I’m not a quitter. I don’t give in easily. I stubbornly keep pushing past the point when I probably should just let up and move on.

But a few days ago, I threw in the towel.

I quitted.

So here’s the backstory:

Junior year of high school I took psychology. Without any hesitation, it was my favorite class in high school. I loved it. I devoured it. I would stay up into the earliest hours of the morning meticulously taking notes on the material, editing my assignments, and making sure that I understood the concepts inside and out.

It was the one class of high school that was never just the pursuit of a letter grade. I wanted to know more and delve deeper for the sake of knowledge itself. The class made intrinsic sense to me. It was fascinating. It came naturally in a way that math or science never did. Plus, psych explains human behavior, and as an angsty 16-year-old, I wanted to be able to explain why people do dumb things.

My senior year, there wasn’t another psych class offered. I remember being disappointed wishing I could take that class again. I felt like something was missing. Even amongst the chaos of applying to college, I was anxious to be back in a psych class. In my college supplements when I was asked about my intended major, I proudly wrote “Psychology.” There was hardly any doubt in my mind that I would go to college and then graduate school for psychology. It was "the plan."

…and then I went to college.

Fall term and winter term I took the introductory psych classes that I was required to take. And I loved them, I really did.

But I also loved other classes in a way that I never would have expected.

I hated high school English. With a passion. There was something about the curriculum that seemed so far removed from everything that was going on in the world. It seemed pretentious. I didn’t understand what it meant to give an interpretation of a text or why it was even necessary. I skimmed through most of the books, just making sure I got the gist. I thought my teachers were reading way too deeply into the lines. I never did exceptionally well on essays either, but I also never consistently tried that hard.

I vowed to myself that after the two English classes my university requires, I would never take another English class or write a literary analysis essay ever ever again.

But, surprise surprise, my freshman year English class was relevant in a way that no other English class was before. We related what we read to real life events. It wasn’t just about finding meaning within the confounds of the text, but extrapolating that meaning out as well. It was about making connections with other texts and applying those connections. Everything wasn’t presented simply in terms of how literary techniques informed some larger idea. It wasn't so methodical; it was bigger and more abstract than that.

My professor was flexible with her lesson plans, and if there was something that we were especially interested in, she let us spend more time on it. She was intimidating at first, and tough, and had high expectations, but for some reason that made me want to meet and exceed those expectations. She made me feel like my ideas mattered and were important, that what I had to say had value worth pursuing.

I remember the days before our first essay was due I took it to the school writing center each day, with newly revised versions for them to read over and critique. I would never have done this in high school because I didn't care enough to. Not to mention that the essay would begrudgingly be started at 8pm the night before it was due.

I thought my essay was good. Pretty damn good, at least for my first essay. But this is college, not high school. And if I had barely managed to pull B averages on English essays in high school, there was no way I would do better in college.

But I did. I did well. And I continued to do well. More than that, I enjoyed it. I liked writing and cared about it in a way that I would have scoffed at only a few months prior. Writing still irritated and infuriated me, but there was something about printing out the final copy that made all of the 30-minute staring contests with a blank Word document on my computer worthwhile.

By the end of winter term, I had fulfilled all of my English requirements. I didn't know what I wanted to do, because something inside of me told me I wasn't done with English. I wanted more. But it wasn't part of "the plan." My professor convinced me to sign up for another English class for that spring, a class that I ended up really really liking.

That spring I also had to take my math prerequisite for all of the higher level psychology classes. I was bummed that I wouldn’t be taking psych since I had really enjoyed my intro level classes. Plus, even though I liked English, psych still was what I thought I would spend the rest of my life doing.

About halfway through the quarter, I was walking with one of my friends, who was also a psych major, and she turned to me and said how much she missed being in a psychology class. I remember hesitating and not knowing how to respond because I didn’t have the same feeling. I didn’t miss being in a psych class.

I tried to wipe that conversation out of my head. Pretend it hadn’t happened because my reaction contradicted “the plan.”

