I am Janna. Overachiever. Nerd. Perfectionist.
For as long as I can remember, these are the words I have used to describe myself. Truthfully, I’m not sure if I’m the one who originally ascribed those terms to myself or if I was pushed by those around me to adopt the belief that these were my most defining character traits—but it doesn’t matter, because the end result is the same: at some point in my life, I made the conscious decision to be defined by academics. From then on, almost everything I did was based on and dictated by this one choice.
Growing up, I would always hear people say, “Oh, don’t worry about your grades. Academics don’t define you.” But what these people failed to understand was that while some of my peers made sports or music their main focus and defining feature, I made mine academic success.
Over the years, this decision earned me the bullying, taunting, and name-calling you would expect, but it also came with good grades and a little thing called academic validation. Suddenly, all of the struggles I had to endure, like the bullying and sacrificing outings with friends, didn’t seem like high prices to pay for the cost of the sweet, intoxicating happiness of academic validation. So what if I missed out on parties, events, and a thriving social life when I received high praise from teachers and had my work used as an example in class?
It was only when I got to high school that I started to think, maybe I should give myself a break and focus on enjoying my last years of school with my friends. Before this thought could fully assert itself in my mind, though, it was already time to start preparing for university, and so the idea was quickly pushed aside. Like many others, I had always known that I wanted to attend UofT and knew the amount of work I’d have to put in to get into my desired program. Of course, I was happy to oblige because, after all, what’s a couple more semesters of hard work when I’d been striving for academic success almost my entire life? It’s not like I could’ve escaped the “nerd” label if I wanted to, because everyone, including my teachers, friends, and family, already viewed me as such and I guess it was just easier to comply. And anyway, my need for and near dependence on academic validation had grown so much by this point that I couldn’t fathom giving that up for something as frivolous as a flourishing social life. Obviously there were times when the work got too overwhelming and I wanted so badly to just give up, but I would always reassure myself that putting academics first was worth it if my reward was getting into the university of my dreams.
After months of overworking myself, pulling all-nighters, and having countless nervous breakdowns, I had finally done it: I had gotten into UofT. Getting into university marked the first time that I seriously considered giving up on my “academics first” policy. The way I saw it was that I had finally attained the goal I’d been working towards for most of my life. Now, I could stop. I could get a fresh start, meet new people, and have the chance to redefine myself. I realize that this may seem a very naive thought because it’s not like you get to relax or work less in university by any means—as I would later discover—but alas, I didn’t care. In my mind, I had done the work, and now, it was finally time to reap my reward.
Now, obviously none of the things I expected from a first-year university experience happened because of, oh, a global pandemic, the consequences of which led to the deterioration of my mental health to an extent I hadn’t experienced before. As a socially anxious introvert who, as previously mentioned, had dedicated her whole life to being academically successful, I saw university as my one chance to reinvent myself and “start living my life.” But instead of the typical O-week and freshman parties, I got a year of being trapped in my room—which, granted, I did enjoy at first. But a couple of months in, I started to feel like the universe was having a cruel laugh at my expense.
My “reward” was not feeling like a reward at all, but more like years of working myself to complete exhaustion and maybe getting one-day breaks every two weeks. Since Toronto had been in a lockdown for most of the previous school year, I couldn’t even promise myself that if I did well on an assignment or test, I could reward myself by going out or hanging out with friends, as I had in high school. It felt like I was putting in so much energy, effort, and time while receiving virtually no reward. You might be thinking, Janna, aren’t the good grades and academic validation you receive as a result of your work reward enough? Or maybe you’re thinking, isn’t having the ability to attend post-secondary education and pursue your desired program the reward? I guess you’d be partially correct in either case, but I’m here to report that neither of these thoughts were strong enough to carry me through the effort it took to write yet another essay. I wanted new friends. I wanted adventures. I wanted memories to look back on and, most importantly, I wanted a redo of my high school years.
