Junior Year, Or: A Tale of Slightly Controlled Chaos

Junior year was, for lack of a better term, a complete shit show.

I spent fall quarter suffering from the junior slump (if that’s even a thing that can be justifiably extended past sophomore year) and missing my numerous friends who were abroad. Winter quarter consisted of a dysfunctional immune system and an insanely busy work schedule. And with spring quarter coming to a close, I realized that I want to change my major and entire life course — with only 20 units left before I graduate.

In short, I’m a mess.

Not that I show it (usually). Most of you know me as the overly talkative and outgoing girl who eats too much pizza and is always on the go. For those of you reading who don’t know me — this is probably quite the first impression. But in reality, this has been the single most difficult year of my life.

I’ve struggled with insomnia since freshman year, and it has resulted in countless nights of tossing and turning and, eventually, questioning my own existence. I’m left alone with my own thoughts for far too long, and sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind. On any given day, there’s a 50 percent chance that I’m running on five hours of sleep or less. Not that I mind too much — my body has miraculously adapted to such little sleep, and I’ve managed to convince myself that I’m extremely productive as the result of having more waking hours. Although this will probably come back to bite me in the ass later in life. But when I’m not sleeping, I actually do accomplish a decent number of the things on my extensive to-do list. It makes me wonder how I would possibly get everything done if I slept like a normal human being — which leads me into my next problem.

I have the tendency to bite off more than I can chew. This is both figurative and literal; I have the diet of a ten-year-old boy matched with the metabolism of a 70-year-old woman, and I’ve been known to eat 12 slices of pizza in one day. But I digress. My real problem is that I am insanely busy. For reasons unbeknownst to anyone, least of all myself, I decided to take four major courses this quarter. As a communication studies major, this ill-fated choice resulted in hundreds of pages of weekly reading and countless papers on concepts that I can barely comprehend. If class was my only commitment? Manageable. But factor in a part-time job at our student newspaper, a gig writing for a student-run startup, and my regrettable decision to train for a half-marathon, and there simply aren’t enough hours in the day. To add insult to injury, I didn’t even end up running said half-marathon because of crippling shin splints. Go figure.

So, in a typical week, I put in anywhere from 30 to 40 hours of class and work. Which is, again, manageable. But there’s also eating, sleeping, studying, exercising, socializing and the countless other things that are what make college the best four years of your life. I can handle the busyness, for the most part — my life itself is just slightly controlled chaos. But some days, it’s all I can do to not simply collapse on my bed and cry.

And there are plenty of reasons to cry — stress, work, school, exhaustion, and so on. But one of the main reasons is my grandfather, who suffers from Alzheimer’s and is rapidly deteriorating. I’ve been eager to go home at the end of this quarter to see him one last time before we move him into an assisted living center. He doesn’t know my name anymore, and he struggles with sentences and words. I can’t recall the last time I had a real conversation with him. But he still smiles and laughs every time he sees me, and I know that he knows my face. That’s all that really matters. And his face still lights up with joy every time he sees a plane in the sky, a glimpse of memories from when he supplied airplanes with spare parts in the Korean War. It makes me happy to see him happy. And I wish I could ask him about that war. His childhood in Minnesota. Growing up during the Depression. He’s experienced so many things that he simply cannot convey, and I wish I had realized when I was younger that our ability to communicate with one another is, unfortunately, not a guarantee and by no means permanent. So go call your grandparents and tell them you love them. Even if they can’t understand your words, they can understand you. They always do.

Finally, there’s the quarter-life crisis I recently experienced. With four units left of major courses, and 20 units overall until I graduate, I realized that I want to change majors to journalism and, essentially, alter my life course. See, I’ve always loved to read and write. I started reading Harry Potter when I was seven years old, and on any given weekend night (or any night, really) in middle school and high school you could find me curled up in bed reading Harry Potter, Jodi Picoult, Stephen King, Sports Illustrated — you name it, and I had probably read it. In fact, the next time you see me take a drink of something, look closely; when I hold the drink up to my mouth, it’s usually crooked or to the side because, when I was younger, I read a book with every meal and had to drink from the side of my mouth so my glass didn’t obstruct my view of the pages. I didn’t get out much.

The point is, I’ve always had a passion for reading and writing. But when it came time to apply for college, I didn’t choose journalism. I had this irrational fear of writing something that other people could read — even though that is, quite literally, the definition of journalism. I feared criticism. I feared mediocrity. And I still do. This may be a mere blog post on an online platform, but I am terrified every time I click “publish” or “share”. It has gotten marginally easier, but I still take a little leap of faith whenever I share something that I’ve written. It is this exact fear that kept me from checking the “Journalism” box on that application, and I regret it to this day.

I do work for our student newspaper — albeit in the advertising department. So I’m surrounded by reporters, editors and columnists who do write for the paper. And it’s incredibly intimidating (for those of you at Mustang News who might be reading this: you guys are awesome). But it’s also incredibly motivating to work with such enthusiastic and dedicated people who love what they do. They’ve inspired me to take that first step towards following my true passion. With my free elective units, I’m taking journalism courses next year. And with their help, I’ve researched potential jobs and internships in the journalism industry. I feel a little less scared now every time I hit “share” — this post is the first result of that.

So yes, junior year has been a shit show. And this has probably seemed overwhelmingly negative. But hindsight is 20/20, and looking back I can say with confidence that this has also been a transformative year. I moved apartments. I dyed my hair. I met new people. I’ve grown so much closer to all of my friends, who have helped me navigate the entangled mess that is my life sometimes. I’ve become best friends with my coworkers, who are some of the greatest people I know. I even won a national award for my work as a sales representative. And I know myself better now than ever before.

The takeaways? Life is hard. Junior year is scary. The postgraduate world is even scarier. But that doesn’t mean you have to be scared or live in fear. You have your entire life for a 9 to 5 desk job — don’t worry if you aren’t employed right after graduating. Follow your passion. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Take what’s yours. And above all, have faith in yourself. I may call myself a “mess” or a “shit show” at least five times a day, but I’m really not (unless I’m at a party on a Friday night ordering Domino’s — that’s a different story).

So, though the future may be uncertain, don’t be afraid. Life is a comedy and a tragedy, but the real tragedy is living in fear.