My thoughts as I gazed out the airplane window were those of hopelessness, nervousness and regret. I was convinced that my decision to withdraw for a semester was probably the worst mistake of my life.
My college application process was an arranged marriage. I was expected to attend college, prepare for and take tests to find out where I ranked and apply to a school deemed a “good fit.” In a matter of months I was paired with a college appropriately determined for me by a group of older, wiser admissions boards and deans. One could even consider the down payment on tuition to be something of a dowry.
I didn’t know why I was at Georgetown, or what I wanted to do here. I was naïve, immature and simply following a convenient, prescribed path.
I had come to Georgetown, attended NSO, went to my classes, worked my hardest and survived both semesters with a fairly praise-worthy GPA. I won’t claim that I sailed through the year without doubts, but they were quickly discarded when I thought about the ridiculousness of changing my major, my school, or simply not being at Georgetown.
All of these options turned out to be not so ridiculous. I took all of them. During the first semester of my sophomore year I switched from being in NHS to being a French major in the college. Even though these may seem like mundane changes to some people, I felt like I was taking charge of my life. It was exhilarating.
Last November I paused one day to reflect on my busy schedule. I had a full load of classes, I worked downtown at a passport agency, babysat every Saturday and worked at a yoga studio at least twice a week (in addition to taking yoga classes). During this moment of re-evaluation, I could not come up with a valid reason for doing any of these activities. Everything had simply become too overwhelming, and seemingly pointless—I felt like I was wasting my time. I had never felt this way during my freshman year. I was in “robot mode.”
I was home for seven months. This time spent at home was productive in that I was not actively doing anything for the majority of the time. This may seem like the ultimate paradox, but true, nonetheless. The nothingness was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I had been active in numerous extracurricular activities throughout high school and college. I always had something to do. However, at home, I had no schedule. I spent days sitting in my living room with my cat on my lap, or in a café—sometimes reading, occasionally staring into space, doing nothing.
At first, the days seemed to drag on. However, this quickly changed. I became an expert nothing-doer and thinker, sometimes finding hours had passed while sitting in the corner of a café like a homeless woman. It was this nothingness that convinced me to do something.
While at home, I was able to remove myself from the external forces that once defined my life and began to define it for myself. I decided to major and minor in fields that I had a passion for, not because my family had persuaded me to become a doctor, lawyer, or CEO.
Since that day in November, all my regrets have turned to thankfulness. I realized that getting a top-tier education is not the foundation of my happiness. I returned to Georgetown to pursue my major and minor because I want it to be a part of my life. The main conclusion I came to while at home was that Georgetown would make me happier, much happier. I had an opportunity that so few people have, and now that I have experienced life without it, I no longer take it for granted or allow myself to be lost in indecisiveness.
