I have always been a staunch believer in precious freedom.
If someone told me that my actions were pre-ordained by some invisible puppeteer, tucked away in the firmaments, I’d laugh in their face. And if someone argued that my emotions and desires could always be traced back to influences from art, media and biology, I’d stick my tongue at them in a show of proud, bitter misanthropy.
And so, when I was warned about the myth of a sophomore slump, that inexorable, deterministic force that plagues us during our second year here, I vowed to ward it off, to master my fate and captain my soul. I chanted sibilant incantations, serially invoked the various deities I believed in and doubled my toil and trouble, but now that it is here, I have no choice but to accept its existence.
In writing this, I am fully aware of how hard my tongue is pressing against my cheek, but it is perhaps easier than to give in to my antipodal, maudlin tendencies.
Jokes aside, much ink has been spilled about how hard it feels to accept failure, unhappiness, even fleeting moments of disillusionment at Yale. I barely convinced myself that I hadn’t learned my ennui from Emma Bovary. But as I speak to friends, both older and younger, it makes sense that so many sophomores are confronted with this mythologized melancholia during the spring.
The glossy sheen of freshman year has volatilized, our rose-colored lenses have slowly accumulated a layer of persistent verdigris. Opportunities to meet new people have become significantly less accessible. In our case, the excitement of a vaccinated fall — of the return of performing arts and dining halls and in-person office hours — has dissipated. And yet, we are removed from the excitement that 21st birthday parties, senior societies, junior seminars portend or the sudden appreciation for Yale sparked by an upperclassman’s glimpse into real-world jobs and life outside this bubble. Even so, rationalizing away ennui is about as useful as listing the clotting factors involved in bleeding control without ever learning how to tie a bandage (thank you MCAT).
Perhaps the most challenging part of accepting a sophomore slump is how unmerited it feels. In some ways, this is the semester during which people start to feel comfortable at Yale — we have acclimatized to academic challenges, we have discovered classes and academic areas that excite us, we have found stability in our extracurriculars. It is hard, then, to accept that this comfort can feel stifling, as if our growth has plateaued. We have reached a summit and are terrified by the sight of the vast, flat terrain in front of us.
After the challenges of adapting to college, some people revel in this comfort. For others, it feels unsettling — as if there is nothing new, nothing particular that distinguishes this semester from all those that have come before. Few new commitments, connections or experiences to show for our time here this spring. Importantly, this may not be true and it likely isn’t. But the dangers of a slump are that even these untruths feel indubitable. The paradox of feeling both happy and aimless, both enthusiastic and disillusioned, is often hard to accept.
A friend commented to me that Yalies have a natural tendency to want to live all the Yales. That when we feel like we have conquered our Yale experience, or at least when we feel like we can predict its trajectory, we want to change course entirely. We want to jump ship, brave the current or invent a new oceanic metaphor to assert our precious freedom and carve out the unique unpredictability of our time here.
I think that is certainly a part of the feeling that we are trudging through this sophomore spring. Even so, it is hard to fully comprehend its source. That is part of what makes navigating Yale so fraught: among the micro-stresses and daily stimuli of psets and club meetings, midterms and packed GCals, it is difficult to introspect, to separate ourselves from our surroundings and contemplate what we really want from this school, or how we can get there. Even if mythmaking isn’t a stubborn force, inertia certainly is.
After two years of writing for the News, I found myself unable to write anything for my column on Monday, March 27. I can’t tell if I felt more uninspired or uninspiring. In that moment, choosing to accept the sophomore slump reminded me to look for inspiration and joy in small victories. The feeling of missing Yale four days into spring break, of longing for my daily conversations with my suitemates; the joys of conversations that flow between chattering teeth as we stroll down Farmington Canal; the rituals we have constructed for ourselves over our time here. Perhaps, then, it is more useful to accept our manifold, inevitable slumps than to resist them — to appreciate the tranquility of the valleys we have sunk into and remember to enjoy our infinitesimal victories so we can come back in the fall with the renewed exhilaration that this school can inspire.