I’m going to take my talents to South Carolina

Eight months ago, I spent weeks editing and re-editing my med school personal statement, and days filling out the endless AMCAS forms. When I finally finished on June 3rd and hit submit, I felt a huge sense of relief. 

It turned out I was far from the end. That day was followed by a good two months of chiseling away at secondary applications, then about five months of flying across the country to interview at various schools, and then a month of obsessively checking my email and praying for an acceptance somewhere. 

Whenever I met other people along the interview trail, or I talked to my friends also applying this year, we’d complain about how the process was draining our relationships, sapping our sanity, and chopping years off our life. It’s not any one day or one moment that’s especially hard, like taking exams, but it’s a drawn out process with a lot of helplessness and a whole lot of waiting. 

But the other week, I finally reached an end when I was accepted at two schools. I was accepted to an MD/PhD program at St. Louis University, and the Medical University of South Carolina. 

Sidenote - How MD/PhD programs works: 

2 years of medical school in a classroom 

2 – 5 years of working in a lab and writing a PhD thesis 

2 years of medical school in a hospital 

It's a total of 6 to 9 years, but the program has free tuition and a living stipend, so it’s a great deal. 

Sidenote within a sidenote - My theory is that biomedical research will be a different landscape in twenty years or so. As we move towards more emphasis on the clinical relevance of basic science research, MD/PhD’s will be far outcompeting PhD’s for jobs. 

Anyways, I decided to take my talents to the Medical University of South Carolina for several reasons. For one, I liked it enough to write a three-part post about it: 

Part 1: Forever 21

Part 2: Black Suits Coming

Part 3: Reflections   

Most importantly, it’s been one of my long standing dreams to live near the beach, and somewhere I could wear shorts and flip flops all year. 

Sidenote - It's one of my theories that everyone has an ideal self they imagine themself as.  Say a brilliant undiscovered writer, or a hardcore cyclist.  In reality, people are nowhere close to these ideal selves.  This doesn't stop me from maintaining that my ideal self would be some hybrid of Chris Paul/Jack Johnson/Paul Farmer/Bill Simmons. 

In addition, MUSC felt like an academic environment that would help me succeed. I’ve endlessly debated the merits of a cutthroat environment like a Harvard against a supportive student-oriented world like a Kenyon [here's a post: "Which pond?"]. 

But as usual, the decision was made for me, and I got into two schools I considered on the supportive/student-oriented end of the spectrum. My competitive side still wants to tangle with the students at the Harvard’s of the world, but maybe the cards aren’t quite in place for me yet. 

So anyways, my wife and I will be launching are life together for the next six to nine years in Charleston, South Carolina.  Hopefully we'll come out with more kids than debt. 

See you on the other side, 

from ken  

Feel free to comment! I would love to hear your thoughts.

same as it ever was

I touched ground in PDX on May 27th. That means I’ve officially been living in Portland for six whole months. From my 21-year old perspective, that’s a damn long time. Since then, I’ve gone through about 40 containers of plain nonfat yogurt. I figured if I ate enough of it the flavor would grow on me. I still don’t like it; it’s tangy and, well, plain. On the other hand, I’m still going on the same bottle of hand soap, which either means I’m frugal with my resources, or I don’t always wash my hands after I pee.

Anyways, thinking back on my time in the Pacific Northwest, I realized that I'm torn by two sides. On one hand, I love adventure. For me to fully have life, it’s all about new experiences, places, people. I want to be somewhere long enough not to be touristy and learn some of the ins and outs of a new world, but also short enough to challenge my mind and soul from getting stale.

I grew up a Boston kid, but I applied to colleges everywhere except New England. I only got into one, so I shipped off to Ohio for school. I never went abroad, so I spent a full four years there, and even though I was ready to get out after year four, I loved it.

At Kenyon, I was a molecular biology major, but I’ve already forgotten just about everything I knew about the Ni-Fe catalytic subunit of hydrogenase-3. What did stick with me is my friends. I loved all those early Sunday mornings suffering on hungover 15 mile long runs when someone feels the need to drop it to 6 minute pace when we're still 5 miles out from campus, and also all those late-night-caffeine-driven working sprees spent on senior projects.

At another stage of life I spent a summer in Wyoming waiting tables. Before that summer my conception of the west was Kansas, which I later learned is the center of the country. I didn’t know anybody out there, but I jumped on the opportunity to have more story-worthy experiences. It turned out to be that and more: I climbed Middle Teton, recited Robert Frost's poetry to drunk Turks, ran a 100 mile week, experienced alone time with God for the first time. Wyoming will always be a part of my heart.

