For the entirety of my first semester, I despised UC Berkeley — nearly everything about it. It wasn’t the institution’s fault. Nothing about it had wronged me. But, in my eyes, it’s a reminder of my shortcomings, specifically as a writer.
In sixth grade, my elementary school had a career day. I skimmed through each career. Coder. Wasn’t up my alley. Doctor. I couldn’t even take my own pulse. Lawyer. All of my peers wanted that, and I wanted to be different. There were plenty others, all in the favor of STEM, and nothing that really tickled me pink.
But then, I saw it. Beautifully laid out before me was screenwriter. I hadn’t known that writing could actually be a career. I thought I’d just stumbled upon one of life’s greatest kept secrets. No one talked about writing as a career. It never hit me that movies needed a person to make them! So, albeit a bit naively believed, I was glad to uncover something so life-changing.
Throughout the years, this dream of being a screenwriter broadened into simply being a writer. Anything that had creative writing was something that I wanted to do. And when I entered freshman year of high school, I joked with all of my friends that I’d be the number one writer in the world.
Writing became part of my soul. I was writing, and it was me. Because I’d already announced that I was going to be the best to everyone that I knew, and they had gone on to announce it to everyone that they knew, I had accidentally built an insanely strong palace of pressure that I couldn’t maintain. Every failure (an angry comment or a personally poor grade in English) did immense damage to my passion for writing. How could I say I was going to be the best when it appeared that I was constantly falling short?
Soon, I learned that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay. Hell, I don’t even like tea. And that, too, is okay. I should write for myself; I should write for the sake of my soul, and not confine my soul nor my writing to each other. Great, lesson learned! Now, back to focusing on being the best. The best I could possibly be. Back to managing this palace of pressure alone.
Senior year stormed in and, clichely, hit me like a truck. As it might be somewhat apparent, I have an ego. A big, fat ego. At times, I appreciate it. I always have something to fall back on, always have this passion on drive. Other times, I foam at the mouth like an angry dog. I weep at every slight tone change. A big ego equals a big target if not properly secured. I was not secure. So, after getting rejected from scholarship opportunities and more, I sunk into an all-consuming sadness. I wore this sadness terribly for all of my first semester senior year. This, during college application season, proved to be a challenge. My writing was sh*t.
That, on top of not getting my family to assist me with financial aid, only fueled the fire of despair. When college decisions were released, I was faced with rejections left and right, up and down. It was utter pollution to my joy. And although I did get into the University of Iowa and Swarthmore — my top two choices for creative writing — because I couldn’t get any of the financial aid documents in, there was no way for me to attend.
When I got into UC Berkeley, my dad was quick to get financial aid help. He hailed that, because it’s Berkeley, my life was set and I’d be the saving grace for the family. During the car rides to school, instead of listening to the radio, I’d listen to his dreams of college. About how he wanted to go to UCLA. About how he wished he didn’t mess up in high school. Of course, I know it meant a lot. College is a big deal. College is a privilege. To go to UC Berkeley was a huge accomplishment. But it didn’t have what I wanted. There was no creative writing major. All my friends told me it was a STEM school, and it’d be riddled with people who wouldn’t care for my love of writing. Instead of being known by my institution right off the bat, I’d have to compete for attention, for opportunities, for my passion.
I was tired of having to compete, though. I just wanted help. I just wanted to write, grow, and not worry about whether or not I’d have an opportunity.
I would argue with my dad. I’d say, “Yes, yes, I know it’s a privilege to go. I know I’m blessed with the opportunity of college. But I’m sad because I had an opportunity elsewhere. I had exactly what I was looking for. I don’t care if it’s someone else’s dream. This isn’t my dream.”
By this time, though, it’s already too late to do anything. I was going to Berkeley, and I was going to major in English. If I was so desperate to be a writer, then I could minor in creative writing and find clubs that suited my interests.
Soon enough, piles of luggage were shoved into a rented van with me tucked away inside watching Paddleton. The drive on the way to Berkeley was silent. Not scary, not awkward. Calm, perhaps, is the best word. Not the type of calm you feel when you’re at the beach, body hugged by the sand on the shore. Rather, it was something akin to acceptance. It is what it is.
“It is what it is.“
Sienna Villalobos
Nothing bad happened to me. I quickly made friends. Laughter was as common as crying. Never in my life had I been so accepted, but I just didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel like Berkeley was enough. But I think that’s because I didn’t feel enough. I had told myself that I was adaptable, that I had truly believed in myself to make everything work. After all, I was going to be the number one writer in the world, right?
Rather than work on myself, I fed myself lies that poisoned my mindset. I convinced myself that this school had nothing for me. I was in the wrong place. I was going to disappoint everyone who had supported me. This palace of pressure was closing in on me, and there was no one around to watch it fall. I lived in the reminder that I’d failed to make my dreams come true.
Part of what kept me going was this belief that I’d still succeed. I didn’t know how, but everything would be alright. When I went back home for Thanksgiving, I realized how good I had it up in Berkeley. My dad wouldn’t worry about when I got home. There was great food at every corner (and, yes, this includes the dining hall food). I was surrounded by people who wanted to see me succeed. The only person who didn’t want me to succeed was, well, me. I hated the institution because I didn’t know how to make the institution work for me. I stopped looking for opportunities because I thought I was trapped in a maze with only dead ends. But that was wrong. So incredibly wrong.
Another lesson was learned: have faith and confidence. Have real faith and confidence. After the first semester, I worked harder on myself and started small habits, like walking and reading every day. On those walks, I talked myself out of the negative. I would make Berkeley my, for a lack of a better word, b*tch. I would be the number one writer in the world. I would share my success and shortcomings with others and, at the same time, be somewhat uncaring of how others would perceive me. I built myself a new home on the foundation of authenticity, joy, and faith. One where, if I fell short, I genuinely wouldn’t attack myself or shun the world around me. One where, if I dwelled in the past for too long, I’d allow myself to get help. One where, no matter what happened, I’d be steadfast in my goal and enjoy the moment.
“I built myself a new home on the foundation of authenticity, joy, and faith.”
Sienna Villalobos
This all goes to say that, so far, I’m loving the second semester. I wouldn’t do anything differently in the first semester because it taught me how to be a reliable person for myself. I’m not a failure, I can still be a writer, and I’m happy to be in the environment I’m in. I’m growing, and that’s good. That’s all I can really ask for. Making mistakes is good if you learn. Everyone’s heard that before. There are many cliche pieces of advice that we hear day-to-day, but sometimes, it really doesn’t stick until you live a lesson that teaches you why those cliche pieces of advice are valid. So, go out and try. Try to be vulnerable. Uncomfortable. Anything. Be you, even if being yourself leads to a “mistake.” Losses can teach you more than wins as long as you don’t lose your values. And, lastly, please don’t be your biggest hater. Sixth grade me would’ve never expected the Sienna she turned out to be. But she’d be proud. Proud to have grown, proud to see that sixth grade dreams do mature.