College.

(As referenced before, I attempted going back to college in 2021.)

My parents' form of love was an education.

They wanted me to be better than them. If they couldn't love me in a nurturing way, they could at least love me in a survival way. They knew the world was evolving, that hard labor in factories was becoming antiquated, and that I would need a college degree to make enough money to survive a world of out-of-control inflation.

I understand why they were angry when I chose a man over what they had built for me my whole life. I veered from their plan, and they felt devastated that the control they had over my survival was gone. I chose the joker path—the least likely, most unpredictable option. I suffered unnecessarily, or so they thought.

But I was prepared to survive, because survival was the only love I ever knew.

And then I developed an illness that would tear that wound open over and over again. I lashed out trying to survive despite my circumstances, sometimes to the point of self-sabotage. Pain was love. I let things get so bad that the pain was destroying me, and I became convinced it was the only kind of love I deserved.

All because my parents did their best.

And, genuinely, huge shoutout to my parents for teaching me how to read and encouraging my writing and art. Those things mattered, too.

I knew from the get-go that university wasn't for me. It was what was expected, sure, but it always felt out of reach.

I could've taken on the debt at eighteen, signing my life away on numbers I couldn't even begin to comprehend, but I didn't. Then, at twenty-six, the pandemic had opened up an opportunity I couldn't reasonably ignore: secondary education became available tuition-free to frontline workers and adults over twenty-five, provided they had a high school diploma.

I would've been foolish to let that opportunity slip away.

Preparing for college was a roller coaster ride without a seatbelt. Being a first-generation college student meant I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. Multiple to-do lists, government forms, financial information, class descriptions, entrance exams, and everything else were no less than discouraging.

If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought they were gatekeeping higher learning.

My original academic pathway, for as long as I could remember, had been psychology. I always wanted to be a therapist. But that usually requires eight years of schooling just to dip a toe into the profession.

So I decided to go for business instead.

Everything I enjoy—writing, drawing, photography, metaphysics—can potentially become a profitable business. If I learned the ins and outs of management and corporate life, I could apply those skills to my current job as well as my passions.

I started this blog post months before I actually went to college, but I had no idea what to expect, so I left it where I left it.

Summer passed.

And suddenly, here we were, in week two of the fall semester.

College was, so far, the easiest hard thing I'd ever done.

Even though I worked full-time, having a week to complete assignments felt completely reasonable. Did I procrastinate a little? You bet I did. But I also couldn't afford to keep all my eggs in one academic basket.

That first week, I thought I was going to pass away from how well my brain meds were working. It was like I'd transcended stress. I was balancing work, applying to jobs, school, pets, domestic chores, family, friends, and myself.

I felt absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

The thrill of doing well on an assignment was the same as I remembered: a drugless high of achievement.

I felt challenged by the classes I'd chosen—Astronomy and English Composition. I'd never stopped learning after high school, but none of what I studied counted toward higher education. Without the accountability of a grade, I'd struggled to deep-dive into some of the subjects that interested me.

One of those was learning another language. For some reason, I could never convince myself to put in the work on top of everything else I was responsible for, and nothing seemed to stick.

I hoped being back in school would be the blunt-force trauma I needed to continue learning beyond what was strictly necessary.

I was especially excited to get into my business courses: marketing, finance, entrepreneurship.

I eventually planned to open a death doula business in the western part of my state, so understanding those things would be paramount to making it successful, in addition to completing the death doula certification. In the meantime, a business degree could potentially open doors to HR or management positions.

Most importantly, it was practical.

I was grateful for the opportunity to be back in school. I didn't feel overwhelmed by pressure or time restraints, and I hoped younger people could take something from my experience.

Don't squander your time.

Take advantage of scholarships and grants.

And, of course, it is completely okay—and absolutely possible—to be successful without a degree.

But if it's something you want?

Just fucking do it.

Cue the disappointment of my friends and family members.

Here's why I quit college.

Going to college and getting a degree had been my thing for so long. After diverging from the straight path, it turned out my sharp turn was actually a complete circle.

I finally got free tuition and successfully enrolled in the fall semester of 2021.

Through headaches, nerves, unrelenting stress, and sacrifice, I made it halfway through the semester with an A and a B+.

Then I quit.

