When I was in high school, my academic journey was quite a peaceful one. No bumps, no hardships — it was all smooth sailing right toward my 4.0 GPA. Success was second nature; it was what was expected of me, so I did it, no problem. I graduated with high honors and never felt like I had to work too hard for it. I took the CollegeBoard and pretty much nailed it on the first try. I could’ve gotten into college with that first score, but, like the anxious overachiever that I was, I still took it two more times “just to be sure.”
I was accepted into my first choice, the biology major at the University of Puerto Rico, Rio Piedras (UPRRP), and so, my journey became a bit more dangerous. The winds grew stronger, the waves became unyielding. My little boat struggled to keep up with the storm. My social anxiety developed much too quickly and I hated my classes. I was drowning. For the first time in 18 years, I wasn’t good at school. The material wasn’t clicking with me; I didn’t care about the cells, plants, animals, atoms, electrons, or protons — my motivation was at an all time low because I simply did not like what I was doing. Growing up, I’d always had a certain vision of my future passed down onto me. Both of my parents are doctors, my maternal grandparents too, and they always expected me to become just like them. Imagine their disappointment as they watched me sink beneath the waves. They thought I was lazy, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I was wasting my potential.
At that moment, I found a kindred spirit in Taylor Swift of all people. Her album, Folklore, had just recently come out and discovering the meaning behind This Is Me Trying felt like kismet. She sings, “They told me all of my cages were mental / So I got wasted like all my potential.” It was a low point, indeed. I slowly began to realize that I needed to make a change, that I would destroy myself if I didn’t let go of my family’s expectations. So, I decided to be brave.
Despite my parents’ protests, I switched my major to psychology, and suddenly the skies cleared up. A rainbow shone bright on the horizon — things started looking up. I was enjoying my classes, having fun, and doing well. The little overachiever I was came back with newfound strength and confidence — she overcame and persisted, finding success once more.
It wasn’t like high school this time, though. I had to work for it, but the fight was not as gruesome as it had been. I actually wanted it now; Not just because it was expected of me, but because I wanted to do well. However, my parents began to treat my achievements as my duty more than ever. They barely congratulated me for my successes. I’d tell them about an assignment that I got a good grade on, and I could all but hear their true thoughts through their reactions: “How hard could it be? It’s just a psychology class, of course she’d do well, who wouldn’t?” Even so, I soldiered on, because I was finally doing something for myself.
They grew a bit more accustomed to my decision as time went on, but they never showed me the same enthusiasm they gave my sister when she did well in a class (unlike me, she actually stuck with biology). It all became worse when I fell in love with philosophy and decided to pursue graduate studies in that field. I was confident in my decision, despite their trepidation. And so, after being accepted into the master’s degree in philosophy at the UPRRP, I officially became a graduate student. I was certainly scared, but I was excited too. I was going to learn about subjects that I love from professors that I adore, and all was well. My ship broke through every wave, never faltering, until it collided bow-first with our Titanic-esque icebergs: Impostor’s Syndrome and self-doubt. Such a grueling crash, it still borders on fatal.
Starting a master’s degree as a 23 year-old among mostly middle-aged men has been quite an intimidating task. I feel inadequate in all of my classes. It feels like I know nothing compared to them. I’m constantly running and running but I can’t keep up — the finish line is always right beyond my reach.
I used to be good, and now I feel like nothing I do is good enough. It’s a heavy burden to bear, the realization of how far I’ve fallen. It’s a weight that lays on my shoulders and drags me down, down, down, into the water. My ship is constantly flooding and nothing I do seems able to stem the tide. Truly, my journey as a graduate student has not gone at all as I was expecting it to. Everything has been almost too hard to manage.
Almost. See, I’ve learned something about ships along the way — they’re not meant to stay in calm harbors. Leave them anchored too long and they start to rust, turn green, and fall apart. Ships are built to face the waves, to take on water and still stay afloat. And so am I. Every class I go to, every chapter I read, every small conversation I have with my professors and classmates is a bucketful of water thrown back overboard. It’s slow, it’s tiring, but I’m doing it. I’m still showing up, still reading, still writing, still trying. It isn’t easy — not at all — but that’s what makes it real this time. I’m not doing this because it’s expected of me, or because it comes naturally. I’m doing it because I want it, because I chose this path for myself. And maybe that’s enough to keep me afloat.