Category: Student Voices

I pole vaulted in high school. For your reference, I stand a mere one inch above five feet, and I’ve got the build of a gymnast rather than a jumper. I was atrocious. I skewered myself semi-regularly, and my most spectacular failure involved a nine-foot pole ending up in some seven different pieces. 

I absolutely loved it. 

When I moved across the country before middle school, and then again before high school, and then again to college, my mom said the same thing every time: “Join things.” Importantly, she forgot to tell me to be good at them. I became a pole vaulter, debater, figure skater, choir singer, volunteer, and even a defensive end on a flag football team. (Let us remember again that I am 5-foot-1.) I met my people in these activities and found the things I loved, outcomes not at all correlated to my natural aptitude. 

The third time I started over, I was alone, beginning my freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania. I had my formula down. I threw myself into everything I could: a capella, spoken word poetry, club figure skating, chamber choir, consulting clubs, campus tours, tutoring. Two weeks later, I was bawling into the phone telling my mom I had chosen the wrong school. No matter how hard I tried, what angle I approached from, I was rejected from everything. 

This was new for me. Not because I had been talented at everything I had tried before, but because I had never encountered such high barriers to extracurricular activities. I had only ever needed two things: a willingness to walk in the door, and a willingness to fail on the way to being better. At Penn, that was not enough. In fact, those skills weren’t even recognized. 

In an institution that prides itself on education, the true learning that inevitably involves failure was nowhere to be found.

Trust me, I ran the gauntlet in terms of getting in: Four rounds of interviews, 10 essay questions, and a name-drop-who-you-know competition were the bare minimum. But I could never figure out the system. I spent my entire freshman year activity-less. Woe was me. But it was less my personal experience with a lack of extracurriculars that discouraged me, and instead the broader attitude towards failure — or even just non-perfection — within the Penn community. It was truly frowned on to be bad at anything. Embarrassing, actually. In an institution that prides itself on education, the true learning that inevitably involves failure was nowhere to be found. I was incredibly disappointed to be surrounded by brilliant, qualified, astounding peers, none of whom were excited to leap into something they weren’t already good at. 

That is not to say, however, that I blame those peers. The atmosphere of the East Coast, Ivy League schools, and higher education in general, carefully avoids promotion of failure. In a school where everyone already seems to have a head start — something that “got them in” — you’re better off leaning into where you’re already talented rather than playing the field to find something new. Consulting clubs who work for real clients need students who know what they’re doing. Firms start recruiting sophomore year. Connections are made from the first time you set foot on campus. No one has time for failure. This is compounded by the fact that all 10,000 Penn students absolutely ran the schools they came from, and no one wants to go from the top of the stack to the bottom. Starting all over is not only intimidating but terrifying in this peer group, comprised of people who are no longer impressed by anything you’ve ever done. 

These are the conditions, unfortunately, that pose a problem for someone like me, who happens to enjoy things that she’s terrible at. I don’t mind being the first person to fall down and laugh at themselves, and I like improving almost more than I like succeeding. I’ve always been “coachable” rather than talented, well-rounded rather than a prodigy. I’m a math major while simultaneously being someone whose worst subject was always math. I started teaching myself the piano because I can’t read music for my life. In every group I had belonged to before college, I just needed to be brave enough to take the first step — fall the first time. Then, inevitably, others who were just as eager as I would follow. At Penn, I took that step, embarrassed myself, and ended up alone. People turned the other way. If something already comes naturally, if you’re already praised for it, why try anything that wouldn’t get you the same results? 

My closest friends at Penn are a Japanese pop star, a Wharton student who has yet to be rejected from anything, and an influencer. In that friend group, I’m the “well-rounded” one. I’m the only one without a trademark. And you know what? I think well-rounded-ness is underrated. I think failure is underrated. 

At a school of 10,000, people have incredibly diverse experiences and natural aptitudes. This diversity conceals the fact that no one has reached outside of their comfort zone to find something new. 

I love the University of Pennsylvania, and I am consistently awed to be surrounded by such a diversely talented peer group. But I wish more students loved things that didn’t love them back. Auditioned for a play in college with no theater experience. Sang at an open coffee house for no personal gain other than a fun time. Chose classes based on their interests instead of their future G.P.A. It’s not their fault that these things seem intimidating. As we get older, I believe people tend to mistake talent for adventurousness. At a school of 10,000, people have incredibly diverse experiences and natural aptitudes. This diversity conceals the fact that no one has reached outside of their comfort zone to find something new. 

Every year, thousands of students apply to elite institutions, all with their own astonishing applications. From admission onward, students feel a continuous pressure to excel. Trying something new means falling behind. Stepping out of your comfort zone means ostracizing yourself from peers who all have “found their lane.” We are 18 years old when we arrive on campus. Screw the lane. 

