few younger students understand a little more about being a doctor, give them a few more ideas about their future, or simply ease a little of the anxiety of someone asking, “What am I actually going to do with my life?”— then coming back was already well worth it. —— The same stage. In my final year of high school, I hoped the audience would hear my piano playing. This time, I hoped that at least a few people heard my story. I am truly happy that, after all these years, I can still return to this familiar school.