Before: Everything that I had dreamed of finally came true. My novella, which I had spent the previous summer poring over, waking up at three in the morning to add a scene that I’d just dreamt about, was about to be published; I’d been interning at Simon & Schuster, where my boss—and her boss and her boss’s boss—loved me and I got to watch TikToks for most of my work; Penguin Random House just accepted me into their Copyediting and Proofreading Mentorship program. Becoming a published author and working for not one but two of the Big 5 publishing houses, dreams I have held close to my heart since I was in the fifth grade, dreams that kept me motivated through some of the darkest and most troubling times of my life, had come to fruition. And I couldn’t care less about them. 

Truth be told, I didn’t even view them as accomplishments. They felt more like they were burdens to me. Tasks that ate away at my free time. Responsibilities that mattered more than sleeping and eating. Yes, these were some of my biggest dreams, dreams that I worked so tirelessly toward, dreams that I sacrificed so much for, but they also became sacrifices, and, in the end, they were part of the reason for why I relapsed in my eating disorder and developed gastritis. The time of my life where I should’ve been the happiest, should’ve been so proud of myself for what I proved I could do, was when I felt so miserable, so worn out, and so useless.

I am getting ahead of myself, though; first, I’d like to paint a picture of my typical week during this time. On top of taking four classes, I worked at the WARC, interned at Simon & Schuster for sixteen hours a week—although, I never really “stopped” because I’d answer emails, tweak influencer pitches, and jotted down post ideas whenever I could—was a part of three organizations, two of which I was on the Eboard for, and oversaw the publishing process of my novella. Every day, for three months, I would leave my dorm room at eight in the morning and return at nine at night. And the cycle would repeat. Over and over and over. Even on the weekends, I’d spend twelve hours at the library completing the homework I didn’t have the time for during the week. I barely saw my friends or spoke with my family. One day, when brushing my teeth before going to bed, I realized that I had patches of gray hair poking out of my scalp; during class, I’d pluck them out, one by one, but they kept coming back.

Trying to remember this time is difficult for me because I really wasn’t living. I was stretched thin and continuously placed unreachable expectations on my own shoulders. Sure, I’m interning at a “Big 5” publisher, but if I make one mistake, say one embarrassing sentence, or finish a task one minute too late, then everything will come crumbling down, crushing me. Great, my novella is being published, but what will others think of it? Will they find my writing juvenile and sloppy? The story confusing and boring? Why did I have to put so much effort into a story that could never be good enough? When will Penguin Random House realize how stupid I truly am? That they made a mistake in choosing me over more qualified, capable candidates? I’m only being published, only an intern and future mentor, because of the pity others feel for me. I have nothing to be proud of. I am nothing.