If I’m being completely honest, my college transition was nothing short of rocky. I’ll be short and frank: I was good at high school. I excelled academically, I had, what seemed like, a lot of friends, and I was the captain of three varsity sports teams. What more could an 18-year-old girl ask for? The answer to that question for me was simple. I wanted a similar college experience because I had huge expectations for my life beyond high school. I thought I would come into the University of Michigan and have an even more perfect college experience. I don’t think I could have ever been more wrong. It might have been my first B or the moment I realized I didn’t have a plethora of high school friends to fall back on when I failed when I realized that the adult world was completely different than my “bubble” (as I now refer to it). Maybe it was that moment when I learned that I can’t be the best at everything… I mean, we’re at the University of Michigan. Everyone here is impressive, everyone here is smart, and everyone here is driven. It’s impossible to come out on top in every aspect of life, but still I tried. I threw everything into my academics during the first semester of my freshman year, attacking each day with the mindset that I would get nothing less than a 4.0 because the best ace all of their classes. I didn’t do anything but study, always blaming my stress and unhappiness on school. I didn’t even stop to think that maybe the reason I hated school so much was because it was the only thing I cared about, only thing I thought I was good at, only thing I needed. I kept pushing myself, but once I realized how unhappy I actually was, I decided to try and excel at another aspect of my life. I joined a sorority, hoping to make as many friends as possible. If I was unhappy at succeeding academically, maybe I’d be happy excelling in a social setting. It helped, but it still didn’t get me to where I needed to be mentally. I am, by nature, an overachiever. Ever since I can remember, this “overachieving” nature resulted from competitiveness that was instilled in me at a young age. I need to do everything, and I need to do it well. Since killer academics and my pretty good social life weren’t cutting it, what did I decide to do? I joined more clubs than I should have signed up for and decided to take on a job. You would think I would have burned out, but I ended up finishing that first semester like any overachiever would have liked. Fast forward to the end of second semester, and my overachieving days were over. Perfect academics were no longer correlated with the name Casey Lyons, and my friends texted me almost every other day asking me where I was because I was able to count on one hand how many times I went out over the semester. I really didn’t know what was going on, this type of performance and attitude wasn’t in my nature. Luckily, my undying desire to succeed allowed me to still secure a place in the business school, but throughout my first semester as a BBA student, I was only reminded time and time again that I can’t always be the best when I’m competing against the best. I knew this was true, but my competitive nature wouldn’t allow me to accept it as fact. **insert cliché bit about how I finally found something I’m good at with the Minor in Writing** I don’t want to stress the details, but I do want to note that this was an integral part of my experience in discovering why I write. Flashback to my aforementioned tidbit on always having to be the best, always having to succeed. My application to the Minor in Writing didn’t all of a sudden give me this incredible insight and inspiring revelation into who Casey Lyons is as a writer, but it did get me thinking. Why did I apply to a program solely focused on the art of written communication? Was it something I thought I was the best at? Absolutely not. But, if I wasn’t the best at it, why did I pursue it? Isn’t my whole mentality: if you can’t be the best it’s not worth it? I think that’s why I pursued the minor, and more collectively, I think that’s why I write. I have always been good at writing. Not the best, but good. I took AP English in high school, and my friends would always come to me to edit their pieces. I four-pointed my first writing course in college, and I write pieces for an online magazine. Yet, I peer-edit for the MiW gateway course, and I realize that I won’t ever be able to write in the same fashion as some of my peers. I’m good at it, but I’m not the best. I think that’s why I write. “I’m good at it, but I’m not the best.” This one statement that seems to go against every fiber of my being as a competitive overachiever doesn’t seem to bother me when it comes to writing. When it comes to writing, being good in my own nature is good enough for me. I don’t mind not being the best when I know that writing is about as subjective, developing, and personal as it gets. It almost sounds corny, but it stops short of that when I realize that writing is something I don’t mind not being the best at because it is uniquely me. Every other facet in which I strive to be the best is something that is comparable by nature. GPAs, number of friends, summer internships, 5k times- all of these are easy to measure against one another. But, no matter how much one tries, writing is inherently impossible to compare between two individuals. No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to write a piece like Sanika or Hudson. Similarly, I cannot compare John Green to George Orwell - the authors and their works are inherently different. To me, that’s liberating. Writing allows me to finally immerse myself in something that doesn’t call for an immediate comparison to someone else because it’s naturally impossible for this comparison to work. It doesn’t make sense for me to compare myself to others, so I naturally focus solely on my own work, and I finally find comfort in my abilities as a person, a student, and a writer. This explanation of why I write is a close comparison to why I originally played sports. I didn’t pick up a basketball at the age of six with the mindset “I want to win,” but rather one of “I want to play.” Unfortunately, this love for the game was ultimately lost when my skills were noticed: I was good, and I could be the best. Sadly, this competitive nature conclusively became the visible reason as to why I played the game. With writing, however, my competitive nature and the sense of “being the best,” disappears because there’s no comparison. This inability to compare allows me to explore writing as a passion and technique to its furthest extent. I am never halted by the inevitable thought of “I’m not the best” because that thought never crosses my mind. I have the opportunity to continue to write, continue to find myself as a writer, and continue to utilize writing in every facet. So, to explicitly answer the question “Why do you write?” I would point to the fact that writing is something that I will never give up on. It is something that I will continue to pursue because my daunting ego doesn’t get in the way of it. Writing allows me to further myself in so many other ways, as well: communicatively, personally, and professionally. Writing challenges me, and a challenge is something for which an overachiever always looks. |