Always expect the unexpected.

I’ve probably heard this proverbial phrase a million times from my parents, but growing up, I really didn’t experience the so-called “unexpected”. What is it, and just what exactly does it mean?

My formative years seemed to embody the definition of a “normal” childhood: biking around town, taking violin lessons, doing well in school, and so on.

As I wrapped up my freshman year last spring, it appeared that everything was going just as I had planned. I thoroughly enjoyed my classes (yes, even Expos), I made new friends, and I finally found my extracurricular niche on campus as a Crimson Sports Board editor.

Like any ambitious freshman, I wanted to impress my superiors on the Board. I picked up stories that nobody wanted, and when I was elected, I picked up three beats–women’s basketball, track, and men’s volleyball. I picked up two more going into sophomore year, including the highly-coveted football beat.

Most importantly, though, I thought that I had my career plans all figured out. I would wrap up college, enter medical school, and fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor.

But all of this changed last summer.

Always expect the unexpected.

In the most unexpected time–early August last year–and in the most unexpected of places–on a bench in a research lab at The National Institutes of Health–I realized that something was missing; Despite setting all of those lofty goals for college and beyond, I had left behind one important part of me: my music.

All throughout high school, I was able to balance my academic pursuits with my violin studies. I took violin pretty seriously; I practiced three hours a day, and commuted three hours each way to study with a renowned professor (ok, maybe my childhood wasn’t that normal). By senior year, I seriously thought about becoming a violinist.

But with the lack of a performance program at Harvard, my inability to master the art of time management, and the lure of Harvard’s academic offerings, my musical ambitions quickly faded away and consequently fell down my list of priorities.

On that August morning though, it suddenly hit me that I wanted to give violin a chance as a profession. So why the change?

I guess the root of my indecision stems from my desire of avoiding the “what-if” question.

What if I’d only chosen medicine, and not liked it? What if I’d only chosen violin, and decided that it wasn’t for me? Given the difficulty of both professions–and the sheer amount of time needed for them–is it possible to be successful in one without precluding the other? If I love both, why must I give one up?

Regret has always been the one thing I’ve tried to avoid most, and that feeling of uncertainty dawned on me once again. A year later than expected, I was essentially back to square one. At a crossroads and forced to choose a path, I was afraid of making the wrong decision.