Saying “I’m dropping this class” every week, and never doing it.
SAYING “I’M DROPPING THIS CLASS” EVERY WEEK, AND NEVER DOING IT.
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That familiar dread as the semester kicks into high gear, transforming what seemed like a manageable workload into an Everest of readings, problem sets, and essays. Suddenly, a promising elective feels like a monstrous mistake, and that core requirement you were told was "foundational" now just feels fundamentally impossible. You’ve been there. We all have.
It starts subtly. A sigh. A tired joke. Then, the declaration, whispered to a roommate at 3 AM in the library, or shouted in frustration during office hours: "I'm dropping this class." It’s a weekly ritual, isn't it? A desperate plea for a moment of relief, a fantasy of less pressure, a dream of regaining precious sleep. You visualize the simplified schedule, the open hours, the mental space. For a brief moment, it feels like the only logical solution to a mounting crisis.
But then, the next morning arrives, and that class is still on your schedule. The "drop" button remains unclicked, the form unfilled. Why? Because beneath the exhaustion and frustration lies something deeper: a stubborn refusal to quit. A silent acknowledgment that this challenge, however overwhelming, is part of the path we chose. It's the unique brand of resilience fostered in these halls, the silent pact among us to push through, even when every fiber of our being screams for a lighter load.
It's a shared secret, this weekly flirtation with academic surrender. We understand the weight of expectation, the drive for excellence, and the quiet pride in conquering what once seemed insurmountable. That's the Ivy grit, isn't it? Knowing you'll complain, you'll fantasize about dropping, but ultimately, you'll show up, you'll learn, and you'll complete it. And that, in itself, is a victory only we truly grasp.