Why I Regret Working Too Hard in School

A few weeks ago was my 23rd birthday and ordinarily, I would have chosen to reflect on the past year’s triumphs and failures with a lighthearted attitude and a merry trip to NIU by Vikings in Manila. But to have done so this year, even if it were possible, would have been disingenuous.

So, here’s what happened…

The reasons behind one’s goals matter.

Three months ago, I graduated from the University of Florida with the highest honors. I had numerous work experiences under my belt and earned a 4.0 GPA in my last semester. Not only that but barely halfway to graduation, I received an offer for a funded graduate slot in a respectable Canadian university.

On paper, I imagine I must seem impressive to your average onlooker. I say this because I, myself, would almost automatically express admiration for others with similar feats. But the truth is, these achievements are almost meaningless to me.

Not completely meaningless—but almost.

See, most of the time, my regard for my accomplishments depends on both the intention behind attaining them and the process in which I attain them. Unfortunately, I feel as though I achieved the abovementioned for what I consider to be the wrong reasons.

One gets praised a lot as a child—maybe too much.

I aimed for summa cum laude because in the 6 years preceding my college career, I felt academically incompetent.

Attending a STEM high school and having no motivation for the classes, coupled with inconsistent study habits, left me all too aware that I was an average student.

Some may argue that this shouldn’t be a big deal since I was an average student in an above-average institution, but that made no difference to me.

“Average” was a serious blow to my ego.

You see…as a child, I never really felt like I was “average”. It sounds kind of obnoxious but it’s the truth. I had no reason to think that I was average. I received praise left and right from family, friends, and teachers about my supposed giftedness. And I have to admit, I quite liked being constantly acknowledged.

As I grew older and found myself in environments which demanded just a little more effort, I naturally struggled. After all, I was used to being applauded for achievements that honestly didn’t seem to require a lot of work.

Exhibit A: I was the consistent pambato in spelling bee and literary competitions in primary school. This wasn’t because I diligently and purposefully learned new words or dove into different genres of books. It was simply because I spent my time reading anything I could get my hands on! Storybooks from the school library, my cousins’ hand-me-downs, my sister’s Goosebumps, and even candy wrappers and shampoo bottles!

Exhibit B: I had competed in an intra-school science “quiz bee” two years in a row after acing the qualifying tests. After my teacher announced that I had won, I chuckled because I didn’t even like science all that much. I only had knowledge of scientific trivia because I frequently read kids’ almanacs.

This isn’t to say that I wasn’t deserving of recognition at all; I did happen to be competent, or at least more so than my peers at the time, after all. My point is that I never pushed myself to perform better because it seemed like I could get somewhere praise-worthy without really trying.

Reality sets in.

The consequences of my naive ideas surrounding success became evident in high school. As I mentioned before, my time in a science high school could have been smoother. I even fell behind on things that I actually had a “headstart” on.

It was freshman year. My computer science teacher had expressed concern to my homeroom advisor about how I was not engaging with class material. We were learning basic HTML and CSS—languages I learned by myself at age 10—and I had not only stopped paying attention, but I also started handing in incomplete projects.

It became increasingly clear that I was incapable of doing things I did not want to do—even when I needed to do them.

I faced a similar conundrum during my two years of high school in Hong Kong. While I excelled in things that came naturally to me (e.g. organizing events for social causes, entertaining and befriending others, and performing well in my English class), I lagged in many others.

Two of them were Economics and Geography. Despite these classes being deemed relatively easy, I could not score higher than a 5 (out of 7).

In retrospect, my marks made sense since I always spaced out in class and I never studied ahead for my exams. At the time, however, I focused on how I couldn’t earn an easy 6 or 7 in those classes as I did in Spanish ab initio and English.

To make matters worse, the praise that I had grown up expecting became more infrequent.

And then, I was hit with the frightening realization that I perhaps was not only unspecial but also below average.

Even when I managed to succeed or do well, it’s important to note that I never really felt any direct external pressure to be “above average”. In reality, I was driven by my own feelings of inadequacy which stemmed from wanting to be on par with, say, my math whiz classmates in the Philippines and my outspoken and liberal Hong Kong peers.

