Quarter-Life Crisis
I was a straight A student until high school. My mom put on a dramatic production of peeling the “My Child is an Honor Roll Student” sticker off the bumper of her minivan after I received my first “C” in Algebra I.
I was not prepared for was the quarter-life crisis that hit me just days before my nineteenth birthday, and brought forth a GPA that did not contain any whole numbers, extensive therapy visits and ADD testing, and a freshly written prescription for antidepressants and Adderall.
I excelled in writing and history, but fell short in math and science, earning a modest GPA that was high enough to gain acceptance into 11 colleges, with eight being art schools. I was the classic “has potential but no drive” teenager, and often did my homework the morning it was due on the hallway floor next to my locker. I said I worked best under pressure, but what I really lacked were planning skills.
After deciding I didn’t want to pursue a major in film editing and recognized my passion for photojournalism, I chose Florida Gulf Coast University as my school for the next four years. While my classmates were going off to Ivy Leagues, I justified staying in state by telling myself I’d get to bring my car to college.
Freshman orientation consisted of 72 hours of mandatory seminars, icebreaker activities and lots of walking. I planned to maintain my reputation as the student that flew under the radar, and sneered at those who preached about how joining a campus organization “saved their lives”. My friends back home advised me to not come off as so aloof, and to try to relate to those around me, but I was set on holding my “get in-get out” attitude.
After four days of setting up my first dorm room, I gave my tearful parents hugs goodbye and led them out the front door, reveling in my sense of freedom. But after being pushed out of the nest, this baby bird fell flat on her face instead of flying.
My first semester freshman year schedule held no journalism classes, but instead required me to attend biology, art history and mathematics lectures. I quickly learned that, unlike high school, missing a class in college did not result in a phone call home, and I began skipping.
I told myself the classes I was taking did not pertain to my major, and therefore didn’t matter. I spent my free time lounging on the campus grass, sleeping in and avoiding Canvas notifications. Weekends were reserved for party hopping and sweating off my hangover by the pool. I skipped one class so often, that when I finally showed up the professor said he thought I had dropped.
Finals week was hardly stressful for me, as I didn’t study for any of my exams, but swore that I’d pass them anyway. I assured my parents that my grades looked great and I packed up for a much-needed break from dodging obligations.
The morning before I left for the spring semester, my parents called me into their room. On the family desktop computer showed my final grades and the words “Academic Warning” plastered on the top of my transcripts. My GPA was a .96, a far cry from the mandatory 2.0 that FGCU required.
The disappointment in my parents’ shoulders was enough to weigh the entire house down, and suddenly an entire semester of partying and doing anything but studying was no longer worth the social status.
I assured them I would pull my grades up, and left with a vow to be a changed person. I started attending every class and turning in homework on time, but a month into the semester, and two weeks after my birthday, I collapsed. I was dumped the week of Valentine’s Day and just four days later, while on vacation with my family, woke to a call from University Police telling me my dorm room was being searched.
My roommate and best friend at the time waited until they were alone and proceeded to smoke weed in student housing, which prompted an entire search of the shared room. In a poorly planned attempt to save themselves, they stashed the illegal substance in my bedroom, which led to a month-long investigation and my required presence at multiple disciplinary hearings.
My entire world crumbled. Although I was cleared of all charges, I lost my roommate, best friend and boyfriend within a week, and considered dropping out. I threw myself into my classes, because they were the only things I had as a distraction, but I was severely depressed and my grades continued to tank. I would physically attend class, but was not mentally present.
I finished the semester with a 1.8 GPA and packed up my room, swearing I’d never return to FGCU again.
I spent the summer convincing myself I wasn’t meant for college, and the reason why I had failed was because I was only taking classes I did not care about. During a routine physical, I mentioned to my doctor that I was struggling in school and did not want to return, and he suggested Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) testing. I was formally diagnosed in July 2018 and began treatment for a disorder that I believed only applied to middle school aged boys who had trouble focusing in class.