As I head into my sophomore year, I am proud to say I have learned absolutely nothing. (Kidding, kidding. I learned incredibly valuable lessons.) But I’m not going to change my formula. I will continue to throw myself into things I am generally worthless at and then get better. 

Grace Burke is a rising sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania studying math and sociology. She’s originally from Denver, Colorado.

I can still remember the suspense that I felt while sitting there at the desk in my dorm room during my first year in our nation’s capital. I looked out over the Potomac River, to the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument beyond, at a view that inspired me to do great things in the service of others. My long-held dream had supposedly come true: I was finally studying politics at Georgetown University. I thought that I had done everything “right” to lead me to that point. I had studied hard, volunteered on countless campaigns, been a good friend, and listened intently in class and at church. Yet I could not help but be overwhelmed by a sense that by crossing through the front gates of Georgetown’s campus, my life at home with my family and friends, shaped by a desire to make my community and the world a better place, had come to a close. A new life seemed to have begun. But making the most of a new life, in a new place, with new people, is a big task. I asked myself: Was I up for the challenge? What kind of person would I become?

Before I knew it, I met the best people to help me explore these big questions, and I learned that I was thinking about my calling at Georgetown all wrong. Spending time with my residential minister, Fr. Christopher Steck, working for the Jesuit community on campus, and heading on retreat taught me that my time at Georgetown wouldn’t be a time for reinventing myself but instead a time for refining who I was, whose I was, and what I was called to be. I will forever be grateful to Georgetown for “meeting me where I was” in this regard. I had resources in my dorm (a residential minister), on campus (a robust campus ministry and a meaningful employment opportunity), and beyond (a dedicated retreat center) to help me take stock of where I had been, where I was, and where I was called to go. 

My time at Georgetown wouldn’t be a time for reinventing myself but instead a time for refining who I was.

Through this discernment, I realized just how big of an adjustment coming to college really was, no matter if I had moved across the state or relocated across the world. It was time in which I would have to build a new network of supporters to celebrate with in times of triumph and to lean on in times of need. Yes, it would be important to make new friends and get involved in extracurricular activities, but it would also be important to find new mentors to guide me through this time in my life, whether they were in my shoes three years ago or 30 years ago. I found a role model in an upperclassmen leader of one of my favorite clubs, the admissions ambassador program. I found a space for solace with a professor who taught us her favorite stories from New York City in between recording book reviews for NPR. I found a springboard for ideas and decision-making in the priest of the neighboring parish who challenged me to consider the person I was and to develop different parts of my personality. 

One of the most crucial guides along my journey was our vice president for student affairs, Eleanor Daugherty. “Dr. Elly,” as I came to call her, taught me that making the most of my experience wouldn’t mean doing everything or doing the “right” things but making the experience better for myself and for others. By investing in this place like my mentors, professors, and peers were investing in me, I would make “the Hilltop” my home. This involved the tremendous opportunity to work alongside Dr. Elly and her team in Student Affairs on efforts to make communities across Georgetown feel a greater sense of inclusion. Whether entering into dialogue with students regarding what they needed to have more comfortable facilities on campus or expediting the implementation of gender-inclusive housing (not in spite but because of our Catholic and Jesuit mission), we have worked to make more people feel like they belong. That, in turn, is how I found my sense of belonging: by working to build and strengthen communities on our Hilltop and beyond.

By investing in this place like my mentors, professors, and peers were investing in me, I would make “the Hilltop” my home.

Now in my senior spring, as I prepare to graduate, I am happy to report that I did not become a new person during these four years. Instead, I became a smarter, kinder, more worldly, and harder working version of myself. Georgetown provided the people and the opportunities for me to discern just who I was and what I was called to be at my university. I pursued lifelong dreams, like working on Capitol Hill and studying abroad under the Tuscan sun, and picked up new practices, like caring for our bulldog mascot Jack and advising a university administrator. But I also left some things behind, all the while curating, not creating, my most joyful, authentic self. Through this process, my college experience was not transactional but, rather, transformational. This transformation was not unilateral, though. As I was becoming my more authentic self, I was helping my university to more authentically live its mission. 

Institutions of higher education can help students flourish by providing spaces for reflection and growth. These institutions can flourish, too, if they reflect upon their adherence to missions, open themselves to student and stakeholder feedback, and enable these groups to help in creating real change on campus. Even though I am filled with gratitude for my time as a student on the Hilltop, I hope that these are not the best four years of my life. In that same light, I hope that these are not the best four years for Georgetown. Instead, I hope I remember this as an informative time, full of high highs and low lows, when a new network of support formed around me in the shape of tremendous friends and mentors. A time when I learned not to be afraid to be myself and I found those who embraced me. A time when I learned to be present, to be patient, to trust, and to grow, and hopefully imparted these lessons onto Georgetown, too.

