I’ve spent the last four years running. Not literally, but in that constant, frantic, “what’s next?” kind of way that becomes second nature when you’re an overachiever. Now that I’m a senior at Hampton University and graduating at 21, the finish line is finally in sight. Everyone tells me the same thing: “Relax. Enjoy it. You’ve earned the right to catch your breath.”
Honestly? I want to. I want to lean into senioritis and know what it feels like to have a “light” day without the nagging voice in my head telling me I’m falling behind. I’m learning to be okay with the person I am when I’m not “achieving,” but every time I try to let go, my brain snaps me back to attention. This drive isn’t just a personality trait; it’s been my survival mechanism. Because I skipped a grade in elementary school, I entered college early — navigating the weight of adulthood much sooner than my peers.
By 17, I was financially independent, solely outsourcing and paying for my own tuition. Raised by a single mother, returning to school each semester often felt like a gamble — a high-stakes bet on myself where the price of admission was my own stability. I stayed in the game by seeking mentors, joining organizations, and earning the scholarships that allowed me to persist. Every accolade wasn’t just a trophy; it was a brick in the wall I was building to secure a future that once felt incredibly fragile.
I realized I was paralyzed by a fear I’ve carried since I was 17: the belief that if I stop for even a second, the stability I’ve worked so hard for will vanish.
I look at my resume now and see that “overachiever” in every line: the science stories for NASA and MIT, the business reporting for Bloomberg, and the high-pressure event production for ESSENCE Communications. I’ve stood in executive-level briefings and reported from the White House press pool. I’ve spent my undergraduate career proving I can lead—but now, in this final stretch, the work has “paid off,” yet I don’t know how to stop working.
It’s a strange, anxious middle ground. I’ve already secured my admission to Columbia University, but when the acceptance came, I didn’t pop champagne or take a day off. I shared the news with my family and immediately went back to refreshing my inbox. I was still waiting on two other schools — not just for the prestige, but for the fellowships and full-coverage funding that would mean I finally didn’t have to carry the financial world on my shoulders. I realized I was paralyzed by a fear I’ve carried since I was 17: the belief that if I stop for even a second, the stability I’ve worked so hard for will vanish. Because I’ve spent years being my own safety net, I’ve forgotten how to actually land.
I’m not just graduating with a degree; I’m graduating with the hard-won permission to finally, deeply, breathe.
I found myself staring at my reflection on the screen of my laptop one morning, my heart racing over letters that hadn’t arrived yet, and I had to ask myself: When is it enough? I’ve spent so long building a wall of accolades to protect my future that I almost forgot to live inside the home I created. The “uncertainty” of my future doesn’t diminish the “certainty” of the woman I’ve become. I am more than my ability to fund my own existence; I am a person who deserves the very “lightness” I’ve been afraid to claim.
My worth is not a calculation of my output, and my peace is not a reward I have to negotiate for. I’m learning that it is OK to slow down and live in the “next chapter” instead of always wanting to read ahead. So, until my graduate school journey starts, I’m taking in an era of nature hikes, the gym, and the simple, radical act of spending a Tuesday with friends without checking my email. I’m not just graduating with a degree; I’m graduating with the hard-won permission to finally, deeply, breathe.