Unfortunately, the desire to rival other people’s abilities didn’t actually push me to spring into action. It had never occurred to me back then that the majority of successful and goal-oriented people don’t rely on instinct and natural ability alone. They work hard, learn to compromise, and eventually improve.

Mental health suffers.

To say that my self-pitying and envying attitude bummed me out would be an understatement. They had successfully transported me along the road to depression.

Bad habits became worse. None of my school projects were handed in on time. My sarcasm went from a somewhat acceptable Chandler-from-Friends to borderline rude. Most nights I couldn’t sleep earlier than 3 a.m. I gained weight that, to this day, I am still working to shed.

My dreams of attending university crumbled as I began accepting that my life was going nowhere. Thankfully, one of my teachers sternly advised me that “while not attending university didn’t seem like a big deal [then], I would regret it in the future” and forced me to submit my university applications.

Light at the end of the tunnel?

When I got my first acceptance into an American university, my mind suddenly buzzed with new possibilities. For the first time in a long time, I was hopeful.

I saw it as an opportunity to reinvent my mindset. I promised myself in college that I would beat depression. That I would prove to myself that with a little more effort, I can reach academic excellence.

I began to accept that relying on my spontaneous bursts of energy and natural inclinations would not be enough. I forced myself to keep going even when I felt old habits threatening to resurface.

Great results (on paper)!

The good results came almost instantaneously. Healthier habits led to higher marks, a fitter body, and a more pleasant disposition. I kept my schedule organized in a physical planner and clearly-labeled post-its.

READ: Why I Decided to Lose Weight and How I Did It

Actually, I became somewhat addicted to getting stuff done, even small things. But at last—no longer did I need to worry about my grades. With my new habits, I could perform well above average in most of my classes. I discovered new skills and improved older ones as well.

But then…I became too obsessive. The once innocently self-critical mindset I developed gradually got out of hand. I lost the distinction between doing my best and overworking myself.

Overcompensation.

One Spring semester, I insisted on doing two internships at once on top of my course load and other commitments. A simple “nice job” from a professor was also not enough; I needed to hear that my work was impressive.

Many times, I would physically and mentally exhaust myself working on projects ’til late and stressing out about how my work just wasn’t good enough. Considering how much I had going on, it was, of course, unreasonable to expect high-caliber output each time. Despite this, I still felt like I needed to push myself.

So I did. I became fixated on getting everything done, even little things that didn’t really matter to me. I ended up working on “autopilot”, miserably pouring every last ounce of energy on quizzes, projects, and exams.

Disappointing outcomes.

And then came graduation. I received the email that confirmed I was graduating with highest honors. A feeling of emptiness set in instead of the pride and relief that I had expected.

I didn’t feel like my diploma represented anything I cared about.

Sure, I learned how to be more conscientious—and I am very grateful for this. I really can’t deny that steadily working hard almost always leads to good results.

However, the anticlimactic outcome made me realize that I needed to be more honest with myself about what is worth having discipline for.

I obviously wouldn’t have had the foresight four years ago as a freshman but now it’s crystal clear: I set goals and expectations for myself that just weren’t compatible with my values, interests, and natural temperament. I’m fatigued from proving this one point to myself and now that I’ve done it, I’m not really sure what to do.

Moving forward.

It’s a little funny. I attributed my failures in high school to my lack of introspection and discipline. In college, despite my focused efforts to address these shortcomings, I still don’t think I ended up getting everything right.

But now that I’ve proven myself through a metric that I once placed such high importance on, I think I now want to focus on challenging myself with pursuits that truly thrill me—even though some may deem them less exceptional than graduating summa cum laude.

I have decided to defer my post-graduate studies to next year so I have one whole year to focus on fun, creative projects. There will be no more fancy school-related achievements to aim for (not that I have a choice) but honestly, that’s a good thing.

I’m optimistic about my life as a 23-year-old but of course, I anticipate I will be writing a somewhat similar reflection for my birthday next year.