For all my life, I’ve trained to be perfect. Perfect piano performances, perfect resume, perfect writing. Perfect skin, perfect reputation, perfect poise. Each time I began any endeavor, I put in 110%. To me, I could either be the best at what I did or not do it at all.

And if I couldn’t be perfect, then I would be perfect at pretending.

Somewhere along the way, I traded authenticity for appearance, selling part of my soul for a smile. I’ve played piano since I was 5 and sang in choirs since age 8, but my first year of college was all business-oriented. I applied for one of USC’s top consulting clubs the fall of my freshman year, which only accepts one to two applicants per semester. 

While I was ultimately rejected, I advanced to the final round and was invited to a post-interview coffee chat with my interviewer, who expressed regret and strongly encouraged me to apply the following semester. In the spring, I reapplied. First-round rejection.

For a while, I was bitter. I mean, who wouldn’t be? They got my hopes up only to dash them with a heavy hand of salt. I analyzed ways I could’ve possibly fallen short, criticizing what I was and obsessing over what I wasn’t. In my mind, the only thing that mattered was that, in the public eye, I was not good enough. It didn’t matter how good or perfect I seemed; it would never be enough.

The spring of my freshman year, I was on the executive board for two USC-affiliated clubs. Impressive, right? These two “fun” facts found nice, little cozy homes on my LinkedIn and every resume I sent out. But what “fun” are we talking about? 

When I was sick with a fever of 105° and was forced to still attend an hour-long, in-person meeting through Zoom with my camera on? When I was talked over for an entire meeting with an important client, where a senior club executive passed my ideas off as their own? When I was put into a role that required skills I stated I did not have, was not given assistance to learn and train, and was criticized when the work requiring said skills was not up to par?

I tried to tell myself to push through it — to put on my “big girl pants” and think of the bigger picture, the long-term benefit. After all, that’s what I was raised to do. But as I began to think about the long-term, I questioned if this was truly how I wanted to live. Gritting my teeth and clenching my fists behind closed doors. Smiling for the camera, for my career. Truly, this was selling out. 

Maybe I can be delusional, maybe I can convince myself this is character-building, I told myself. But eventually, when push came to shove, I knew that I couldn’t. Forget the resume, forget the accolades and the perceived ambition — if the right culture wasn’t there, nothing mattered. I would burn out anyway, if not sooner.

Needless to say, I’ve left both positions. While I still maintain leadership in some organizations, I’ve also scaled down overall, choosing to focus on quality over quantity. I’m valuing community and culture over chatter and cool career moments. 

It wasn’t an easy decision, and I’m still trying to grapple with it. For one, this self-empathy mindset wasn’t what I was raised with. And then there’s the feeling that I’m somehow behind now — like having to make multiple emergency pit stops during a motorsport race. Like I undid everything I had worked for my freshman year, and then some. 

With internship application season well upon us — and club application season coming to a close — these ideas have crept in again. I find myself up late at night, working through questions on Google Docs, wondering where I would be if I had stayed. Would I have been able to change the toxic culture and transform it into an environment of community and support?

Then, there are nights where I remind myself that what’s past has passed, and I can only learn by moving forward. These nights are filled with cooking for my suitemates; working through interview questions with newfound friends; and random, wild karaoke and dinner nights. Meaningful conversations and long hugs with old friends. In these moments, I can actually feel the seconds passing. I’m stopping and smelling the roses. 

Instead of falling behind, I’m falling forward and falling in love with who I’m becoming. 

Victoria Lee is a sophomore writing about DEI, the AAPI experience and representation of underserved communities. Her column, “Your College Unnie,” runs every other Friday.