This is 4th year.

These days, most of my writing has been reduced to manuscripts, dissertation, and internship applications. I cannot believe I am somehow at the end of my fourth year already! Where did the time go? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was crying over my basic stats class? Wasn’t it a week ago that I was begging for an A+ in ethics class instead of an A? Wow, time has flown.

I write this from my Manhattan apartment under moonlight and paintings that I have collected over the year. Medals from various running races clothe my walls; a barely hobby that has since turned into a lifestyle. I’m sitting comfortably in my memory foam bed that my dad built back in 2021 when I moved here. I’m writing without clear aim; just the burning feeling in my fingertips and the whirling of my stomach that reminds me I miss this practice of lacing words together to tell my story.

My fourth year feels surreal. I feel like I am on autopilot most days. There’s no time to mess around this year. Internship interviews are in full swing and my life has developed a daily routine of hesitantly checking my email for rejections or interview offers. The overwhelming feeling that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and that I’m supposed to have figured that out in my earlier years in school makes my mind race at night. Some days, I feel confident. On those days, I can paint multiple satisfactory murals of my life’s work. On other days, I see nothing. And on the worst days, I feel failure nipping at my heels as I run toward the unknown; sometimes, I feel like failure has already consumed me.

It’s in this year that I have felt a revitalization in my faith. I’ve gone from winning multiple fellowships and awards to waking up to daily rejections and reminders that I am far from my goals. I am reminded that rejection is redirection. I have to remember that when I feel directionless, when I feel this uncomfortable, I am growing.