I knew that when I returned to college in 2014 that I may have to give up the one thing I loved the most: fiction writing.

I witnessed it in the writers’ groups I was a member of. A nurse’s assistant wanted to become an RN. A history buff wanted to get her master’s, so she could teach. School would start; they’d disappear for years. Eventually, they’d return with their spiffy degrees and no idea how to write.

I vowed that I wouldn’t be like them. Fiction writing was too much of my identity to just shove into the closet while I was too busy pacifying professors. But it happened. Almost three years later, I don’t even know who I am.

No, this isn’t a sign that I’m to change my major (again). I’m too far in now to switch; graduation is finally on my horizon. Even if I could, there’s nothing left for me to switch to. I worked at a newspaper; I know what the “journo life” is like. Ever since that paper ceased publication, I wanted to get back to a newsroom. News people are my people; they’re one of the few who I can relate to. It’s the morbid, twisted sense of humor.

I just hate that I got so lost in this college thing.

It’s frustrating that I let myself get so obsessed with trying to obtain high grades and GPAs when, in reality, those high grades and GPAs will never benefit me the way it’ll benefit the more traditional aged student.

I’m tired of getting so caught up in the competition and the jealousy: “Jane Doe has done three internships and is on fire to really blaze a trail in the journalism field!” Well, maybe Jane needs to simmer down a little and not be such an internship hog, so the rest of us has a chance. Then, there’s the journalism students who already have jobs at a local TV station while still in school. I’m like, “How does that even happen, the job coming before the degree?”

The competition and the pressure creates this fear within me. Every time my ego flares up a little — “I don’t know why that editor is spooging all over him. I could’ve written a better story.” — my fear tempers it down. “No one will take you seriously because you’re old, and you write about beer, and you can’t meet a deadline.”

I need fiction writing back in my life to balance out all the college crap, to even out my mood, and to give me confidence. It’s the one thing that brings me joy and fun. Writing late into the night, fueled by beer and pizza, having writing sprints on Twitter with friends. I haven’t experienced that in over 2 1/2 years. I’m lucky if I can spend one stray night here and there working on my novel, and it’s usually more beer than words because writing has gotten so difficult.

Every semester, I have a meltdown. I usually know what triggers it. Writing too many essays and response papers back to back to back. Reading too many books and short stories for lit classes. Having my "real world" life flare up, be it mega lack of money or food, or having to deal with chronically ill cats and car breakdowns.

This semester's meltdown was slow, subtle. It was disguised as guest speakers who visited my Advanced Reporting class offering “helpful” advice.

Have trouble meeting deadlines? Easy! Make imaginary assignments with imaginary deadlines.

Read! Read! Read! Anything and everything! But also read in the beat you want to report!

You want the story to sound like you! Your voice is what sets you apart!

Spend time with other writers! Attend literary events!

I ran into my Introduction to English Studies professor one day after a brutal afternoon in Advanced Reporting where I wrote such notes like, “I’m a fraud. Why am I even here?” She asked how the romance writing was going; I told her I haven’t done it in over two years. She was surprised and told me I need to get back to it.

I finally snapped last week when I was miserably multi-tasking, finishing Advanced Reporting and photojournalism projects while uploading stories to The News Record's website. I was listening to The Bird and The Bee. When Inara George began singing "My Love," hysterical crying ensued. We’re talking “someone has died” crying. The song reminded me of all those beer and pizza fueled nights, spending it with Grant and Lauren, the characters from my unfinished chick lit, and how passionate I was about that novel and myself.

I have another year, year and a half left. I can't continue to be this robotic college student, churning out meaningless story after meaningless story while getting my voice crushed by professors. Friends have recommended that I take a semester off, but I can't do that either.

I can take a journalism break though. Some may call it self care; I call it self-preservation. Spring semester, I'm focusing on my English minor where creativity is welcomed and I'm not confined to writing short, choppy stories with one or two sentences per paragraph to cater to people who don't have time to read anymore.

Already, Spring Semester 2017 is the best semester ever.