I’m in my fourth year of university, and I’m not graduating.
For a long time, that sentence felt like a confession. Something I had to say gently, with an explanation ready, as if staying longer meant I had done something bad. When I initially entered university, I envisioned a simple, straight path: four years, a degree, an apparent sense of direction, and a more secure version of myself on the other side. I imagined success as something you could quantify. With credits gained, deadlines met, internships secured, and checklists finished.
Instead, I feel halted. I feel like I’m standing still while everyone else around me is moving.
The university instills structure through deadlines. Finish on time. Keep it up. Do not fall behind. So, when your reality deviates from the script, it’s difficult not to take it as failure. Being in my fourth year and not at the finish line has left me feeling stuck in ways that go beyond academics. It’s emotional. It’s quiet. It’s the sensation of watching friends graduate, move cities, start careers, and begin lives that appear to be well-organized, while you’re still logging into those exact portals, walking those exact campus paths, and trying not to sink every time anybody asks, “So when are you done?”.
That question is especially pertinent to me.
In Brown culture, timelines are more than simply personal; they are social. Education is frequently presented as both an opportunity and an obligation. You’re not only preparing for your own future, but are also carrying expectations established by sacrifice, comparison, and pride. Finishing on time is not just encouraged, it’s expected. Even if no one expresses it overtly, deviating from that course can make you feel like you’re disappointing others.
Taking longer in these areas has a certain connotation. It is not always loud and aggressive. It can be subtle, such as the attentive tone people adopt when asking about school, the way explanations are required, or the need to illustrate why your journey looks different. Success is frequently viewed as efficiency. Get in, get out, and move on. Anything slower can feel like it requires defence.
That pressure persists even when you return to university. It follows you into your subconscious and shapes how you compare yourself to others. You begin to accept the idea that being behind in school implies being behind in life. The cap-and-gown photos, “So proud to announce… ” messages, and group celebrations clearly signal the shift into adulthood. Meanwhile, you’re caught between two identities. You’re no longer a new student, but you’re also not a graduate. It’s a peculiar in-between zone where growth is occurring but not in ways that can be clearly seen or praised.
Nobody really prepares you for the anguish of straying off your own timeline. I had to mourn the image of myself I expected to be by now. The one that completed on time, never disputed her speed, and didn’t feel compelled to continuously explain her place in life. Letting go of that imagined future was more difficult than I had anticipated. It was like confessing that something didn’t go exactly as planned, even if the plan was strict and impractical.
For a while, I tried to overcome my unhappiness by forcing productivity. I convinced myself that if I just pushed harder and moved quicker, I’d be able to catch up and overcome my discomfort. However, the more I rejected where I was, the heavier everything seemed. The stress did not motivate me. It depleted me. I was fatigued not only from the classes but also from the continual pressure to show that my pace was still acceptable.
I eventually realized my delay was not a personal weakness. It was a signal. I needed time, not as a form of punishment, but as essential. And there is a distinction between being behind and being human. Staying longer has shown me things I never expected to learn. Patience, for one. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty instead of constantly avoiding it. How to identify burnout before it overtakes you. How to ask for help without feeling as if it makes you weak. I’ve learned that progress does not necessarily look like acceleration. It can sometimes appear as slowing down enough to live. It can look like setting limits, saying no, and admitting you don’t have everything worked out.
I did not proceed as intended. But I shifted inward.
I began to pay attention to how my body handles stress, how my mind spins when I don’t feel in control, and how readily I interchange accomplishment with worth. I discovered that just because your motion is paused does not mean your value is lost. I discovered that there is strength in remaining present in the face of discomfort, the awkwardness of not having a clear answer, and the anxiety that you may be the only one struggling like this.
University culture, and cultural norms beyond it, rarely allow for that kind of development. We praise speed, achievement, and outward success, but we don’t talk enough about the more subtle transformations that occur when things don’t go as planned. We don’t talk about the ways strength manifests through continuing, recalculating, and selecting oneself even when the road is uncertain.
I didn’t become the person I expected to be. I didn’t become a perfect, empowered version of myself by fourth year. I did not complete every milestone on time. But I grew more honest. Someone who realizes that life favours resilience more than speed. Someone who understands that stagnation does not imply indefinite immobility; rather, it indicates that you are continuously evolving.
“I’m in my fourth year and haven’t graduated yet. And perhaps that isn’t the failure I originally believed it was.”
Perhaps becoming yourself is more than just crossing finish lines as quickly as possible. Perhaps it’s about knowing how to stay true to yourself when the route ahead seems murky. If I’m still here, still striving and improving in ways I can’t always see, then maybe I’m not that far behind.
Maybe I am simply moving at the pace I need.