Dawn Raised Me

 

Dawn Raised Me

I was born in the countryside.

A place where the scent of earth changed its hue with each season, where the whole village knew the day had ended when the sunset dyed the ridge behind our hill. Fish swam in the stream beside the cattle shed, and my grandmother fermented soybean paste in heavy clay jars. It wasn’t some romantic tale or a point of pride—it was simply the environment etched into my bones. To those raised in cities, such scenes might seem quaint, even strange. But for me, that world became the lens through which I learned to see life.

My father was a farmer. He lived by his hands and endured the passage of seasons with his own two feet. In winter, he sharpened shovels and hoes. When spring came, without fail, he would wake me at four in the morning. It was early—far too early for a child to welcome it. My body always clung to sleep, and the world outside remained cloaked in darkness. But when I followed my father out into the morning chill, I saw stars above and dewdrops sparkling on the earth. Birds, rising even before the roosters, chirped from the trees. And before I realized it, the rhythm of dawn had become the rhythm of my life.

From then on, I became an early riser. As a child, it was to help with farm work. But even as I grew older, dawn continued to call to me. In college, I arrived at the library before the doors opened. In graduate school, I was always the first to switch on the lights in the lab. That habit has never left me. Even now, after retiring from a long career, I wake at five each morning and walk to my study. It’s a quiet house in a small southern-facing town, where the light streams into the room that has become my sanctuary for thought and writing.

Looking back, my life has rested on two simple syllables: diligence.

I had no extraordinary talent, no grand background to boast of. But I possessed persistence—to see things through to the end—and the stamina to repeat the same work without weariness. The habit of rising early, of being the first to sit down and the last to give up, became the foundation that led me to a Ph.D., to a professorship, and to a lifetime of scholarship.

Yes, it was diligence that earned me my doctorate. Diligence that carried me across decades of research. Diligence that shaped me into a teacher of young minds. The journey was not an easy one. There were times when research stalled, when life grew weary and difficult. But I returned to my desk every dawn, wrote every sentence with patience, and completed every paper. What made me a professor was not brilliance, but backbone—not flashes of inspiration, but the steady weight of commitment.

Now I have officially retired. It's been a few years since I last stood before a classroom. Yet my research and writing continue, uninterrupted. I now have more time, and a deeper sense of inward stillness. I drink tea in my study, organize my notes, and write at my own pace. I work on academic papers, essays, and sometimes revisit old manuscripts. At times, I exchange emails with fellow scholars, offering feedback on their work. Even now, I feel a quiet thrill every morning. Dawn has become both a lifelong habit and the very rhythm of my being.

I believe the peace I enjoy today is the result of the diligence I practiced in my younger years. Those mornings spent reading books in silence, wrestling with ideas—those quiet, persistent efforts built the person I am today. It’s not because I have much material wealth, nor because the world applauds me. The true peace I feel comes from the quiet certainty that I can carry the weight of my life on my own shoulders. That confidence, rooted deeply within, is born of diligence.

When I reflect on this, I think of the lives of those globally respected individuals who also lived by the virtue of perseverance.

Thomas Edison. Before inventing the incandescent lightbulb, he is said to have failed over 10,000 times. Many called him a genius, but Edison himself once said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” That kind of honesty belongs only to the truly diligent. He proved that success is not a matter of talent, but of unwavering resolve.

Marie Curie remains the only scientist to have won two Nobel Prizes. Behind her achievements lay endless hours of repetition, persistence, and methodical research. From dawn until night, she stayed in her lab, handling radioactive materials with careful, resolute hands. When I see her laboratory notes, I’m reminded of my own dissertation days—struggling through unfamiliar data, organizing findings, and agonizing over a single sentence for days.

And then there is Admiral Yi Sun-sin, a source of great pride for our nation. He, too, was fiercely diligent. Lacking both soldiers and weapons, he led his country to victory through meticulous preparation and sleepless strategy. His war diary is filled with human suffering, but also with the enduring strength to rise above it. Every time I read it, I am reminded that true diligence is the refusal to turn away from hardship.

These lives speak to me, and they speak one truth:

Diligence surpasses talent.
Steadiness never betrays.
Those who quietly do their work, who live each day with integrity and effort—
they are the ones who harvest life’s richest rewards.

And so, to the youth of today, and to those still searching for their path, I want to say this:

Live with sincerity.
Start your day a little earlier.
If the world won’t offer you a chance, create one yourself.
Cultivate the habit of sitting at your desk. See things through to the end.
Honest repetition will do more for your future than shortcuts or tricks.

Now, I find myself approaching seventy. My hair has turned silver. My hands are lined with years. Yet still, each morning, I rise. I brew my coffee, sit by the quiet window, and write. Just moments ago, I reviewed a medical paper I plan to post on my blog. I checked my inbox, gathered my thoughts once more. Life is still unfolding. I am still walking this path.

And if someone reading this stands now at a crossroads, I hope they can hear my voice:

“Do not seek the easy path.
Create your own dawn.
That is where life truly begins.”

Dawn always returns with the same gentle light.
And just as the birds move first while the world still sleeps, I rise once more to its call—
and I write one more line.
That is my life.
That is my diligence.
That is my joy.