Remember the summer before college? Every single person I met asked the same question: What's your major? What are you going to do after Cornell?" At the time, I proudly informed them that I was going to become an epidemiologist, work for the CDC after medical school, and pretty much own the world for the rest of my life. Though that seemed like a lofty goal at the time, I can say that I was really, truly, absolutely devoted to it.
However, circumstances changed...as they tend to. I went from being one of the best students in my high school to, as I saw, it, an utterly mediocre science and math student floundering in General Chemistry and Calculus II. Suddenly, teachers weren't there to help you at the drop of a hat, and other students were so focused on their goals that they were unfriendly, condescending, and utterly unwilling to aid a fellow student in need. I tried, really tried, to devote myself to being a pre-medical student. This meant staying in when most of my floor was going out, memorizing complex compounds instead of taking part in extracurricular activities, and, ultimately, making myself ill (yes, physically ill) by aspiring to a level of perfection that I ultimately wasn't going to achieve.
Some people are able to balance the pre-medical track with a hefty load of activities, internships, and a stellar GPA. I applaud you, and am glad that you'll be the ones taking care of me should I fall ill. However, in January of my freshman year, I realized loud and clear that I was not one of those people. It wasn't because I don't think I'm as smart as those who stuck with the pre-medical track (shameless self-promotion?) but rather because, quite plainly, my interests lie elsewhere. I abandoned the idea of having a concrete career path and instead decided to double major in American Studies and English, two relatively obscure subjects that genuinely appealed to me. I'd always loved to write, scribbling in composition books from the age of six, and found history, especially that of art, fascinating.
When I decided to drop the pre-medical track, many of my peers rolled their eyes--some even stopped talking to me altogether, calling me a "sell-out." I cannot deny that it hurt. Others' reception made me feel worthless, stupid, and like I had made a huge mistake. However, flash forward two years, and I can honestly say that quitting a path that ultimately did not suit me was one of the best decisions I've made at Cornell. No matter how impactful a decision can seem at the time, rest assured that others will move on. By the end of Freshman year, the number of questions I had to dodge about how my pre-medical studies were going had dropped to almost zero. Now, I look back on it as a learning experience, a minor road bump in the highway of self-discovery that is billed as "college."
Sure, seeing my friends at other schools and Cornell studying for the MCAT and getting accepted into medical school hurts. Becoming a doctor will always be my biggest "what if," and maybe, someday I'll try to work within the medical profession from a different angle. However, I no longer have panic attacks at the thought of a three-hour lab or struggle to stay awake while studying at three in the morning before a Chemistry exam. I'm doing what I love, and as long as that's true, the opinions of others won't matter.
