The other morning I got a mysterious text from one of my best friends, asking if I was home without any other context. I assumed it had something to do with one of the many organizations we're in together, so initially, I thought nothing of it. It was early enough that I hadn't even gotten dressed yet, so I simply lounged around in my Pikachu pjs, waiting for her arrival.
My roommate answered the door-- I didn't even hear a knock.
What I did hear was our best friend-- one of the sweetest people I've ever known-- sobbing on our doorstep.
As I scrambled out of bed and swept my friend up in the biggest hug my tiny arms could muster, she told us through her tears that she'd accidentally slept through a midterm. She's an incredible student, and she's somehow managed to maintain a 4.0 GPA her entire college career. That being said, the thought of jeopardizing her grade because of a silly mistake was devastating to her. I'm sure I would've felt the same way if I was in her shoes-- when you're used to breaking your back over trying to be perfect, any slip-up feels like plummeting off a cliff.
Thankfully, my friend's professor is a saint, and he let her make up her midterm that afternoon. Crisis averted for now.
Even though I'm incredibly happy everything worked out for my friend, this incident sparked some serious reflection in me. This wasn't the first time someone I cared about fell apart over school or work related problems. It wasn't even the first time one of my friends has slept through an important test-- and her professor was unfortunately less forgiving. I've had moments like this, too, where it felt like the entire world just collapsed on my shoulders, and I could do nothing but sit back and let it suffocate me.
From what I've experienced, failure often seems to translate to hopelessness. If you can't succeed, can't balance all your responsibilities and stay on top of your life, then your only other option must be to give up. It's all or nothing-- either prove you're superhuman, or make way for those that are.
Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to always be busier, be smarter, be stretched as thin as we possibly can? Our culture feels like it's getting faster and faster by the day, more concerned with turning us into flawless productivity machines than letting us take a pit-stop and remember we're human for a little while. We raise the most capable of us up on pedestals, admiring them for their dedication and skill and energy, so we often forget that these people might actually be running themselves into the ground.
Now, the friend who showed up at my apartment in tears loves being busy. She told me once that she wanted to be the person with a giant list of titles attached to her name, the example everyone used when they spoke of the pinnacle of academic achievement. I admire her for her spirit and her tenacity. I'm always amazed at how much she can accomplish, and how she can still have a smile on her face when her life is so hectic.
I'm also deeply worried for her.
I know how much she can carry on her shoulders. I've seen her take on the entire world and come out without a scratch on her.
I've also seen her stumble into class late running on two hours of sleep. I've held her as she cried into my shoulder over her missed midterm, with no memory of when or how she'd crashed the night before. I've watched obligation after obligation stack on top of her, and I'm afraid that one day she won't be able to support them all anymore.
Success is certainly something to be praised. With the way our society has framed it, though, it's also something to be feared. It's synonymous with pushing yourself past your limits, getting as close to the brink as you can without slipping over the edge. None of us are perfect. None of us are physically or emotionally capable of doing everything under the sun. There comes a point where we have to step back and remind ourselves that it's okay to relax.
It's okay to set aside a day for ourselves so we can recover.
It's okay to cut back on some responsibilities if we can't keep up.
We're only human. It'd be nice if the rest of the world remembered that, too.
