I’ll admit it upfront — it would be more accurate to title this article “I didn’t have a summer internship” or “I had no plans this summer.” I did something, of course. It was just underwhelming and unproductive on paper. But “My summer was sort of lame” won’t get any clicks, so a hyperbole must do. 

My summer was alright, thanks for asking. I helped my dad remodel a house, went on a couple of road trips, hiked a bit, went to the beach, binge-watched, binge-read and binge-gamed. Simply put, most of my time this summer was mine to do whatever I wanted. Freedom rocks, right?

But I didn’t want my summer to turn out like this. 

Since the start of my sophomore year, I had known I wanted a clear-cut purpose or a career-advancing achievement. Like many of my peers, I hoped my diligence or a stroke of good luck would grace me with an offer for the coveted summer internship. I gave my resume performance-enhancing action verbs and sent cold emails. I bugged and badgered numerous students, professors and counselors for guidance. For better or for worse, I wasn’t picky either. My applications spanned the journalistic, financial, anthropological and legal fields. I groveled at capitalism’s feet to “Please, please, please let me make some summer cash!” I put in the work, and the only company that offered me anything was a pyramid scheme I didn’t even apply for. Nobody wanted me. I was a failure — or so I felt. 

Every time I checked LinkedIn, somebody was spearheading or researching or facilitating something not worth mentioning outside of a fancy-sounding acronym. A ubiquitous formal vernacular, tone of pseudo-sincerity, and relevant job jargon from peers and randoms alike are staples of the LinkedIn experience. I hated it, but for once in my contrarian life, I felt jealous that I wasn’t doing the same as everyone else. 

But it’s not like there’s a codified LinkedIn law stating that you have to do something productive to join in on the fun. So, I made my first-ever post on the platform. The intense inadequacy I felt from getting ghosted by multiple companies is nothing a little public self-deprecation can’t fix.

“So excited to announce that I have accepted a summer position at my house, where I will be working on improving vibes and chilling. Thank you to everyone who helped me along this journey, and I look forward to contributing absolutely nothing to society over the next couple of months!” 

Funnily enough, the post did wonders for my account’s engagement. I racked up 11,858 interactions, 152 likes, 15 comments and a little over 100 new connections. Someone’s screenshot on Fizz, captioned “same bro, same,” received over 2.4k upvotes. This reception even extended into real life; people in class or on the street — once — would express appreciation for my little joke. It felt good that so many people empathized with or, at least, were entertained by my plight. By the time I made it home for the summer, frustration had turned into melancholy and melancholy into fragile neutrality. I was fine. Everything was fine. 

So this isn’t a funeral service for some random guy’s regular-scheduler summer. This is an opinion article, and I should probably give an opinion.

The reason I give this anecdote is not to argue for the necessity of failure in college aspirations. Nor is it to highlight the rigor, convolution or borderline unfairness of the internship application process. I won’t claim that  “doing nothing” all summer is okay, either. 

I tell my tale to point out what I think is at stake for many Yale students, not just in strategizing about summer but any academic endeavor — their mental health. 

With the exceptions of finals and midterms, career planning is arguably the largest producer in Yale’s economy of stress. Many students here have a do-or-die mentality regarding career development; you either make progress and win or do nothing and lose. This brand of black-and-white absolutism is one of many symptoms characterized by the mental health decline observed by psychologists in undergraduates around the U.S. Such increases in absolutist thinking seem to follow increases in external stressors such as homework or tests. When you get tangled in too many stressors, thinking in extremes is neurologically efficient. This dilemma results in a vicious cycle of emotional distress that, and I cannot emphasize this enough, sucks. 

As high-achieving students at a prestigious university, we are especially prone to an absolutist mindset. If you equate an entire summer’s worth of living to nothing just because it didn’t go as planned, you are not a failure; you are just invalidating yourself. This conclusion might be obvious, but the danger of absolutism is that it lurks in the subconscious. I’m the type of person who uses humor to cope with things, so I noticed my absolutist thinking by mere chance. But not everyone is fortunate enough to have an impeccable sense of humor like I do. Seriously, Yalies, be wary of absolutist thinking this school year. Don’t be too hard on yourself. It will be fine in the end, even if you have ‘nothing’ to do. 

On a completely unrelated note, feel free to shoot me an email if you want to hire me this summer. No pressure or anything. Totally no pressure. Please give me a chance. 

Please.

Zane Glick is a junior in Ezra Stiles majoring in the Humanities. He can be reached at zane.glick@yale.edu.