College is hard. College, the second time around, is a lot like being Ronda Rousey in a ring with Holly Holm. To anyone who has ever taken a semester, a year or 10 off, you know what I mean. You know you have to get an application in before a deadline, and you tell yourself you’ll get to it eventually. You know far too well that pang of guilt when your aunt or your nosy neighbor asks, “So what are you studying?” You look away for a second, maybe laugh like it’s a funny story. “Well, nothing right now. I’m taking some time off, but I’m going back.” They smile politely and say, “Oh, that’s OK. You’ll figure it out.” And you hope to God they’re right.
I completed my freshman year of college last spring at a school I thought I liked; looking back, I know I just barely tolerated it. I survived the year by going home an average of every two weeks and by having as little social interaction as possible. I justified my misery with the school’s excellent academic reputation, hoping that a guaranteed job at the end of four years would make all my troubles worth it. However, when I returned for my sophomore year in the fall, I made it a whopping 36 hours before packing everything back up, and deciding that I would rather have been anywhere but there. The drive home felt like the strangest combination of relief, defeat and nostalgia I’d ever experienced.
The next day, I called my manager and asked that she put me back on the schedule. I had to explain to my 20-something coworkers that I “just couldn’t.” I waited a full week to tell any of my friends away at their respective schools. After things settled down, I adjusted. I experienced what it was like to work 40+ hours per week. I began to pay back my student loan. I took out another loan and bought my first car. I woke up, I went to work and I came home. Every day was a repetition of the last. I got complacent. Though I never said it out loud, I had a strong feeling that I was never going back. I started to think I had made myself a neat little life.
The problem, I came to realize, was just that. I never wanted a neat or a little life. I wanted an adventure; I wanted a messy and grand life. I needed new people and new experiences in the worst way, but I was in a rut. I knew that objects in motion stay in motion, and I most certainly was at a standstill. I heard, “It’s OK; college isn’t for everyone,” so many times; I considered tattooing it on my forehead, just to avoid the conversation. Bill Gates may not have finished college, but I’m not Bill Gates. And I knew, even though my brain equates the word “college” with the sound effect “dun dun dun” in my head, that I needed it.
Today, I am so grateful that my two best friends from home convinced me to transfer to SUNY Plattsburgh. Five weeks ago, on my first night here, I felt an all too familiar feeling that I was in the wrong place, that I was not mentally equipped (I wasn’t), and that I wasn’t “college material” anymore. I was ready to pack up and go home again. I thought about telling my manager again, my friends, my parents and my grandma; I cringed.
Instead, I chose to take it one day at a time. That night turned into morning, which turned into a week, which turned into a month. I’m now in a major that I love. I have old friends who feel more like sisters, and new friends who I hope will one day too. Dropping out of college (and back in) taught me about the power of one’s mindset. It taught me that yes, college isn’t for everybody, but you get to make the choice of whether it is or isn’t. It taught me about trusting your heart, even when it’s trying to jump out of your chest. It taught me to grow up a little. It taught me that maybe we’re never really ready but that we should go ahead anyways. Most of all, it taught me that no two experiences are the same, that one failed attempt does not equal another. Regina Spektor said it best, “Everything is different the second time around.”