I gave up.

A dream I'd held for so long ended because I chose to end it.

I'd recently started working a new schedule, and I was exhausted. When I woke up the Saturday after withdrawing from my classes, I immediately started panicking.

I'd slept all day.

Literally all day.

Twelve hours.

I still had a five-page paper, an astronomy project, and ten worksheets to finish by the next day and—

Wait.

I didn't.

Not anymore.

That self-induced stress was over.

And somehow, that was terrifying.

I'm a perfectionist. The only thing I enjoy is doing a good job. I wish I were kidding.

Sometimes my best elevates me above my peers, and sometimes my best simply isn't enough.

Making this decision was devastating because I could've kept going. I was passing both classes. More than passing, actually.

But every time I had a few minutes here or there to do homework, I just couldn't.

I didn't want to.

It made me unhappy. It demanded things from me that I didn't realistically have to give. And when I looked at the larger picture, I realized I didn't actually want the life I was sacrificing everything else to build.

That realization hurt more than failing ever could have.

After eight years of trying to figure out my career, I'd decided to pursue a business degree.

It was supposed to be safe.

It was supposed to be applicable to the office job I so desperately wanted.

What is the office?

Doesn't matter.

What do I do there?

Who knows.

But it's white collar, usually salaried, and I get to wear nice clothes and be somebody.

Except I'd started to question what "somebody" actually meant.

After getting my new factory job, I recognized the social disparity I was experiencing more than ever. People I thought were my friends were suddenly mum about my new position in sanitation, presumably because of what the job was.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I felt embarrassed.

Growing up, my dad was a janitor, and I thought it was the coolest job ever. I remember the first time another person said to me, "Really? A janitor?"

The word came out sticky, like molasses.

So thick I could choke on it.

Fuck those people, first and foremost.

Dirty jobs don't make you unsuccessful.

Success ≠ Office.

Love from family, friends, and pets is a sign of success. Having what you need and sharing what's left over is a definition of success.

Maybe success should be measured by the positive impact you have while you're on this planet.

It shouldn't be one of the seven deadly sins' many offshoots.

We are being killed by greed, desire, jealousy, gluttony, anger, laziness, and pride. We're destroying our world and choking ourselves toward extinction because we're so preoccupied with having the most and hating what other people have.

So what were the unrealistic expectations?

And why did college become a poor trade for my time?

For starters, I did approximately twenty-four hours of homework for two classes in one week.

I worked forty hours a week.

I slept roughly fifty hours a week, give or take.

I had a dog who had just had surgery, a kitten who thrived on chaos, a grandma cat who often needed rescuing from said kitten, an axolotl with a fungal infection, and an entire house to maintain.

Something had to give.

And that something was my self-care, my relationships, my free time, and eventually my ability to function.

I respected my limits.

Something had to go, and college was the newest invader of my time.

There was also the matter of what I was actually getting in return.

At the rate I was taking classes, it would've taken me four years to complete an associate's degree.

Yes, time will pass regardless.

But so would the time I spent working, pursuing my actual passions, learning things because I genuinely wanted to learn them, and making decent money at a job where I already knew I could succeed.

I even knew that I made more money than some people with degrees.

That doesn't make degrees worthless.

It just means the equation isn't the same for everyone.

I wasn't stupid for not having a piece of paper.

I wasn't lazy for recognizing that something wasn't working.

And I wasn't a failure because I walked away from something I'd once desperately wanted.

Maybe someday I'll take classes again when school is more convenient. Maybe I'll pursue a certification. Maybe I'll find a completely different path to the things I want to learn.

But staking my entire life on the possibility that someday I'll have more time is a dangerous game.

School will probably always be hard.

And that's okay.

What matters is knowing what you're willing to sacrifice for it—and what you're not.

Our education system is due for reform, and I hope my future kids have a fairer system than the one we inherited.

And if they decide not to sign their lives away at eighteen, only to be thrown into the big pond with cement blocks tied to their feet?

That's definitely alright with me.

Because my parents were right about one thing:

They wanted me to survive.

What they couldn't have known was that survival doesn't always look like a degree.

Sometimes survival looks like knowing when to stop.

Sometimes success looks like walking away.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit that the dream you spent years chasing isn't actually yours anymore.