Dear incredible Duke: It’s been quite the ride. We’ve had our ups. We’ve had our downs. It would be an understatement to say that I’m a different person now than I was four years ago when I first walked into Randolph. That fresh-out-of-high-school girl was riding the fresh-out-of-high-school wave. I came to Duke with all the false confidence brought about by being “good at things” in high school. But Duke was different.
Back in the day, I didn’t know a ton of Type A people. I was the one who was always running around from the classroom to the volleyball court to the yearbook office to the newspaper office. Coming to Duke was like losing my footing and landing flat on my face with no way of breaking my fall—and those who know me will testify that this could be taken literally or figuratively; no one will be comparing my gracefulness to that of a swan anytime soon. Suddenly, everyone was who I had been in high school; running all over the place, stretching themselves thin, trying so hard to be better, trying so hard to be the best. There’s no time to stop and breathe. You just take in enough air to rally for the next sprint. So without anyone to remind me the importance of breathing, I ran. And I fell. And I ran. And I fell.
By the end of sophomore year, I had reached my limit. I couldn’t keep going at that breakneck pace trying to keep up that stereotypical aura of effortless perfection so I finally stopped and took a few big steps back. Duke had broken me. But I’m an engineer, and it’s my job to fix things. And now here I am, a patched-up senior, and I want to share with you some of the things that I’ve learned and am still learning.
Lesson one: Don’t take yourself so seriously. It’s easy to get caught up in the sheer volume of opportunities Duke offers. But note to self: you’re not better than anyone else just because you’re studying biomedical engineering even if it sounds cool. And being a biomedical engineer doesn’t mean you can’t spend an evening singing along to Frozen with friends or enjoy brunch at the Nasher alone followed by strolling around the exhibits. It’s okay to be young and want to explore this shiny, new world. Laughing is healthy. Laughing at yourself is freedom.
Lesson two: You can’t base your success on the successes of others. This little nugget is from a very insightful Brit I met while abroad. If there’s one thing that engineering has taught me, it’s that, as scary as it is, failure is inevitable. But it is not defining. Duke is spilling over the brim with impressive personas, but someone else’s shine in no way dims yours. It’s admirable to try to be better, but that doesn’t always mean that you’re not already good enough. That means that you don’t have to force your body into being a size two, and you’ll be okay even if you don’t have plans lined up for after graduation.
Lesson three: You don’t have to be so tough all the time. Confession: This one is really hard for me. But it’s not a weakness to cry. It’s not even a weakness to admit that you want to cry. Everyone has their burdens, and it’s only human to expose yours once in a while. It doesn’t take away from your strengths. If anything, it adds to them. Letting that wall around you down isn’t easy, but vulnerability is beautiful.
Lesson four: Love yourself. This is another one that I’m still working on but arguably the most important. About two years ago, I stumbled upon a spoken word poem titled “How to Meet Yourself in the Mirror.” The poet, Ashley Wylde, starts off saying, “Tell me what you love,” followed by a long list ranging from pizza to the way the sunlight is filtered through campfire. Then she asks: “how long do you think you could go on and on before you said, ‘I love myself.’” That line hit me like a load of bricks.
Why is it so hard to look in the mirror and honestly and truly like what you see? Why are we hardwired to shower praises on all those around us but are consistently our own biggest critics? I don’t know. But I do know that loving yourself is, without any doubt, the best thing you can do. It’s forgiving the mistakes you have made and will make. It’s wearing that lipstick that might be a shade too dark, but screw it—you like it. It’s knowing that everything will be okay even when you don’t get that job that you desperately wanted, or when that boy asks another girl out. It’s confidence. If you get anything out of this article, I hope it is that you actively try to start loving yourself.
Duke demands excellence. This place will rip you to shreds. You thought you were smart? Here’s a 32 on your first college midterm. Athletic? Here, meet D1 athletes and even an intermural volleyball team that’s arguably better than your high school varsity one. Pretty? Here, surround yourself with so many people that you can’t help but draw comparisons.
During the peak stress of the job hunt, a friend and I talked about what we considered to be our greatest weaknesses. Hers was confrontation; mine was not giving myself enough credit. Not to be sappy, but it was a pretty touching moment. We are two people who tend not to let our guard down, but that night, whether it was the late hour or the mind-numbness that comes with practicing case studies, we did. Like I often do when things get serious, I cracked a joke, laughed and made a comment about how funny it was. And then she said something that will stick with me for a while: “You really need to learn to give yourself as much credit as you give your jokes.”
It might be a constant effort, but you will survive, and you will sow yourself back together with blood, sweat and tears—pardon the cliché. Here’s to giving ourselves the credit we deserve. Good luck out there, my friends.
Ananya Zutshi is a Pratt senior. Her column runs every other Tuesday.
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