Michael C. Woch is a senior at Georgetown graduating this spring.

Adding three to the “staying” side and another three to the “going” side, I recently opened a spreadsheet to keep track of the friends who I will (not) see as often around campus throughout junior year. It was only once I began to record my friends’ impending study abroad adventures that I accepted the truth about my own college life: I will not sacrifice a semester at school in order to go abroad. 

I feel this looming sadness as a sophomore at Georgetown University, which has a particularly global-minded student body. Studying abroad at Georgetown feels more like a rite of passage than the right opportunity for a certain kind of student. About 16 percent of bachelors-earning undergraduates nationally will study abroad, while Georgetown boasts a 57 percent abroad rate. In our School of Foreign Service, the percentage hovers around 80 percent. For this reason, many Georgetown students no longer waste their precious breath to ask if a peer plans to study abroad. Rather, students ask each other where they are traveling and for how long. 

Whichever way the conversation goes, the student staying on campus becomes accustomed to bearing the burden of proof for his own decision. For some, foreign travel is just so obviously enriching for their career paths that they could hardly imagine it not applying as clearly to their friends’ journey. Others just cannot fathom how anyone could opt out of taking a semester-long adventure.  

Sometimes pursuing an unconventional path for the sake of being true to oneself actually requires as big a leap — as much self-introspection and reliance — as chasing adventures on the other side of the world.

The typical student who chooses not to go abroad is one familiar with hearing that he will regret it for the rest of his life. The language of regret is hardly unique to studying abroad. So many decisions to abstain from what others are doing are vulnerable to self-doubt when they are expressed. What was once an assured decision sounds uncertain in the voice of a student who has lost his confidence. Sometimes pursuing an unconventional path for the sake of being true to oneself actually requires as big a leap — as much self-introspection and reliance — as chasing adventures on the other side of the world. There is more than one way to realize our full selves in college, including by learning to trust our own instincts.

Especially at Georgetown, it is no coincidence that most students study abroad during their junior year. When I saw the peak of academic rigor, my junior fall, in the distance, I promised myself that I would instead opt for the rolling hills of Florence, Italy. Little could be better than escaping dining hall food for cacio e pepe, all while augmenting my pre-law G.P.A. with classes that past villa dwellers had told me were a breeze. 

But the longer I waited for my once-in-a-lifetime study abroad experience to begin, I realized that college itself was a life-altering experience. The opportunity to live abroad for such an extended period of time may never come again, but college also feels quite precious. Friends, classmates, and professors are an inevitable part of student life, but they only form a community when they live and work in close proximity. Study abroad professors offer valuable knowledge, but they are still unlikely mentors when compared to a professor whose office is just a short walk away from a residence hall back on campus. 

Even if abroad coursework covers major or general education requirements, there may be more that a student wants out of their degree. A degree can become more than an arrangement of words on a diploma since unique classes can imbue a student’s coursework with personal significance. Many college students still remember the drag of taking obligatory classes in high school and revel in realizing the academic freedom that was long withheld from us. 

The opportunity to live abroad for such an extended period of time may never come again, but college also feels quite precious.

That abroad coursework even covers major or general education requirements is also never guaranteed. For up to a week before new semester class registration, thousands of students are piecing together the right classes with the best professors, to fit the right requirements at the right time. For students like me who double major with a minor, a good semester schedule is already almost as puzzling as it gets in college. Nothing kills a good study abroad plan quite like discovering that two required classes conflict timing-wise and that overloading credits is the only excruciating solution. 

Students can find themselves studying abroad despite these constraints, but the pain tolerance should be higher for students whose course of study necessitates a journey abroad. If I was a Classics major, my degree path would feel incomplete without a semester abroad in Italy. As of now, I remain convinced that Washington D.C. is the right place to further my education and experience in American politics. 

Leading with what convinces me is enough to feel satisfied with my own decision to stay, even as so many people I care about are going. There is some irony here: the study abroad decision that I would most likely regret would have been prompted by an exogenous fear of regret itself. If I ever go abroad, I want it to be because I led myself there, not because I mistook someone else’s path for my own.

Aaron Polluck is a sophomore at Georgetown University studying government. He writes for The Georgetown Voice.

Many 18-year-olds who step onto campus hungry for possibility may not believe that four years later, they could walk across the graduation stage feeling more uncertain than ever. While it is easy to blame the students, this all-too-often outcome is reflective of the failure of a higher education system that has become exemplary at producing compliant students but far less so at encouraging creative thinkers. 

