As a woman in STEM, I never expected to be assigned to a humanities class when I signed up to be a teaching assistant at a summer program for gifted high schoolers. On the first day of class, I sat at the back table, idly playing with my pencil. The students spent 90% of class time writing and reading (or doodling in the margins of their journals), so I was rendered practically useless as a TA. Out of boredom, I decided to complete all of the assignments the students did. One of our first tasks was to write six-word memoirs. Mine read: “Living to please. Dying to live.” Those six words contain the story of my “gifted” youth.
I’ve never fit the “athlete,” “pretty girl” or “musical prodigy” molds, so my intellect was left to be the basis of my self-esteem. Chasing gold stars in advanced high school classrooms was a start, but entering college took it one step further, transfiguring me into a raging perfectionist. Standardized testing only worsened my fixation with self-improvement, further entangling my sense of worth with arbitrary benchmarks — a seemingly common and acceptable practice at a place like Vanderbilt. By making “harder, better, faster, stronger” my mantra, I evolved into the education system’s best asset — a “gifted” student — and my own worst enemy.
Like many Vanderbilt students, my test scores, resume and GPA all reflect my adherence to an established blueprint for success. I used to believe this mindset was the surefire way to be happy, but this “gifted” label has been a curse. To prioritize academic “success” at Vanderbilt, students like me are gambling with their well-being, putting us at risk of losing our true selves.
Don’t get me wrong— it’s great to “Dare to Grow” if you’re doing it for your own improvement. But for me, self-actualization was never the goal. My identity was defined by a portfolio of 99th percentile scores, accolades and prizes well into my time at Vanderbilt. I consistently sacrificed my well-being and whatever else it took to maintain a 4.0 GPA, because I felt that being “weeded-out” of General Biology or Organic Chemistry meant I hadn’t tried hard enough. Or worse, that my best wasn’t enough. I ignored how I was running out of steam, but it soon became apparent that I had no clue who I was, what I was doing or why I did it.
I reached my breaking point on a bathroom floor at LaGuardia Airport while returning from a college Model U.N. conference. I had four exams to take in less than 48 hours. Between coursework and extracurriculars, I had spread myself too thin, and I was overcome by panic. The pursuit of doing everything at Vanderbilt (and doing it perfectly) was suffocating. As soon as I got back to campus, I turned into a hermit. I was ashamed of my inability to rise to the occasion. I was depressed and, therefore, no longer perfect. Instead of finding a healthy coping mechanism, I turned to controlling what I ate. When my exam scores didn’t fill the void, moving the numbers on the scale did. Five pounds turned to 10, then 15 and then 25. I figured I would be fine soon enough. Flash forward 11 months — I’m still underweight and chronically tired, but I have all As and perfect attendance.
I’m not telling you this to flex, nor am I looking for pity. I only hope to shed light on the problematic rhetoric within institutions that serve high-achieving students. We are told we can do anything, but we are expected to do everything. Anything less is evidence of a lack of effort or ability. Even if perfection is achieved, the self-worth you have gained is artificial, external and conditional. It will fail you. Though I can hope for systemic change, I know the odds of that happening are slim. After all, is there any incentive for universities to prioritize our well-being if our success on paper is the foundation of their prestige?
As the semester draws to a close, we feel the familiar, frenzied panic creep through campus. Listen closely, and you’ll hear fellow Commodores glamorizing the number of Celsius or Suzie’s coffees they’ve consumed in the last 24 hours. Listen a little closer, and you can make out the Gen Chem students on the verge of tears because rapidtables.com says they need a 95 percent on the final to have a shot at getting into medical school. But underneath all of the noise, you’ll hear your own voice. It attempts to convince you it is normal, even good, to be anxious, for it drives you to work harder and sacrifice more.
I’ve learned the fault in this voice’s logic by taking its advice, and now I’m still searching for a version of myself that isn’t defined by the metrics of academic success. For any other students struggling through the same, I leave you with a reminder: Selling your soul for an education is not a fair trade. You are, and always will be, enough.
