Kate Farr is a third-year journalism major and writes “Face to Face” for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily reflect those of the newspaper.
Valedictorian. Four-year varsity cross-country runner and women’s team captain. National Honor Society President. Editor-in-chief. Managing editor. Photo managing editor. President of the Ohio Scholastic Media Association Student Board. First Ohio representative for the Quill & Scroll Student Board. School and community theater. Choir. Future Teachers of America …
The list didn’t stop. It was an endless cycle of titles, responsibilities and rehearsals. Practice from 3:00 to 5:00. Quick turnover and cover an event for the yearbook. A 20-minute break for dinner. Five hours of homework. Run through lines. Edit photos. Finish class readings. Shower. Try to sleep. Toss. Turn. Up again at the crack of dawn. Repeat.
If I got an A- on a test, it meant sobbing for 15 minutes and not eating at lunch. If I couldn’t figure out a math problem, it meant digging my nails into my palm until I could see little red half-moons.
I spent hours feverishly mulling over textbooks, obsessively formatting study guides, combing through project rubrics to squeeze out the highest grade, meeting with teachers to make sure I was doing my homework just right, doing this, doing that, being the ideal student, being the ideal college applicant.
It was constant. Fight or flight, a panic bubbled to the surface every time I opened my grade book.
I would be struck with a hot, sickening chill at the sight of anything below a 96. My fingers would twitch and grip my wrist as if pain could somehow expel anxiety from my body.
I had to be perfect.
I had to be in the top position of every organization, highest AP score, top-ranked student, flawless GPA, lead in the musical, soloist, strongest résumé, impeccable example, most involved, most impressive.
Everything, everywhere, all the damn time.
And then I got into my dream schools. I had the acceptance emails, the congratulations with exclamation points and digital confetti. But when I saw the cost, the facade I had built around academics and extracurriculars crumbled. I couldn’t afford it.
All the work, all the pressure and all the pain didn’t matter. It felt like I’d lost half of myself. I’d pushed myself to the breaking point time and time again for something I’d been told was in reach.
Out of every school, I made the decision to come to Ball State. It was the one school with the free application, and in the end, the only one I could realistically attend.
Little by little, the pressure lifted from my shoulders. I had to ask myself: What if it doesn’t matter? Who the hell else cares anyway?
I didn’t have to be perfect. No one cared, except me. And that was strangely and beautifully freeing. I started small.
I let myself get a B. I skipped a class here and there. I stopped putting hours into assignments. I took nights off. I stopped punishing myself for grades that fell short of academic perfection.
It was liberating to see my GPA get knocked down from a 4.0 to a 3.9. There’s freedom in letting go, getting off the roller coaster and accepting that perfection isn’t an attainable goal.
Now, as I stand on the edge of college graduation, I want to acknowledge that past version of myself — the one whose worth depended on percentages and positions.
I don’t regret the drive or passion that I instilled in myself. I am proud of what I accomplished, how far I came. But I learned that the anxiety, the disappointment and the heartbreak weren’t worth the achievements.
The achievements didn’t sustain me, didn’t carry me when everything else was bogging me down. And I know now that it also didn’t define who I was.
Your education isn’t meant to be a sprint filled with scuffed knees and palms, pulling yourself from the ground after every blunder.
I let myself take the past three years slowly and steadily. Sure, I didn’t do the typical four-year undergraduate track, and — as I’m only graduating at 20 — I’ve had my fair share of missteps in my journey to walk across the stage.
Life isn’t a linear path, and I still have much to learn. What matters most is that this time I learned how to rest, ask for help and find joy even in all of the hard times.
That’s how I define my success this time around. Instead of checking every box, I chose to live the past three years imperfectly, honestly and freely.
This time, I did it for myself.
Contact Kate Farr via email at kate.farr@bsu.edu.
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