LIT REVIEW: A rock star failure | Culture

As a kid, I knew exactly what I wanted to be — a rock star. Any little girl’s dream job, of course. After that, I wanted to be a veterinarian, until about my freshman year of high school, when I started feeling anxious about the future. This anxiety felt like a grape-sized weight on my shoulders. By May 2018 (graduation) that anxiety had grown to feel like a Hagrid-sized weight (My back is fine, thank you for asking.).

My career goals had morphed, too, from veterinarian to nurse, and I was (likely) developing an anxiety disorder. That’s how my four-year journey to and through nursing school began. The first two years of college were great, with mostly science-centered courses. I was paired with a roommate I adored and enjoyed some much-needed freedom, but I missed home.

In the spring of 2020, I applied and was accepted into the nursing program at Missouri Western State University. I was overjoyed when I got my acceptance letter. I called all my family members, my boyfriend, my friends, and anyone else I could get ahold of. In the fall of 2020, I started nursing school.

I was quickly overwhelmed with the number of assignments, readings and in-person labs, on top of the need to study for exams. I wasn’t excelling anymore. My exam grades didn’t meet my unrealistic standards. I wasn’t getting enough sleep. I dreaded going to class and labs. In short, my mental health was a joke; I was an anxious mess. But I told myself I was fine.

A week or so before finals, I figured out I needed an A on one exam to pass, but I had never gotten above 89%. Instead, I shut down completely and didn’t talk to anyone about it. I failed my first semester of nursing school.

Telling my parents was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Even though they were so supportive and understanding, I felt like I had failed them as a daughter and as a person. I fell into anxiety and depression and refused to acknowledge that problem.

But there was hope — I could make an appeal for readmission. I can’t recall the exact requirements but showing that I was making a change was a big component. I sat down with my mom and discussed my struggles: I couldn’t focus, my mind raced, I overthought everything, and I was anxious. She told me these were signs of ADHD. She also admitted that when I was in elementary school, a teacher had suggested I get tested for ADHD, but afraid of the stigma, my mom never did.

So, I visited my doctor, talked about my struggles, and asked for treatment. She put me on medication to help with ADHD, and I used that as proof I was making a change. I got accepted back into the program but had to retake the courses I failed.

My second first semester, a group of us got to work in a nursing home, and while it was nice to feel helpful, I didn’t feel accomplished. The following semester, we built on concepts from our prerequisite courses and the processes of being a nurse. Each semester finished without too much pain, and I told myself I was doing better.

The third semester rolled around; the hardest in the program. As it progressed, I started struggling again. I avoided sleeping. I ate mostly Subway, Chick-fil-A, and the occasional PB&J. I stopped putting effort into my homework and studying. And by finals week, I was in the same exam-grade predicament.

I remember walking out of the first exam holding back tears, on a beeline for my dorm, because I hadn’t gotten the score I needed. As soon as I got to my room, I started bawling; I called my parents and told them I’d failed out of nursing school and cried some more after I hung up the phone.

I retreated from the world for three or four months after that. I wasted away in bed and avoided getting a job. Eventually, I met up with a family friend to discuss other aspects of healthcare that I might enjoy, and she asked a question that stuck out.

“Why do you want to be a nurse?”

After some self-reflection, I realized that I didn’t. I loved learning about science but not implementing it in practice. I loved helping others but not taking a life in my own hands. I stopped studying and sleeping to self-sabotage — I could fail out without my intellect being the cause. I could escape if I failed, so I did subconsciously.

Once I accepted that, I started thinking about what to do: What do I love? What am I good at? I want to help others; I have always found comfort in books. I’m a good writer, albeit inexperienced, and love to do so. So here I am, pursuing an English degree and hoping to help others. Not with medicine, but with epic stories.