I was given a prescription for Adderall and antidepressants, which I was adamantly against. I knew “Addy” was a common party drug, and worried I’d become addicted. A side effect caused me to lose twenty pounds during the first two months of treatment, and I hated my inability to fall asleep at night.
After four months of coaxing, I returned to FGCU in the fall for my sophomore year, while on Academic Probation. I was convinced that I was the only journalism major at the school, since I had yet to meet anyone with the same course track, and genuinely believed that I was already the best on campus and did not need additional schooling.
I maintained my pompous facade until I found myself enrolled in the basic journalism courses, and realized there was an entire major full of students like me, and that I definitely was not the most impressive person here.
I started to immerse myself in those around me, and made friends who agreed that the news was the most interesting show on television. I remained on the medications, and worked with my therapist to create better self-care habits. With the help of my professors, family, newly formulated ADD action plan and, for the first time, quality friends, my GPA rose to a 3.0.
But I was still sitting in the back of the classroom and failing to participate on campus. It wasn’t until it was mentioned to me in a casual conversation that the current Photo Editor of Eagle News, FGCU’s student newspaper, was graduating and they were looking for a new person to take his place.
I went back to my apartment and filled out the application the same day, and within the week I was hired.
My first photo assignment was to cover a basketball game. Upon arriving, I saw that there was no space in the press area for me, and my camera hardly held up compared to the equipment of those around me. I ran into the Alico bathroom and cried for the first half of the game, thinking I had overestimated myself. But, after halftime, another editor convinced me to give it a try, and my photos from that game made it into the newspaper. For the first time since coming off of Academic Probation, I felt validated.
I spent the entirety of the spring semester traveling between athletics games, club meetings and on-campus events. I threw myself into my work, and lived for the feeling of wearing my press credential around my neck. I’d wave to my friends from the floor of basketball games and boasted about my experiences on Instagram.
And what I didn’t realize was, while I was running from basketball game to Programming Board event, I was making friends and becoming involved on campus. My sense of purpose inflated, and I managed to do more in that semester than I had done throughout my entire high school career.
I cheered on the basketball teams and loved meeting every campus organization. I sent links to my photos to the people in them and felt a sense of pride when they’d post them on social media for their family and friends to see. My friends would send me photos of my byline under the front-page photo on Eagle News. My social circle multiplied and my GPA rose to a 3.0. I lost track of all the places my pictures were being used, and suddenly I felt like I was doing something worthwhile.
I came to understand why the orientation leaders stood on the stage two years ago and told us to get involved on campus — and I became a living, breathing testament to their promises. I came off of the antidepressants and my mental health lifted as a result. My social, family and personal life improved drastically and my grades were the best they had ever been. I spent my Friday nights shooting baseball games instead of clubbing and my professors personally congratulated me on my photography.
I have been presented with endless opportunities because of Eagle News, and I have the widest, most welcoming group of friends. My photos have been used all over FGCU’s campus and I am now working on multiple publications throughout Florida and beginning the process of searching for graduate programs. I text my parents telling them about every “A” I receive on assignments and celebrate every congratulatory gif they send in response. My parents purchase every newspaper my photos are featured in and my mom chases the mailman each morning asking for extra copies. They reward my hard work with a bag of jellybeans during every family trip to Disney World — a celebratory treat that tastes sweeter knowing my parents are proud of me.
Instead of sitting in the back of every classroom, my friends save me a seat at the front, and I won’t have a free weekend until December. My photos are featured on FGCU’s social media accounts and people stop me on the way to class asking for camera advice.
The people who I used to scoff at for being involved on campus are now some of my closest friends, and I display my Eagle News hat on my wall.
Joining a student organization, primarily the campus publication, not only saved my college career, but drastically improved my entire lifestyle. When I found myself drowning in late assignments and an unsatisfying party atmosphere, I realized the only person who could save me was myself. It didn’t matter how many good-willed lectures I sat through or the amount of advice I was given, my life would only begin to improve when I decided to take the initiative to help myself.
So no, joining a club or working for the school doesn’t make you a loser, sitting in the back of the room and not doing your homework does — and I wouldn’t trade my byline or EN polo for the world.
