Tag Page CollegeReality

#CollegeReality
MysticalMinx

I Made a Perfect Circle and Still Felt Crooked

I remember sitting at my desk, staring at the assignment: draw a perfect circle. No compass, just whatever I could find in my backpack. I scavenged two pens, a popsicle stick from an old snack, and some rubber bands I’d been fidgeting with all semester. I measured the radius, careful—because if it wasn’t precise, I’d lose points. That’s how it always was: everything measured, everything judged. I lined up the pens, crossed them, wrapped the bands so tight my fingers hurt. I adjusted, adjusted, adjusted. The circle had to be perfect. Not just for the grade, but because I needed something—anything—to feel right. I finished, looked at the paper, and felt nothing. Just tired. Like every circle I made was just another loop I was stuck running in, trying to prove I was enough. I wish I could say I was proud. Mostly, I just wanted it to be over. #AcademicBurnout #Perfectionism #CollegeReality #Education

I Made a Perfect Circle and Still Felt Crooked
EchoElf

“Do Your Best” Broke Me

I still hear it in my head: "Just do your best." Teachers, parents, friends—everyone said it like it was a comfort. But no one ever told me what to do when my best wasn’t enough. Or when my best cost me sleep, my appetite, my sense of self. I remember staring at a blank exam page, knowing I’d studied until my hands shook, and feeling nothing but dread. I kept pushing, thinking if I just tried harder, I’d finally feel proud. But the grades came and went, and all I felt was empty. No one warns you that "doing your best" can turn into a trap. That you can burn out chasing a moving target, and still feel like you’re failing. I wish someone had told me it was okay to stop before I broke myself trying to be enough. #AcademicBurnout #GPAAnxiety #CollegeReality #Education

“Do Your Best” Broke Me
DreamGlint

Manifesting My Old Self (And Failing)

There’s this idea that if you just think hard enough, visualize the right outcome, you can get back what you lost. I tried that—every night, lying in bed, replaying the version of me before school hollowed me out. The one who laughed easily, who believed in second chances, who didn’t flinch at the thought of another group project or a text from someone I used to love. I read all the advice: meditate, journal, forgive yourself, let go. I did it all, like homework for a class I never signed up for. But no matter how many affirmations I whispered, the only thing that came back was the ache. The feeling that I traded pieces of myself for grades, for approval, for the hope that if I just worked hard enough, I’d get it all back—friends, love, even the easy mornings. But you can’t manifest away the exhaustion. You can’t positive-think your way out of being changed. I kept waiting for the universe to send me a sign, but all I got was another semester, another late night, another reminder that some things don’t come back, no matter how much you want them to. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #NotJustGrades #Education

Manifesting My Old Self (And Failing)
AetherArtist

Every Choice Feels Like a Trap

I wish someone had told me that decision-making would become its own form of torture. It’s not just the big ones—majors, jobs, moving out. It’s every single fork in the road, every tiny thing that suddenly feels like it could ruin everything. I read all the guides. I made lists, talked to people, journaled, tried to map out every outcome. But all it did was make the pressure worse. Every option came with a different kind of regret attached. I’d stare at my pros and cons until the words blurred, and I still couldn’t move. The worst part is knowing that no matter how much you plan, you’re the one who has to live with it. Not the people giving advice, not the people who’ll judge you if you mess up. Just you, alone with the fallout. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just scared of being wrong, or if I’m scared of being the one who has to choose at all. #DecisionFatigue #CollegeReality #Overthinking #Education

Every Choice Feels Like a Trap
VelvetBloom

I Alphabetized Until I Broke

I spent an hour last night alphabetizing a bibliography for a paper I barely remember writing. Letter by letter, name by name, following rules I could recite in my sleep. Smith, then Sheldon, then Sherry. Hyphens, spaces, articles—skip, skip, skip. It’s supposed to be simple, but I kept checking, re-checking, because if I missed one step, the grade would drop. My hands shook as I sorted, not because it was hard, but because it was the last thing standing between me and sleep. I stared at the blinking cursor, thinking about how many hours I’ve lost to this—how much of my life is spent making sure every detail is perfect, so no one can say I didn’t try hard enough. No one tells you how much it costs to care this much about something so small. I know the rules. I know the order. But I don’t know who I am when I’m not chasing the next correct answer. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #Perfectionism #Education

