Creative Nonfiction:
"Velocity of a Falling Star"
by Haven Beckman
"Cerulean Reverie- A Dreamer's Dance in Shades of Blue"
created by Erin Yoo
Velocity of a Falling Star
by Haven Beckman
​
“Are you at the top?”
​
With no filter and a strange grasp on what is considered acceptable conversation, my
Savta advances her interrogation as if this is a completely appropriate question to discuss upon
seeing your grandparents for the first time in three years. Her mouth expands and contracts
rapidly as she leans forward to exclaim: “Like… A’s, B’s, C’s… (with an undercurrent of dread)
…D’s?” Confused and taken aback, I just sit shifting and fidgeting in my chair as she asks if I am
“above” my friends or if my friends are “above” me, before seemingly needing to ask for
clarification that I do in fact have friends, and if I do, what number? How many? In a
purposefully vague response, I anxiously reply “I do well in school” and desperately shoot a
furtive glance at my mom, who appears to be barely restraining herself from snapping back, for
help changing the subject.
At that moment I just want to get up and leave this suffocating reunion, but I simply
choke back my displeasure and sit there with a plastered-on smile as the sun is swallowed by the
hills. Savta continues to entertain with her repertoire of conversation starters, not limited to but
including commenting on my mom’s weight, insisting elderberry will stave off all illnesses, and
slyly revealing that she is not in fact vaccinated for the CoRoNaVIruS. Despite how obtuse it
was, her question lingers with me as we wade through the ocean of obnoxious drivers, a species
native to the bustle of LA traffic. And as we step out of the car, something yawns and snaps
awake inside my head. Momentarily subdued by spring break, the biting feeling of inadequacy
seeps back through the cracks.
The feeling is in full swing as a symphony of doubt and anxiety resound through the
quiet-not-quiet Physics classroom, the orchestra of my own thoughts howling a discordant
melody that screams the harbinger of the apocalypse. The sound is deafening, erasing rational
thought as quickly as wiping a whiteboard clean, yet still, some conductor in my brain keeps
waving the voice of self-doubt to get louder, louder, LOUDER. Hurtling down to a point of no
return, I eventually decide it isn’t worth calculating the velocity of my downfall.
After what feels like ages later, I sit in anticipation in the same quiet-not-quiet classroom,
awaiting my sentencing before the judge’s bench. The verdict is in: and I hear Savta’s drawling
voice in my head again, “As, Bs, Cs… Ds?” Turns out her proclamation needed an amendment,
she neglected to consider the possibility of Fs.
​
Perfectionism is an all-consuming haze that clouds my rational thought, saps my
productivity, and obscures what really matters in life. It’s a million voices in your head
masquerading as my own, telling me that I’m not good enough. The difficult truth about
perfectionism is that it is so silver-tongued, so all-encompassing, that it fools me into thinking
that the poisonous thoughts it creates are my own. Trying to separate its whispers from my own
reasonable expectations can feel like trying to escape from a warm, cozy bed: you probably
should, but it is safer and more comfortable to just give in.
I believe that I no longer want perfectionism to define me, that I am good enough,
hardworking enough, and valuable enough no matter what, just as I am. The first steps are the
hardest to take, but I hope that if I continue to try, to make an effort to be kind to myself, day by
day my quiet-not-quiet head will slowly get quieter, and begin to feel like home.
Abou the author:
Haven Beckman (she/her) is an aspiring writer and editor based in the San Francisco Bay Area, and primarily writes poetry, creative nonfiction, and works of journalism. She is an alumna of the Yale Young Writers’ Workshop, serves as the Features Section Editor for the Athenian Pillar, and has previously published her work in the Alcott and Apprentice Writer Magazines. Her favorite word is “shenanigans,” which her two fearsome cats are often up to.