It isn’t easy to receive an offer of such magnitude. How many clients would be willing to entrust you with something so valuable—let alone at that price? For most, this might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If destiny governs the gates to great success, then surely, this is one of its rare invitations. And so, naturally, you refuse to waste it. You must seize it—at any cost. In fact, you commit yourself to it with all your strength, believing that this might unlock even greater possibilities ahead.
But just halfway through this major undertaking—
—you fall ill.
And not with an ordinary illness. It’s serious. Your body aches; you can no longer move as you once did. The strength you relied on has vanished. Now, even the simplest motion becomes a monumental effort. You’re in a full-blown battle between body and disease—and it feels like the disease is winning.
This fear seizes your mind.
And then, another burden emerges: your brain ceases to cooperate. It simply refuses to think.
Your entire system descends into chaos. Your body screams with pain, and your thoughts dissolve into fog. Yet, this is precisely the moment you cannot afford to rest. This is the critical juncture—a golden chance to prove yourself and earn long-term trust.
But here you are, sick at the very threshold of destiny.
What should you do?
What must you choose? Force yourself forward at all costs—or surrender to the pain?
A Difficult Choice
This is a dilemma many face. Have you, dear reader, ever experienced something like this?
I have. Perhaps it doesn’t sound as dramatic as the scene described above. But it was no less difficult. It felt like taking a high-stakes gamble.
At the time, I was in my third year of undergraduate study. Without warning, the old pain in my knee returned—I couldn’t move my left leg at all. I recognized the injury. It dated back to high school. One day in gym class, I fell and couldn’t stand up. My friends had to support me as I stumbled into the School Health Office. From then on, I could never move freely again. The slightest misstep, a slightly hurried pace, and the injury would flare up—bringing minutes of intense, immobilizing pain.
But amid the whirlwind of life—my father’s worsening illness and eventual death, the transition to university abroad, the adjustment to a new culture—I ignored my pain. I told myself, “I can still walk. It’s minor. No need to make a fuss.” And so, I neglected my left leg. Over time, the damage deepened.
Then one day, the pain returned with full force. I couldn’t move at all. The doctor examined me and said, “There’s no other option. It’s too severe. You need surgery.”
Surgery? The word itself felt terrifying. In my mind, surgeries were for the elderly. Still, I was no stranger to illness or the operating room. I’d had stitches in my hands. I’d had my tonsils removed as a child. My body had long been frail. So, though I associated surgery with old age, I had already experienced it in my youth. And now, once again?
The doctor continued, “The rehabilitation will be lengthy.” That meant I’d be bedridden for an extended time—completely dependent.
In China, I was a student abroad. No one could care for me in that paralyzed condition. I had to return to my home country. At least there, I had my family. And so, I flew back for the operation.
This, however, meant a leave of absence from university. Indefinite. It meant I might have to repeat a year.
After the surgery, I was paralyzed for several days. Thankfully, only for several days. With fierce determination—and with my family’s unwavering support—I slowly recovered. I began walking again, albeit with a limp, and continued rehabilitation.
Then I received the decision:
“According to university policy, you’ve missed too many classes. You cannot advance. You must repeat the course.”
I was stunned. Repeating a class? I had always maintained high grades. And now, because I had been sick?
For a while, I was lost. I wandered through my days, unable to think clearly. I sat in front of the television, watching a film I’d already seen five times. I knew the plot by heart, yet I watched it again—not for entertainment, but because my mind was too muddled for anything else. I sank into depression, became ill again, and even developed a fever.
But I didn’t remain silent. My friends encouraged me: “Why don’t you go in person? Talk to the professors face-to-face. It’s different from email or phone calls. You didn’t take time off willingly. You were ill. It wasn’t your fault.”
With my leg still healing, I flew back to China. I used a wheelchair on the plane—even though I could walk—to conserve energy for the real battle ahead.
And it worked. Meeting the professors in person required enormous effort—but it opened a possibility.
Initially, they didn’t agree. But with the support of kind friends and persistent appeals, I began to persuade them. I sensed that the professors were willing, yet constrained by bureaucracy. So, I proposed a compromise:
“Please let me take the exam. That’s all I ask. Let me prove myself. You can decide what comes next after that.”
They agreed.
And I passed.
My score was mediocre—barely passing. But that was enough. Given the circumstances, it was more than enough. I had proven myself—and the professors had trusted me not to fail.
A few months later, I received unexpected news. I had been chosen to receive the “China Scholarship Council” award—a prestigious grant jointly issued by the Chinese government and partner universities, typically given to top-performing students.
Other recipients had near-perfect GPAs. Me?
“Because of your determination to study despite illness and surgery,” the professors said, “and because you insisted on returning to take exams and continue your studies.”
That was the citation. Not for academic brilliance, but for resilience. For persistence.
Truly, a living example of the phrase: “Misfortune can bring blessings.”
But does this always happen to those who push through illness? Not necessarily. This is simply one story where I ignored my physical limitations—and was fortunate. I never expected the scholarship. In fact, the award had never even existed at my university before. I hadn’t prepared for it. I had only wanted one thing: not to lose a year by repeating a class.
Of course, I had assessed my physical condition. The issue was in my leg—not in my mind. Although the body is a holistic system, and injury in one area affects the whole, in this case, the impact was manageable. I’ve long been familiar with sickness. I’ve studied alongside a vulnerable body. And in life, as many employers know, experience often outweighs theoretical knowledge.
So, if we were to speak of experience in managing illness—I have a long history.
But for those unfamiliar with bodily vulnerability, illness amidst high-stakes moments can be destabilizing, even paralyzing. And that is no fault of your own. Rather, it is a meaningful—and perhaps necessary—initiation. A way to learn how to navigate life with a wounded vessel.
We must each learn to assess our own capacities. Had my mind been the affected organ, I would not have insisted on continuing. Exams require a clear head—not functional legs. Not every opportunity must be pursued at all costs. Sometimes, the wisest act is to pause, to heal. If your health is intact, you can always regain what was lost.
Still, consider this: one injured part does not always prevent success.
So, go forward—steadfastly, mindfully, with resolve.
You may find that suffering has left a hidden blessing waiting beyond the pain.