On quitting

In November of 2021, fresh off Thanksgiving break and in the limbo between it and my first round of college finals, my computer had a tab open to the Common App, my cursor waiving precariously over the “submit a transfer application” icon.  

My first year of college can be eloquently described as a complete dumpster fire. College was not supposed to be awful. I was supposed to like my classes, feel smart and maybe even have a robust social life. A wave of harsh reality came swiftly and took no survivors: you are not as smart as you think you are, and not everyone wants to be your friend. These two things are truths that I am now entirely acquainted with, but my experiences leading up to college did not set me up for success with these truths in mind.

In no way, shape or form did I belong at Notre Dame. At least that’s how I felt. 

I had never wanted to quit something before: I had endured high school jobs that I absolutely hated (looking at you, my two-year stint at the doggy daycare), taken courses which I had no interest in solely to improve my college admission odds and had seen every challenge as an opportunity for growth. After that semester? No longer.  

I sat alone in my quad at my desk nestled quaintly under my lofted bed and I thought about what I was doing. I heard the utter joy in my dad’s voice the day I got into Notre Dame resonating in the back of my head. I recalled the feeling of my heart beating out of my chest when I submitted my enrollment deposit a few short months before. Where did my former self who never threw in the towel go? Did I leave her in my hometown of Saint Louis? I needed to call my mom and get her to overnight ship the old Marissa to me. 

I had all the materials prepared: my recommendations, my essays, my reported transcripts. But something kept me from that final submission. Maybe it was God (as I learned throughout my time here that He would be the most important person I would come to know) or maybe my stubborn-seventeen-year-old persona reared her head one more time in an act of defiance, but I never clicked submit. I closed the tab and went right back to studying for General Chemistry I. 

I left finals defeated and I went home certain that my time at Notre Dame, while not over, was certainly not getting any better.

As my friends can attest, I usually hate admitting when I am wrong. But in this one case, I am so glad that freshman-year Marissa was the most wrong she had ever been (and hopefully will ever be again). My spring semester took a complete 180-degree shift. I liked my classes, I was marginally succeeding and I finally connected fully with people that I still hold dear to my heart four years later. Notre Dame did not quit on me; my preconceived expectations set me up for disappointment. 

Now, it was up to me not to quit on Notre Dame. 

It took countless courses, sleepless nights and a good deal of patience from those around me over the years to cultivate my love for the Golden Dome and all that comes with it. And now, as the sun sets on my time as an undergraduate, I can acknowledge how important it was that I did not quit — but I think it is more important to recognize those who did not quit on me.

To my best friends hailing from the hallowed halls of Lyons, you turned college into the beautiful place I always dreamed of. To Isa Sheikh and Christina Sayut, you forced me into having the coolest job of my life (that I was very ready to quit at many points and chose not to … see the growth there?). To Mom and Dad, you told me quitting was not an option, and you were right. While I could wax poetic and name every person who gave me a chance throughout these four years, I will refrain for the time being and end with this:

Thank you for believing in me. This diploma is just as much yours as it is mine.