No academic achievement has yet to beat opening my college acceptance in front of my parents, especially when they never had the chance to pursue a higher education themselves. It was one of those moments where time felt as if it had slowed down, like a movie scene where the lighting softened, and I swear I could hear “You Raise Me Up” being played on a piano somewhere. As a first-generation college student, that acceptance wasn’t just mine; it was the sum of my family’s sacrifices, late nights, long talks, and constant love and encouragement in a single email.
My parents have worked tirelessly to provide me with the life I have and the countless opportunities that fill it. This college opportunity is something they have always wanted for me, even when I was younger and couldn’t fully understand what that meant. I remember my dad spending hours studying with me at the kitchen counter. I remember my mom coming home from shifts bartending with cheeseburgers to eat at 3 a.m. (I couldn’t sleep until she got home). As I stepped into this new chapter, I carried excitement, yes, but also the very real weight of responsibility and a sense of duty.
This duty stems from the fact that, at least in my eyes, I threw a wrench in my family’s educational plans. My dad was in the midst of taking community college classes when I came into the picture. With a baby, a wife, and a job, something needed to give way to make room for me. So, he stopped taking classes.
I want to be explicitly clear: my parents have never made me feel like a detour. However, with the knowledge I possess of my family, college isn’t just my journey, but the continuation of a goal that started long before I was old enough to spell “university.”
I’ve always been naturally self-motivated. Mama didn’t raise a quitter; she raised a tenacious go-getter who attacks opportunities whether or not anyone asked me to. When something excites me, I go all in. Plays? Absolutely. Sorority events? I’m already there. Internships, jobs, random creative projects, 12 extracurriculars I accidentally joined because someone said, “You’d be perfect for this?” Sign me up.
If résumés were brutally honest, my “special skills” section would list something like, “determination, chronic overcommitment, and the ability to say yes before fully understanding what I’m agreeing to.”
Part of this stems from gratitude. How lucky am I to attend a school that offers so many opportunities to explore my passions? There will never be another time in my life when it’s socially acceptable or encouraged to juggle theatre, writing, leadership, jobs, classes, and a social life like an overcaffeinated circus performer. I was raised to seize every day with relentless ambition and pour my heart into everything I do, and that spirit is woven into every decision I make.
However, ambition’s friend, anxiety, likes to tag along—and she’s persistent.
Overloading myself often leads to sleepless nights worrying to the point of being frozen, anxiety attacks in my apartment’s parking lot over something minuscule, and the gnawing fear I’ll somehow fail everything at once and ruin my entire future. (For the record, I have yet to ruin my entire future, but try telling that to my 2 a.m. brain.) I want to make my family proud. I want to make myself proud. Sometimes that pressure becomes a double-edged sword: wanting to prove myself while struggling to say no, and wanting to excel while making myself physically sick with fear of failing.
So, I’ve been learning something that feels both revolutionary and mildly illegal: saying no.
Yes, I’m privileged to have so many opportunities, but I’ve finally accepted that it’s okay not to take all of them. My stepmom likes to gently but consistently remind me that having downtime doesn’t make me lazy; it makes me human. On the rare days when my schedule gifts me a bit of free time, I take myself on little dates, wander through Winter Park, explore coffee shops, take photos of anything that catches my eye, or sleep in. (Who would’ve thought that sleep makes you feel good?) These tiny acts of self-care recalibrate me in ways I didn’t realize I needed.
Of course, even with these new habits, guilt still crashes in when I step back from something. Disappointment, frustration, and the worry that I’m letting people down all show up like uninvited guests. However, I’m learning that guilt is often the byproduct of my caring deeply, and that honoring my limits isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s wisdom. It’s the slow, sometimes painful process of growth.
Over time, I’ve started to view my anxiety differently—not as an enemy, but as an eccentric companion who occasionally offers decent advice. It keeps me aware, sharp, and thoughtful, even while it challenges me. Being a first-gen student has taught me to appreciate every opportunity, but it has also taught me the importance of balance. Ambition is powerful, but ambition without boundaries is just burnout in disguise.
I’m realizing college isn’t about doing everything. In all its stresses and opportunities, college offers the lesson of knowing when to say yes, when to say no, and when to let yourself breathe. As we endure, we affirm that our stories matter, even when we’re overwhelmed. Being a first-generation student is a profound privilege, and with the wealth of resources at UCF—academic support, counseling services, student organizations, and more—we are surrounded by tools and communities designed to help us thrive.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I don’t have to choose between ambition and well-being; they can coexist. In that coexistence and messy balancing act, I find my real strength. This journey isn’t just about reaching a finish line; it’s about learning how to walk the path without losing myself along the way.