I believe it was the winter of 2001. At the time, I was commuting to the Manhattan campus, tirelessly working to complete my doctoral dissertation—a truly grueling period. One night, a fierce snowstorm blanketed our Long Island home, and by dawn, the world outside was transformed.

 

Suddenly, a deafening crash jolted me awake, shaking the entire house. My first thought was, Was that an earthquake? Alarmed, I rushed to the backyard and discovered the apple tree standing just behind our home had split in half under the weight of the snow, collapsing onto our porch. Examining the splintered trunk, I realized that insects had hollowed it out; outwardly, the tree had seemed perfectly intact.

 

Fortunately, the porch remained unscathed, but removing the fallen tree was a monumental task. Borrowing a chainsaw from a neighbor, I cut it into sections, then wielded a hand axe to uproot the massive, deeply embedded stump. By then, I was already fifty, and as I worked shirtless in the cold, neighbors gathered, watching in amazement. Their expressions—whether from curiosity or sheer disbelief—seemed to say, Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.

 

 

Oddly enough, that exhausting labor became a form of catharsis. After months of academic stress, the physical challenge helped me reclaim my confidence. It was a turning point—proof that I could conquer even the toughest obstacles. Since then, whenever I face difficulties, I deliberately seek out physical challenges, like climbing rugged mountains, as a way to push through life's trials.