As I reached the end of college I applied to jobs everywhere but New England and the Midwest, but I knew I wanted to see the west coast, and the Northwest in particular. Again, I didn’t know anybody out here, but a lab from Oregon contacted me, and within days I had committed to a two-year stay. When I told my friends about my sudden move to Portland, I was told on multiple occasions, “Such a Ken thing.” I was proud to be associated with such a bold decision.

I loved the thrill of these adventures. I love going to sleep at night thinking, “Wow, I can’t believe my life is real. This is so much cooler than I expected.”

But at the same time, at every stop, I feel like I’ve struggled with the same thing.

When I first got to college, it was hard to swallow seeing my high school friends sprout new lives. In Wyoming, I spent hours on the rec hall payphone isolating myself and talking to my then girlfriend while my friends would stroll in and play some pool. Now in Portland, some of my biggest highlights are waiting for my old friends to visit and experience my new world with me. (Sidenote: two of said old friends, Amulya and Keyser, are visiting me in the next two months!)

This struggle is my second side, one that asks, “Why make new and different friends? I already love the ones I have!”

So maybe, the more the circumstances in your life change, the more it reveals how your core character stays the same. Going from farmland Ohio to picturesque Wyoming to urban Portland, it's made me realize that at every step of my life, my core has revolved around missing my old friends and seeking out new friends.

Kind of a sidenote, but if you’ve ever read the news, you’ve probably realized the world is fucked. Earthquakes regularly target the most vulnerable, the Middle East will always be at the end stages of war, and sex will always dominate everything else. I guess, in such a world, relationship is the one glimmer of hope of what I think life was meant to be. People were meant to have friends, to love and be loved.

But I guess adventure forces me to branch out and find new and different friends. I just need to remember different doesn’t mean worse, it just means, different.

So after six months in Portland, this is what I know: white guys really knew how to dance in the 80's, I’m excited for the new relationships I’m finding, and I count myself as incredibly lucky to have old friends that will put up with me even when I’m miles and miles away.

from ken

Are you trying to change your life? I'd love to hear about it! ken.e.noguchi@gmail.com

The End

A guest post from my friend from Kenyon College, Sean Edelman. The two of us, pictured handsomely, below.


Over the crest of the hill, the familiar flags, people, and noise come into view. After laboring for what seemed like an eternity, the runner could finally see the physical goal; the one he suffered through the summer heat and winter snow to reach. He had climbed mountains, crossed plains, and conquered his demons. Yet, with his goal finally appearing like the sun over the horizon, he can only feel emptiness and longing. Was this it? As he approached the finish, this particular thought echoed throughout his mind, bringing doubt to his soon-to-be achievement.

Over the last 6+ years of my life I’ve been a runner. What began as a placeholder for not making the high school soccer team became one of my primary identifiers. Back in high school I proudly displayed my identity by wearing t-shirts I had won or purchased at meets, I spent my afternoon sitting with my runner friends discussing other teams and their runners, and I would gladly spend my free time in my coach’s office hoping that some of his knowledge would pass down to me. Every fall I toiled through the long miles, steep hills, and unfortunate weather of cross-country season, counting down the days until the first winter track practice. I lived for that feeling of lacing up my spikes and tearing around the oval. I gave up parties, weekends, and countless hours to nothing but running. The competition kept me going each day. I loved racing and the palpable sense of accomplishment drove me to worker harder and harder. Never would I have thought that my attitude towards the sport could ever be changed.

The realization came around last February.

With only a couple hundred meters standing between him and the finish line, the runner’s thin muscular frame remained upright and focused, hiding the mental turmoil that dwelled underneath his skin. The single thought of doubt that troubled him wasn’t a new phenomenon. He had managed to suppress its growth in his brain by thinking that it was only a passing attitude. However, as the finish line got ever so closer, he could no longer ignore his own demons, and they began to overwhelm his thoughts.

It was a Friday night and with a meet the next morning, I was spending it sitting in my room watching a movie. A knock came on the door; it was a friend of mine coming to get my roommate to head out to the party scene. As the door shut behind them a question crossed my mind: Why was I depriving myself from the fun that I knew was out there? Was a track race worth really worth this?

