The book "Tuesdays with Morrie" gave me the chance to revisit my life, to notice the details that get forgotten in the rush of daily living. And the fact that the plot unfolds between a teacher and a student felt like a symbol of my own transformation. Teachers who instilled in us a sense of our own uniqueness had big hearts that shaped us into individuals, people capable of bringing kindness into the world. They planted humanity in us, and while we may stray from our path, I believe that too is a necessary part of the journey.
I sent messages to all my university mentors who had influenced me in any way. I received words of gratitude and mutual exchange in return.
The most important lesson in wisdom I’ve learned so far is that Morrie didn’t suppress his emotions—he lived through them.
I remember a moment that marked my own point of growth. In my first year of university, a professor asked how I felt about the traumatic events in my life, and I said nothing because no one had ever asked me that before. I didn’t know how to recognize my own feelings.
Morrie could cry, and for me, that’s close to feeling your body, understanding your emotions and thoughts—something I consider a great achievement.
When you’ve traveled a long road to reach your goal, you develop empathy for others because you can relate to their struggles.
From the very beginning, "Our culture doesn’t encourage kindness toward ourselves. You have to be very strong to reject what’s harming your life."
I know how to create my own culture—one where you must work hard and long, where you shouldn’t depend on anyone, where you must do everything yourself, and where love must be earned.
In our culture, restraint is often seen as something good: "Good for you, you can manage without new things," "Good for you, you’ve suffered enough—now rest and enjoy."
But suffering isn’t mandatory—it’s a choice. The right to be happy, worthy, and kind is already ours from birth. And yet, the thought "Did you earn this?" often lingers in my mind.
How can I simply observe a leaf falling? It doesn’t need to earn its descent—it falls freely, and I need to notice it in time.
For me, the lesson in Morrie’s wisdom is in his words: "How can I envy who you are now when I’ve already lived through it?" Morrie lived every year of his life fully, creating his own reality. He enjoyed walks with friends, discussion groups, even his own music. He helped the poor. He didn’t waste a single moment on things that didn’t matter to him—he was overflowing with conversations, connections, and attachments.
Morrie didn’t give excessive weight to his suffering: "My illness is terrible only if I choose to see it that way."
I was often reminded that I was only seventeen when I first went abroad for work, that at eighteen people told me I was too young to talk about psychology, that at nineteen guys shifted responsibility onto me because of the age difference, and at twenty the problem was "It’s clear you don’t have children of your own." Now I’m twenty-two, and I don’t see any of that as a problem because I have my own life and my own years. But I’m learning not to "run" because later you’ll have to stop for a long time. I’m learning to live through each stage of my life, not to skip ahead or flee from myself.
As Morrie said, the meaning lies only in accepting yourself as you are and finding joy in that.
The book turned out to be therapeutic for me—I lived with it for a month, savoring every moment until the last day. At some point, it felt like I’d long since graduated, like I’d almost forgotten my professors. Every page was lived alongside Mitch. I laughed and cried with the characters, shifted my values, and filled my life with positive meaning.
In this time of change, when the whole world is gripped by a pandemic, the book "Tuesdays with Morrie" helps reassess the meaning of life and death. Because if you learn to live, you’ll learn to die.
I’m grateful that life is teaching me these lessons now, rather than at the end.