As someone who feels privileged for my positive college experience and the post-graduation time that followed, I can’t help but wonder how a different set of expectations could have benefited me and my generation. What if, instead of striving for measures of output that stay with us temporarily (the conveyor belt model), we were encouraged to build intellectual capacities that stay with us forever (the creative engine model). Maybe then Gen Z would feel more engaged, more fulfilled, more productive, and more prepared for our careers. 

The Conveyor Belt Model 

Many colleges have done an excellent job of building a culture of pressure, comparison, and G.P.A. obsession. Often, this consists of rigid majors and predetermined career tracks. Creativity is often treated as a “less important” extracurricular, not central to learning. This results in decreased risk-taking within our learning. My post-grad friends are often reporting a LinkedIn doom scroll, chronic burnout (already), anxiety, and a loss of intrinsic motivation to “do.” 

It’s not that Gen Z can’t handle college; it’s that college isn’t exactly handling Gen Z. 

We grew up in a world far from predictable — with limitless information, an unstable economy, mental health challenges, environmental concerns, rapid growth in technology and media, political polarization, and socio-cultural vulnerability, especially for marginalized groups. Older generations may mistake Gen Z burnout for fragility, but I argue this interpretation misses the point. The learning ecosystem within which Gen Z currently operates is built on dated values and old assumptions. It’s not that Gen Z can’t handle college; it’s that college isn’t exactly handling Gen Z. 

The Creative Engine Model 

As opposed to the conveyor belt producing students who can check the boxes, fostering creative learning environments for students could help Gen Zers achieve improved wellbeing and more success entering the workforce. 

Believe it or not, Gen Z students want “uncheatable projects,” as coined by educational consultant Michael Hernandez in a pedagogical philosophy I explored in my final undergraduate education course. This approach includes transitioning traditional assignments into multimedia projects where the motivation is the experience itself, not the output (the grade). This drives student engagement and works against the conveyor belt model. It encourages intrinsic curiosities and passions, rather than shallow memorization, translating into longer-lasting learning. It avoids the infinite “Whac-A-Mole” (referenced by Hernandez) of repetitively policing new shortcuts students use — especially as A.I. tools rapidly evolve — as the desire to learn comes from within. In this model, students can strategically implement tools to improve their work, rather than resorting to abusing them. The truth is if Gen Z students want to cut corners, they will figure out how to do so quicker than educators can ever stop them. This method faces that head on, utilizing purpose and personal connection. 

Creativity and passion must be treated as learning priorities, rather than extracurricular activities that come second to classroom work. My peers hustled in their internships, extracurricular activities, and jobs; yet we were trained to say, “School comes first.” Shouldn’t they both matter? How can these extracurricular learning opportunities work hand in hand with class to enhance one another? Think back to high school: Can you recall the answers from a random exam? Likely not. How about your favorite field trip or project? More likely. The same cognitive processes of creating long-lasting learning align from younger to older ages, especially when uniquely tailored to the students to feel more meaningful and less flat. 

Please, encourage us to fail. 

Often, the penalization of making mistakes in the current system makes it undesirable to fail. In that context, no one would take the risk to mess up. One way to combat this is through less conventional, interdisciplinary studies. The less binary the answers, the better. This is more holistically reflective of the real world we live in after all. Another is through ensuring students are met with an elaborate support system of relationships that make them feel safe enough to fail. This support system is essential — a mutual system of care. We are constantly encouraged not to fail but seldom learn how to fail, learn, and recover. 

A great example of this is the makerspace model. 

A makerspace is a welcoming, hands-on environment with tools and resources to collaboratively design, explore, tinker, and create. Access and encouragement to use this kind of model should be broader than just in STEAM (science, technology, engineering, art, and mathematics), as it trains us to navigate uncertainty and to problem solve with confidence and resilience in a community.

As we add risk to our education journey, we ask that educators in higher education do the same. Changing a system is unpredictable and entering the unknown is often not a desirable route. But, we cannot keep fostering the conveyor belt culture when learners’ potential deserves so much more, particularly in these rapidly changing times. Educators and students alike must agree to learn together through a transition, taking reflective and precise note of what works and what should be changed. 

We need a more humane and timely college experience to better prepare students to walk the graduation stage. 

One that treats creativity as an essential skill, not a hobby.

One that treats risky exploration as productive, not wasteful.

One that avoids treating students as empty vessels to be filled with information to reproduce. 

This may not change the job market that Gen Z faces, but creating the opportunity to support young people to tackle the complex issues of today’s society far better prepares them for the post-graduation transition they face. We have the potential to graduate an energized cohort of young people by imagining boldly, questioning deeply, and re-building creatively. I am inspired by my generation, and our post-secondary education system should consider how to more effectively support our potential. 

Nicole LeVee graduated from American University in 2025 and is pursuing her master’s degree in learning development and family services at the University of Colorado Denver.