by Leah Briscoe
New York
Some of my fondest childhood memories, of scavenger hunts and book festivals, unfolded on the campus of the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). An outreach program brought together local kids like me and student volunteers, who encouraged us, as someone must have encouraged them once, to dream big.
And yet, arriving to UCLA my freshman year, I wondered if I hadn’t perhaps dreamed a little too much. That year was a blur—of haphazard homework completed on bus rides to and from my parents’ home, of arriving to classes teeming with the best and brightest, to whom I compared myself endlessly, never favorably.
That year, I must have reminded myself a dozen times a day of Ikeda Sensei’s guidance to look beyond academic study and achievements as mere tools for personal advancement: “They should be used in the pursuit of happiness for others, and university study should be devoted to serving and contributing to the lives of those who could not pursue advanced learning themselves” (The New Human Revolution, vol. 15, revised edition, p. 99).
Each time I caught myself questioning the caliber of my brain, I reminded myself that great value isn’t necessarily created by the smartest, but the most dedicated, people. As Nichiren Daishonin says, “It is the heart that is important” (“The Strategy of the Lotus Sutra,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 1001).
By my second year, I managed to take note of the actual condition of my classmates, many of whom, I was surprised to see, were more overwhelmed, more anxious, than I. My roommate, for one, complained of exhaustion and an awful suspicion that she’d taken the wrong path. An engineering major, she’d realized that she didn’t enjoy engineering at all.
That year, my young women’s leader asked if I’d co-lead the SGI-USA campus club. I did not hesitate. And neither did my roommate when I asked her to check it out. “You’re always upbeat,” she explained. “I’ll bet it’s got to do with Buddhism.”
Club attendance was small at first, but grew as we spread the word with flyers, fairs and invites. Students of all kinds came in, and I was nervous, presenting Buddhist concepts to this growing group of 10, 20, 25 students. I discovered, however, that my doubts were unfounded. People were not looking for rote answers. It was enough to study together, and from there freely discuss whatever was in our hearts.
In 2015, my roommate received the Gohonzon, and we began chanting together. Emerging from her chronically anxious nature came a relaxed, adventurous side. She began stepping away every so often from the work that was eating her up to explore new interests—hikes, in particular, through desert, forest and mountain paths. Within months, she’d switched gears, aiming toward a masters in geology. “I like rocks,” she laughed, and shrugged.
Graduating in 2016, I took a year before launching anew into a Ph.D. program at UCLA, in bioinformatics. The hectic pace of my undergrad years suddenly slowed; there was no one telling me what to do. With apprehension, I realized that the topic and timeline of my doctoral program were hugely up to me. In this vacuum of direction, I felt lost.
I turned to my advisor, who, with no ill intention, amplified my doubts. “Your progress,” he noted dryly, “is slow…” Many times, I excused myself from his office, walked briskly to the bathroom and broke down in tears.
He wasn’t wrong. My progress was slow—and painful. Slow because I didn’t know where I was going, painful because I didn’t know how to get there.
“You have to get specific,” my young women’s leader encouraged me one day. Her earnestness took me aback.
Not since I’d gotten into UCLA had I chanted with a specific goal in mind. For a good test score, maybe, or a friend’s well-being, but never for a specific outcome. That evening, sitting in front of the Gohonzon with pen and paper, I realized why: I’m afraid of disappointment.
Chanting, however, I began to feel bold. In ink, I wrote down the field I’d be hired into, at what salary, by what time. As for this last goal, I set my sights on the date of my thesis defense. I brought this renewed determination into the club. This was spring of 2018. From here on, things unfolded quickly.
News of a new young science professor reached me over the summer. I attended her introductory talk and was fascinated by the story she told, of deep interdependence and endless evolution. It was a story about the ecology of the gut and its effects on our day-to-day lives.
Afterward, raving on about the lecture, I was gently cut short by my friend: “Why not ask her to be your advisor?” I shot her an email, and a few days later, we were talking over coffee. I asked if she had the bandwidth to advise someone new. She did. Purposefully now, I developed my thesis.
Toward the end of my Ph.D. program, an opportunity arose to participate in a schoolwide competition called Grad Slam, in which Ph.D. students present their theses to the broader student body. I went for it and was floored when the results came back a month later: I’d ranked in the top 10.
I had a knack, apparently, for telling the story behind the science, how it related to people’s lives.
The day of my thesis defense came, however, and I had no job offers. Still, I took the stage without a shred of doubt. I knew that I would find the right job for me, that I would show actual proof of the power of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.
Afterward, I got a call from my old advisor. “I inquired and heard you haven’t landed a job. How can I help?”
But as it happens, unbeknownst to either of us, I did, in fact, have a job—the news had simply not yet arrived. Just days later, I got a call from a company based in the Tri-state area with a proposal drawn up, they said, a week earlier. Checking it against the prayers I’d put to paper in 2018, I noted that each had been answered in full.
In 2022, I arrived to New York, taking on SGI leadership right away. Here, the members of the young women’s division dream big, and so, naturally, struggle at times to believe they can make these dreams a reality.
I remind them of a quote I received not long ago, handwritten on a card from my old roommate: “It is the heart that is important.”
I encourage them, as I was once, to get specific, go for your dreams, and never forget what’s most important—let that, the heart of faith, be your guide.
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