For the first time, I seriously started to regret the way I had chosen to spend high school because truly, what memories did I have to look back on? Aside from a couple of highlights, most of my memories of high school consist of me crying and having near panic attacks from being stressed out. I felt like I missed out on the “traditional” teenage experience. Doubts snuck into my head and I couldn’t for the life of me get them out: what if I had wasted my high school years? What if prioritizing school over a social life was a mistake? When I talked to my friends, they all expressed similar wishes that they had done things differently because was it really worth it if this was how our first year turned out? I’m well aware that this is a flawed and mildly stupid way to think, because clearly my work in high school did pay off and one’s high school years aren’t that important anyway, yadda yadda. Even if I don’t end up getting the university experience I wanted, I’m sure my experience will be as valuable and fulfilling as I make it—but it’s hard to see the bigger picture in the moment.
While in the midst of these realizations, I still had to complete my various university assignments, which, naturally, was a lot harder to do now that my main motivating factor—academic validation—no longer, well, motivated me. Sure, doing well on an essay and being praised for it still felt nice, but it stopped having as much of an effect on the way I viewed and defined myself. I submitted assignment after assignment, not caring what grade I’d end up receiving, and not feeling as good as I used to when I saw that I did well. While I never stopped working, I stopped caring about the results. I could no longer justify defining myself based on my academic success when I felt like I was failing in other areas of my life—I honestly didn’t feel like I was living my life at all. On top of that, I was constantly going through horrible burnout periods, where the thought of having to write another essay nearly made me cry. I would submit assignments knowing that they weren’t my best work, but I just couldn’t bring myself to put any more effort into them. Sometimes I would end up doing badly on these assignments, but other times I did better than I expected—or better than I thought my work was worth.
I felt like an imposter.
Not only had I given up so much to be academically successful, but my self-perception had been warped to the point where I couldn’t see the value of my own work. I couldn’t even believe others when they tried to reassure me that it had any. If anything, the low grades I got only confirmed my belief that I was an imposter. I felt unworthy of defining myself based on academics because I wasn’t even succeeding at that, and this feeling kept me in a constant cycle of self-hatred and burnout.
Let me be clear: when I look back on my high school years, I’m still proud of the work I did and can look back on it with fondness. Even when I look back on my university work from last year, I can now appreciate elements of the assignments and projects that I once viewed as awful. But as much as I love academia, I was a fool for letting myself miss out on so many experiences because I thought that my only value lay in my academic work.
Thankfully, quarantine has given me a lot of time to reflect and figure out that I wanted to change the way I’d been viewing myself and, subsequently, the way I’d been living my life. So I did. Slowly but surely, I started to loosen the hold that academics had on my self-perception, reassuring myself that I am so much more than the tests I take and the essays I write. I started taking time out of my day to do things unrelated to academics. Whether it’s journaling, learning a new hobby, or working out, I figured that if I could find other things in my life that I do purely for myself and that bring me joy, then the validation I got from academics wouldn’t affect me as much. For the first time in my life, I’m learning to define myself outside of academics—and I think I’m better for it.
I know that having the ability not to care about grades or rely on academic validation is a privileged position to be in, as many of us have to care about our GPAs to a certain extent due to parental pressure, reliance on scholarships, or graduate school requirements; however, I don’t think anyone should ever reach a point where they feel like their value as a human being is tied to their academic success or lack thereof. I think it’s unrealistic to believe that I—or most people—can fully separate ourselves from our academic work, but for the sake of our mental health and wellbeing, I hope we can realize that, as much as we may need to do well academically, academics do not define us as people. Sure, the skills and work habits needed to be academically successful are part of your character, but they don’t tell the whole story.
I am Janna. Loving sister. Caring friend. Arts enthusiast.
The next time you take a test or work on an assignment, I hope you remember to be kind to yourself, and, most importantly, that life is too short to be defined purely by academics.
