Growing up, I always had a passion for writing. Whether it was crafting short stories, creating my first newspaper (The Classroom Times) in fourth grade, or joining my school’s writing center and yearbook once I got to high school, writing was always what I was good at and where I felt most like myself.
When I went on college tours, I met with schools for programs like creative writing and journalism. I couldn’t have been more excited. I finally felt like I was going to become the person I always wanted to be and study what I loved. I had this unwavering optimism about college, like every negative thing about high school would fade away the second I stepped on campus. A lot of it hinged on this dream version of myself, English major Abbie. In my head, she drank Americanos, spent weekends in bookstores, and was completely, unapologetically herself.
Somewhere along the way, that passion and dream got lost. I was told to pursue something more practical; that writing was unrealistic. My high school guidance counselors told me there weren’t many career opportunities in writing, so I listened. I applied to every college as a biology major and planned to go into something medical, after all, that’s where the stability and money were. And truly, I didn’t hate science, but I wasn’t necessarily passionate about it either.
Once I got to school, my grades started to slip. I had always been a straight-A student, but suddenly I had a sub-3.0 GPA and more absences than I wanted to admit. I didn’t like going to class. I didn’t like being on campus. I didn’t realize at the time, but I was slowly losing my spark, losing what made me, me. Nothing felt right. Still, I held onto pride and convinced myself I could make it work.
The breaking point came when I failed Introduction to Chemistry for the second time. That was when I finally admitted I wasn’t happy with what I was studying or the direction I was heading. I was embarrassed. There’s a certain stigma in college about STEM versus liberal arts, and part of me felt like I was saying I wasn’t smart enough, but that wasn’t true. My heart wasn’t in it. I realized it wasn’t that I couldn’t handle the work; I just wasn’t putting myself in a place where my strengths could shine.
So, I made the switch. I told my parents, my boyfriend, and my friends, and I was shocked at how happy everyone was for me. The guilt and shame washed away instantly. For the first time in my college experience, I felt excited about what was next. I joined the English department, and right away, I was interested in everything I was learning. I found professors who encouraged my creativity, classmates who shared my passions, and schoolwork that felt fulfilling instead of draining.
Once I stopped chasing what I was “supposed” to do and started pursuing my purpose, college became something I actually enjoyed. My grades improved, but more importantly, so did my happiness.
If you’re feeling like I did in any way, here’s what you need to know:
- Failing a class doesn’t mean you’re stupid or dumb. It might just mean you need redirection.
- Changing your path isn’t quitting.
- It takes time to know yourself and even longer to listen to what you need.
- Talk to your professors; sometimes they see strengths in you that you’ve overlooked
- Most importantly: your worth isn’t tied to a grade or a specific major.
At the time, failing chemistry felt like everything was falling apart, but looking back, it was the moment everything started to fall into place. So, try new things. Fail. Learn. Repeat. Make a change. You don’t have to be perfect to end up where you’re meant to be. I used to think failing a class was the worst thing that could happen to me, but now I know it’s what brought me back to myself.