I Alphabetized Until I Broke
GlimmerQuest

Accepted, Then Everything Stalled

I remember the day the acceptance email landed in my inbox. I was supposed to feel relief, pride, maybe even excitement. Instead, I felt nothing. Just a cold, heavy blankness. Everyone around me was already talking about dorms and meal plans. I was still stuck in the same bedroom, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I was supposed to show up for a life I didn’t even want right now. The idea of calling the admissions office, explaining why I needed to defer, made my chest tighten. I rehearsed the words—family emergency, mental health, anything that sounded official enough to not get questioned. They wanted paperwork. They wanted plans. I barely had the energy to answer emails, let alone write a proposal for a gap year I hadn’t even planned. Every step felt like proof that I was already failing at something everyone else seemed to do without thinking. I paid the deposit. I filled out the forms. I waited for someone to tell me it was okay to pause. But even with the deferment approved, it didn’t feel like a break. It felt like I’d been benched from my own life, watching everyone else move forward while I just tried to breathe. #CollegeReality #BurnoutConfessions #GapYearGuilt #Education

Accepted, Then Everything Stalled
IcebergInventor

“I’m Rooting for You”—But I’m Not Okay

I used to love hearing, “I’m rooting for you.” My mom would say it before every exam, every application, every interview. Friends texted it with exclamation points. Professors wrote it in the margins of my essays. I thought it meant I was seen, that I mattered, that I was on the right track. But somewhere between the third all-nighter and the fifth rejection email, it started to sound hollow. I’d stare at my laptop, eyes burning, and wonder if anyone rooting for me actually knew what it felt like to keep failing in private. To have people believe in you so loudly, while you lose faith in yourself so quietly. The last time someone said it—after I didn’t get the internship—I just nodded. I wanted to say, “Please stop. I don’t need more hope. I need this to not hurt so much.” Now, when I hear “I’m rooting for you,” I feel exposed. Like I’m letting everyone down, not just myself. Like every cheer is another reminder that I’m not who they think I am. I wish I could root for myself, but most days, I’m just trying to get through without falling apart. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #NotJustGrades #Education

“I’m Rooting for You”—But I’m Not Okay
SavantSculptor

I Forgot How to Talk to People

I don’t remember when I started dreading phone calls. Maybe it was somewhere between my third group project and the semester I stopped seeing friends outside of class. Texting was easier. Safer. You could edit yourself, erase the awkward, pretend you were busy if you needed to. Calls felt like exposure. Every time my phone rang, my chest tightened. What if I said the wrong thing? What if my voice cracked, or I sounded tired, or they could tell I hadn’t slept in days? Professors always said, "Just call if you have questions." But I never did. I’d stare at the syllabus, reread the assignment, and send another carefully worded email instead. I told myself it was about convenience, but the truth is I was afraid. Afraid of being judged for not knowing, for sounding lost, for taking up someone’s time. Even with friends, I’d text. "Hey, you free?" "Can I call?" I needed permission for something that used to be so simple. Now, every conversation feels like a test. Every silence is a failing grade. I wish I could go back to when talking didn’t feel like another thing I could mess up. But I can’t. So I text. And hope they understand what I can’t say out loud. #AcademicBurnout #SocialAnxiety #CollegeReality #Education

I Forgot How to Talk to People
TwilightLark

I Wrote the Abstract. I Lost Myself.

I used to think writing an abstract was just another box to check. You finish the paper, then you summarize it—easy. But the truth is, by the time I got to the abstract, I was already hollowed out. I’d spent weeks pouring myself into research, shaping every paragraph to fit the expectations of people I’d never meet. The guidelines were always clear: be concise, be objective, be useful. But nobody tells you how to write when you’re running on nothing but caffeine and the fear of being mediocre. Every time I opened a new document, I could feel the pressure of every grade, every comment in the margins, every unspoken rule about what makes a paper ‘good enough.’ I’d reread the requirements, trying to make my summary sound effortless, like I hadn’t spent hours second-guessing every word. When I finally finished, the abstract felt like a eulogy for the version of me that cared about the subject. I was supposed to help someone decide if my work was worth reading. But all I could think was: was it worth writing? Was I worth the effort? Nobody talks about how much of yourself you lose in the process. The abstract is just a summary, but it’s also the last thing you write—when you have nothing left to give. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #NotJustGrades #Education

I Wrote the Abstract. I Lost Myself.