The night before move-in day, I broke down in tears at dinner with my family — not because I was worried about leaving home or making friends, but because I was convinced that the courses I took, clubs I joined and social circles I situated myself in while at Dartmouth would shape my future. And even more frightening, I knew that there would be no redoing it.
In high school, I had minimal jurisdiction over my course selection and the people I spent time with, as my class had less than 170 students. Although I could choose which clubs to join and activities to pursue, the options were far fewer and their impact on my eventual career almost obsolete.
Upon arriving at Dartmouth, however, I suddenly found myself with an abundance of options. I could spend my time participating in the Miniature Crafts Club and throwing pottery, or I could spend my time frantically doing assignments for Dartmouth Investment and Philanthropy Program in preparation for a career in investment banking. Even inside the classroom, I felt intimidated by the sheer number of courses and subjects. I could spend my four years uncovering cellular mysteries or reading the works of Socrates, and I would undoubtedly find excitement and fulfillment in both paths.
It brought me back to an excerpt of “The Bell Jar,” a novel by Sylvia Plath about the struggles of conforming to traditional societal roles.
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig-tree in the story,” Plath wrote. “From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor … and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.”
I want a bite of every fig. I came to Dartmouth because I want to learn how to write imaginative poetry, how to swiftly canoe up the Connecticut, how to perform a perfectly pink titration, how to win a contentious debate and how to paint the leaves of Pine Park. I came here to learn everything.
At this point in my life, though, it feels like I can no longer afford to do so. The passions I choose to invest in are the ones I hope will lead me to my eventual major and career, while the passions I let go of become missed opportunities to uncover the questions that keep my mind abuzz. It is a terrifying task for a young, zealous person with more curiosity than time.
At the same time, there is a certain thrill that comes with having so many choices in the first place. Dartmouth’s liberal arts philosophy allows us to take classes not strictly for practicality, but also because they interest us. We are encouraged to be all of the things we want to be, to make the most of every opportunity. I realize that this breadth of choices, while scary, is ultimately a luxury that provides the resources to pursue any life I desire.
While it may currently feel as though any fig I don’t grasp onto is a fig I lose forever, I have come to understand that sentiment as too simplistic. I still have the opportunity to pursue the questions that excite me, whether through a class on ancient map making, a ceramics workshop at the Hop or simply my own exploration outside of school.
When I graduate, I hope to leave with not just a deepened understanding of my looming curiosities, but also the ability to balance all of my passions, allowing me to bridge my interests instead of sacrificing certain ones for others.
At times when it feels like I have too many options to choose from, when it feels like I will lose one path when choosing another, I will trust that I am where I am meant to be, and that, by the end of my time here, I will have had a taste of every passion, every fig I could have hoped for.