I took an online psych class over the summer hoping that it would get me excited for the psych classes I enrolled in for fall term. It was okay- not enthralling, but okay. It didn't sway me either way and I ended the class more confused about what I wanted than before.

I took two psych classes last term. They were fine I guess, but something was different. I didn’t love it anymore. It didn’t make me excited to learn. It became a chore. I felt like I was forcing myself to care about these classes that I didn’t really want to be in.

I also took English last term. Another really, really good class. It made me excited. Learning became fun. Learning should be fun. I didn't mind how long the readings and assignments took me because I cared about them. I wanted to spend the time making my work the best I could.

The more I began to like English, the less I came to enjoy psychology. It was unsettling to me. I was exactly halfway done with my psychology major, and my school doesn’t offer a minor in psychology. It was an all or nothing sort of game--that's a game I don't usually play.

Somewhere deep inside of me I knew I wanted to drop psych. And I knew I wanted to change my major to English. So I sought advice from my professor, who told me to switch my major from psychology to English. It really was the assurance I needed and wanted to hear – that I wasn’t crazy for thinking English was my thing. But as much as that was what I wanted and needed to hear, I wasn't necessarily ready to hear it.

Although I knew I wanted to drop psych, I pushed back against her reasons for dropping. I tried to rationalize why I should just finish the major. But for every reason I had for continuing, she had a better reason against it. By the end of our discussions, I was pretty convinced. I wanted to drop psych. I wanted to walk right over to the psych department office and drop it then and there.

But I’m stubborn. And indecisive. And I don’t always listen to my instincts or the advice I ask people for. So I declared a double major in English and Psychology hoping that would be the right decision.

For this term, I registered into both an English and a psychology class. I thought I could make it work. That this double major idea was my best option. Because two degrees are better than one, right?

And two weeks into the quarter, I realized it wasn’t. I was only continuing psych because it was part of "the plan." I was only continuing it because, as I reasoned, I was halfway done and quitting halfway is weak. I was continuing it because my parents were proud of me and I excelled in the classes. Psych was a safe bet, with little risk -- something that I usually lean towards.

However, I could no longer force myself to care about a psych class. I didn’t dread going to the class, but it didn’t excite me either. I would day dream in class and I found it hard to pay attention. That’s not who I am. I can focus when I need to.

So, with some hesitation, I followed my instinct. I listened to the voice in my head that I should have listened to months ago.

I dropped psych, the class and the major. I quit.

And I’m really really happy. English, and writing, makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like I’m doing something that matters and is important. That I'm creating something new rather than just memorizing and regurgitating something old. English is so misunderstood, because it is so much more than reading books and writing essays. It’s versatile, even if people only equate it with being a teacher.

English infuriates me like psych never did. I hate reading and writing sometimes. It’s slow. And time consuming. It takes me what feels like nine million years to think of an idea or an interpretation. I stare at a blank Word document questioning whether I will be able to fill it with cohesive, comprehensible, and somewhat original ideas. I sometimes wonder if I would be happier if I was still bored in psych classes, because for all those classes lack, at least they make intrinsic sense to me. I could go into a psych class fairly confident I could succeed, something I still don't necessarily know about an English class. That's scary for me. I'm a perfectionist, I like to succeed.

But it’s worth it. All of it. I love writing even when I hate it. Even when it makes me want to pull out my hair, scream, and hurl my laptop across the room.

It's probably a good thing that English and heavily writing-based classes make me feel aggravated sometimes. It tests me, it forces me to work through it and figure out if it is something I want to continue. I know it is. And I like a challenge.

I won’t lie -- I wish I had figured this out a year ago. I wish I knew after my first day of intro psych that it wasn’t what I wanted to do. Sometimes I feel like I wasted my time, time I could have spent on the classes that I'm really enjoying now. But it wasn't a complete waste. Or even a waste at all. I learned a lot- about psychology and about myself. That’s what college is about right?

Psych will still be there, if I ever decide I want to go back. I don’t think I do – but if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past year and a half, it’s never to close any door completely.

And right now? Well I can confidently say that I’m really freaking proud to be an English major.