I was appalled by the thoughts crossing my mind. Track was who I was. My once stable identity was now at conflict. The sacrifices, which I had once made without an afterthought, now had to be justified. I realized the personal achievement gained with racing had long left my body. Just like an injured runner’s tendons may hang by threads, my connection and love I had for the sport of track had withered away to small, decrepit strands.

Like a virus, this string of thoughts plagued me throughout the rest of the season. I found myself just going through the motions that I had once put all of my effort into. For the second straight year, I didn’t see my times drop. Races became something I felt forced to do. The glow of accomplishment no longer surged through my body. Emptiness replaced fulfillment. Change had come and I was reluctant to accept it.

A few weeks ago marked the first day of fall track for the runners who don’t participate in cross-country. As I stretched in the autumn air after a long distance run, I watched the fall trackies finish up their workout. Eagerness and excitement was flowing throughout the bunch; they were elated to be back doing what they love. Watching them brought back memories of the sensation one feels at the start of a season. It was a feeling I once longed for and the thought of it used to make my heart race. Sitting in the warm sun observing them, I realized I no longer pined for what they were currently experiencing. I finally recognized that I had moved on.

Serenity and peace came to my troubled mind. Acceptance finally spread its roots.

As the runner crosses the finish, the aches and pains that he had ignored begin to throb throughout his body. He wants nothing more than the soreness to stop but he knows that the suffering has just begun. As he starts to walk away, the feeling of emptiness disappears from his body. The race is over and although it didn’t end as he once anticipated, he is now filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment. It had been a good run. He had made it. The uncertainty of tomorrow no longer bothered him; it excited him. Although the pain in his body had become nearly unbearable, he cracked a smile.

Are you trying to change your life? I'd love to post your thoughts here, email me! ken.e.noguchi@gmail.com

Thank you, running

I’ve been running for longer than I can remember doing anything else in my life.

I ran cross country and track in college and high school. I was elected captain, not because I was good but because I cared. I spent one summer running 1000 miles, putting in week after week of 90 miles, just to prove to myself that if I was going to be a nothing at running, it wasn’t because I didn’t try. At one time in my life, I owned more track spikes than my girlfriend owned shoes. I once ran a hundred mile week, finishing with a Turkish soccer player who could barely speak English and had never ran more than four miles, but as we finished the seven mile run he was sprinting and yelling NEVER GIVE UP, NEVER GIVE UP.

But over the past few months, I’ve come to see running almost as a relic of the person I used to be.

After that 1000 mile summer, I had the best running season of my life. I ran over 90 seconds faster for 8k than I ever had, or would. That season I was a far greater athlete than I ever imagined I could be.

At the end of that season, I ended up being the alternate on our regionals squad. The alternate basically travels with the team and hangs out with them as everyone else broods over the race before them. It feels helpless because there’s nothing you can do to help the team, except through supporting your teammates.

It was at this point that I realized, this is the final lesson running has to teach me. I am not a star, nor even a player. My role in my life is to be the ultimate cheerleader. My life was supposed to be sacrificed for the people around me.

After that season, my running was never the same. I lost the heart for it, I still fought tooth and nail, but my soul didn’t bleed for it like it used to. Mostly I ran to support my friends and teammates, I wanted to see them succeed more than they could’ve ever imagined. And more, I wanted to support their lives and cherish their friendships.

In the cult classic running novel Once A Runner the protagonist refers to demons that haunt his running. I remember feeling these demons in my own life .

The demons would come on in those few minutes just before a race, when you’re waiting on the track, having stripped off your warmups, spikes on, the race before you coming to and end, and feeling like you have to pee for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. I remember telling my friend, if I ever stopped feeling like this, I would stop running.

I think, maybe, the demons in your life are where your heart is. And wherever your heart is, that’s where your life should be.

Well, the demons in my life don’t haunt my running anymore.

Tomorrow, I’m running the Portland Marathon. And I see it as my farewell to running. It’s the last running feat I want to check off before being prepared to leave it, maybe forever.

For those of you still running, I really really wish you the best of luck. It is truly amazing what it can teach you, and I hope you enjoy the ride.

And of course, to my old teammates, those of you from Kenyon and those from Needham, I hope to enjoy a leisurely run with you again some day. Or maybe just a leisurely beer. But the days of heart-breaking training, 12 k threshold workouts, 5 x 1200, conference races, those days are far gone. And man, it feels good.

from ken

Are you trying to change your life? I'd love to hear about it! ken.e.noguchi@gmail.com

photo by boliston