In my life, I have felt a lot of pressure to be the kind of person that everyone assumed I was: smart, sweet, sensible, and completely put-together at all times. I was the girl who wore knee-length skirts and peter pan collars—the textbook definition of a “good girl.” Others would guard their behavior around me, and despite thinking that their perception of me was flawed, I still did everything I could to avoid rocking the boat and keep up my Plain Jane façade.
I tried so hard to be the “perfect” girl everyone thought I was; I got good grades, volunteered, smiled, and kept my mouth shut. This became second nature to me, so during my first year of college, I was entirely lost. I could be anyone I wanted to be, and that was overwhelming. Instead of breaking out off my shell, I decided to stay the same, never venturing beyond the world of polka dotted notebooks and ballet flats.
However, college was different than high school. No one cared whether or not I looked like a china doll or if I was happy all of the time; what mattered was that I was working hard and keeping up with what was going on in class. Being on my own in difficult classes with people ranging in age from 18 to 35 or older was scary. Everyone around me seemed to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing, and for once, I was clueless. I was no longer “the best” or “the smartest”—I was just a girl.
I felt disoriented, frustrated, and isolated; college was not supposed to be like this. I’m the girl who has it all figured out, not the girl who fails her statistics final and has panic attacks on the bus. My friends saw the person I let them see; I was the same shy, studious girl from high school, not a hair out of place, smiling perfectly.
Beneath the surface, I was shattered—terrified to tell anyone that things were so bad for fear of disappointing them. I tried my best to pretend I was okay, assuring my roommates that all the time alone in my room was spent studying instead of crying and sleeping, and I always made sure to wear my best outfits and copious amounts of makeup—desperately trying to have the appearance of success, since it seemed I couldn’t reach the real thing.
Eventually, all of the sleepless nights and barely-eaten meals caught up to me, and I broke down to my parents on a weekend trip home. All of the fake smiles and motivational quotes in the world couldn’t make me okay, and I needed help. I expected to be met with disappointment and tears. I’d been repeating the same monologue in my head for months: “What do I have to be sad about? I’m young, educated, privileged—what right do I have to fall apart?” I was surprised when instead of the words I’d been throwing at myself, I was met with love and understanding. Slowly, things started to get better.
Though it can feel like the world is relying on you, it is often the pressure we put on ourselves that carries the most weight. It’s only human to fall short sometimes—to feel pain, sadness, emptiness, and fear. It’s okay to not know exactly the kind of person you are and what you want out of life when you’re 18 or 22 or even 40. You have the right to make mistakes and to change your mind and to be unsure. Happiness isn’t reserved for the people who have it all figured out, and it is the mistakes and the downfalls that lead us to our successes.
If you aren’t okay today, believe that you will be soon. Even though my freshman year of college was one of the worst years of my life, I wouldn’t trade it for anything because it helped me become the girl I am today: happy and sad, sinful and saintly, flawed and flawless, all at the same time. Today, I am finally able to accept myself even when I fall short. Yes, it’s okay to not be okay sometimes; in fact, it’s necessary.