Everything You’ve Got

I should say that my anxiety never fully vanished—but it no longer controlled my life. And if it did crop up, I knew just where to go—my grandma’s flat, adjoined to our house. With her, I always felt calm. My brothers felt the same way there.

Alone or together, we’d go over to snack, watch shows or just talk. Often, for a few minutes, we’d chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. On her altar, she kept a list of names of those she was chanting for, and next to each the thing that person was challenging. 

Seeing my challenges written out in her hand was always deeply calming for me. She believed in me and every day was rooting for me. That always made me feel stronger. In any case, her home was a haven for us, and it was where I went now, feeling frustrated and lost.

“Let’s chant,” she said after we’d talked, and we did for maybe ten minutes. In that short span of time, I calmed down a lot, and my thoughts shifted away from my problems. My life suddenly looked a lot larger than this single decision of where I’d be going to school. Actually, around the five-minute mark, I wasn’t thinking about college at all. My mind was on my friends, brothers and parents, on their challenges and what they hoped to achieve.

My grandma and I began chanting more after this, whenever I felt fear, doubt or sadness weighing me down.

All these feelings hit me at the tail-end of summer, when I heard back at last from my No. 1 school. I’d not gotten in to the University of Washington (UW), and this was truly hard to digest. 

Talking and chanting with my grandma helped me calm down and regain my focus. It helped me stay present and choose the best college for me. Though far from home, I would be OK. I packed my bags and drove south to the University of Arizona (UA). 

My first semester was hard; the second was better. I played water polo, got good grades and made friends. I chanted with my grandma whenever we spoke, which was at least whenever we practiced speaking Japanese for my Japanese language class.

“Let’s chant!” she’d say. “Even three times!” and we would, like that, over the phone. 

When I came home, I was in a completely different frame of mind, not afraid or anxious at all. I worked that summer and had a great time catching up with family and friends. I reapplied to UW, but did not dwell on their response—that wasn’t something that I could control.

That summer, I began to join my grandma at SGI activities, an eye-opening experience for me. Growing up, I’d come out to certain events, like New Year’s Gongyo meetings and the occasional gathering. But this was really my first time, as a young adult, engaging of my own volition. And the people I was meeting, the stories I was hearing, were refreshing and inspiring to me. I even brought my best friend out to connect, knowing she would enjoy it as well. 

“Read this,” my grandma said on one of my trips to her room. From her enormous library, she pulled a thick book, which she handed to me, tapping its cover. Every day, I read a few pages and found something I was grateful I’d read.

Ikeda Sensei says, “Through chanting Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, you can turn all these worries and concerns into fuel to propel yourselves forward—you can transform them into life force, into greater depth of character and into good fortune” (Discussions On Youth, new edition, p. 223).

I remembered this when I heard back from UW, denying my application to transfer. I was a bit shaken, but I reminded myself that it was not where I was, but what I chose to do that would decide victory or defeat. 

In August, I decided to receive the Gohonzon at that month’s discussion activity.

Later that night, I spoke with my mom about the coming year and all it had in store. At some point, I must have mentioned a remaining twinge of regret at being denied a second time to UW. My mom asked if I’d done all that I could—after all, I didn’t want regrets. Technically, there was one last thing I could do, though it had a near-zero chance of success. That night, I wrote and sent UW a letter appealing their decision. After this, I gave it no thought, fully enjoying those last weeks of summer. And then I packed my car—the Gohonzon carefully stowed—and headed down with my best friend toward Arizona. 

We were only two or three hours in when, checking my emails, I saw one from UW. 

“Wait,” I said. “Hold on a minute, just wait.”

Thankfully, my friend didn’t actually brake, but asked me what was going on. My appeal, I told her, skimming the message, had been accepted by UW.

 Right away, I called my grandma, who was so ecstatic for me. 

“It’s all the causes you’ve been making!” she cried. 

There were so many feelings and so much to do—so many friends that I’d have to say goodbye to. My water polo teammates were sad, of course, and my coaches were caught off guard to have lost their secretary. I’d need to pack my things up from my dorm at UA and haul it all back to UW. But everything, I knew, would work itself out, and after lots of hugs and tears, they did. My dad flew down to help me pack my things, then drove with me back to Seattle. I got everything set up in my dorm at UW and in September began my sophomore year. It’s been wonderful and I’m so deeply grateful. I’ve kept a 4.0 and joined a great sorority and made lots of friends. I’m playing water polo and having a blast—I’m focused on the present, winning right where I am.

If I could go back in time and tell myself just one thing—one piece of advice for the girl stressed out about college admissions—it would be to not sweat the outcome so much, but trust yourself and tackle the challenges that come.

October 16, 2026 World Tribune, p. 5