“Hey,” it says, cradling my confidence, one whisper from taking it away. “You’re not good enough.”
It came to me again, seven hours ago, in a cafe ten minutes away from home. I opened my email to check the results of my last four college applications. Sitting in that tiny booth, with bread crumbs spilled across the seat, I discovered my academic destiny.
One acceptance, along with the three I had already received. Four total. Good.
Two wait-lists. Ouch.
One rejection. Burn. Continue reading
Nowadays people say the word “optimist” like it leaves a sour taste on their tongues. But a few days ago, I never thought I would have succumbed to the sadness that had gripped me so strongly when I was younger – and I had never thought that I would rely on optimism to save me from it.
It all started on Monday morning. As a typical
procrastinating buffoon high school junior I had received little sleep the night prior and had spent most of my time on Sunday studying for my Physics test. I was in my own little academic world, and yes, I was sufficiently stressed out.