The lifecycle of a college student

Illustrations of a college student during each year of their education — By Caleb Chen - design@theaggie.org

From dorms to degrees

I found a conversation I overheard the other day — my peers discussing their steadfast career plans and rigorous course schedules — to be remarkable for its commonness. It was completely exceptional how it repeated the same things I have heard throughout my time at UC Davis.

In my first year of college, it wasn’t my dorm room or introductory classes that characterized my freshman status; it was the confusion I felt alongside the excitement. I felt absolutely lost in options. I was a freshman because I was senseless, but also because I was adamant I was right.

I started my collegiate journey with a different major and mindset than I have today. Since changing majors, I haven’t felt anything like the rush I used to get when I would tell people: “neurobiology, physiology and behavior.” For exactly one quarter, my overinflated ego compelled me to tell everyone how hard it was to be in chemistry. I felt so cool to be struggling, commiserating with all the other smart kids (because society told me it took a complex understanding of physics or physiology to be “smart,” and that the humanities were the easy way out). Nearing the end of my time here, I realize I am much happier slumming in the social sciences — though it was relatively arduous to reach this point.

University schedules mandate that students be prompt planners: apply with a major, each semester or quarter builds, each year shapes the next and then you’re done. It presents a lifecycle centering around a certain kind of academic path. At the same time, most universities attempt to foster the “college experience” to make the sometimes tumultuous journey both more tolerable and more well-rounded. While of course there are deviants from the traditional four-year plan that institutions lay out, the general formula is strategically suited for the “average” student.

The real life cycle of a college student is separate from this systematic schedule — it’s absolutely formative, but not entirely what you may expect. It’s a long lesson in finding your point of view to behold life’s landscape. That is to say, the transformative nature is not about units or credits, classes suffered through or even years spent; those things merely contribute to the actual metamorphosis that is learning to know yourself.

For me, this process was largely reliant on discomfort and inevitable acceptance. I thought I wanted to be a doctor — in hindsight, I really don’t know why. Outside of wanting to sound smart and help people, it makes essentially no sense for me. I squirm watching “Grey’s Anatomy” and find that the most appropriate place for a person’s insides is… inside (anything else provides me with horrible discomfort). Not only that, but I find myself unable to navigate any and all scientific courses.

Eventually, I accepted my place of unknowing. I accepted that I was never going to be that good at chemistry, and I would probably always feel like it was out to get me — a match made in hell. So I took the classes that sounded fun. I picked the major that didn’t provide me with any set plan. In giving up on thinking certain majors made a person smarter, I was released to find something else, something I could get something out of. It is that — a true connection to your course material — that makes a student smart.

My mom told me that, “Your major is how you see the world,” it’s your lens. When you look at a landscape, do you see specific flora and fauna? Do you see a painting waiting to be made, or something else altogether? Anthropology has given me a way to look at landscapes as culturally significant — they mean something to people. So I accepted my lens. I had liked saying “pre-med” more than I ever liked seeing the world through biology. I love learning about people through human interaction more than neural connections. Even better, I could be smart. I could not see anything through one lens, so the landscape was made invisible — I was forced to find a new way to see.

Unfortunately, your worldview does not guide you to a career. This becomes terribly obvious the faster the reality of post-grad life storms in. Your lens may not tell you what to look for, but it teaches you to see what’s there and how to find meaning in it.

It’s way too easy to constantly talk about how your major makes you smart, or how your internship makes you successful or even how your postgrad plans are your final destinations at the end of a long ride. But in reality, that’s maybe half of the growth. It aids becoming, but really, the becoming is something on its own. Chasing passions will never not help you succeed; it’s a shame not to use college as a space to do that — a space to learn the landscape.

Written by: Violet Zanzot— vmzanzot@ucdavis.edu

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