Mistakes Made and Lessons Learned

March 25th, 2016, remains etched in my memory as a day that irrevocably altered the course of my life. It was a pivotal moment, one that ushered in an extraordinary opportunity to embark on an unparalleled journey of education and experience. In the wake of this revelation, a deluge of emotions cascaded over me—relief, gratitude, and unbridled excitement.

The days leading up to my freshman fall quarter were characterized by ceaseless contemplation. I found myself engrossed in conversations about potential career paths—consulting, engineering, design, or perhaps an amalgamation of these fields. Each avenue held its allure, but I envisioned that Stanford University would ultimately provide me with the clarity I sought. Beyond my personal quest for self-realization, there was a profound desire to liberate my family from the throes of cyclical poverty that had ensnared us for generations. It felt like a miraculous escape, where the American Dream and meritocracy had aligned in my favor. I harbored a deep sense of responsibility to represent not just myself but also my mother, my younger sister, and my homeland, Morocco.

Upon setting foot on the Stanford campus, my ambition surged to new heights. I wove countless scenarios in my mind, imagining myself as the President of the Muslim Student Union, an Executive within the Associated Students of Stanford University, or a member of Cardinal Calypso. On a more pragmatic note, I contemplated academic disciplines such as Management Science and Engineering, Product Design, and Science, Technology, and Society—fields that encapsulated my penchant for interdisciplinary exploration. I took pride in my ability to bridge seemingly disparate disciplines, and Stanford's embrace of such unorthodoxy endeared the university to me.

I also harbored a keen desire to engage in study abroad programs. I believed it could be a transformative way to connect with my inner self and deepen my understanding of my religion within the framework of my identity. Stanford, to me, was the conduit for unadulterated exploration—an avenue to explore the boundless expanse of the world and discover my passions. I understood that personal growth required stepping out of one's comfort zone, and I was fully prepared to embrace discomfort as a catalyst for my development.

However, here is where my first shortcomings became apparent. I had an aversion to discomfort, an inclination to avoid it at all costs. It took me some time to realize that discomfort need not be equated with negativity; rather, it could serve as the crucible for necessary growth. Despite the grandeur of my dreams, I possessed a narrow understanding of my own identity, viewing it as a patchwork of a few key elements I needed to build upon vertically. I believed that Stanford was the canvas on which I could paint my grandest aspirations. I was a dreamer, yes, but I was also scattered, unsure of how to efficiently pursue goals of such magnitude. Consequently, I found myself adrift.

It was amid the unforgiving pace of the quarter system that reality confronted me head-on, demanding that I confront it. I felt like an outsider, a square peg in a round hole, unprepared for the rigor and responsibilities that Stanford expected of me. I had weathered the storm of working three jobs to support my family, yet the strain I now experienced was of an entirely different nature.

My gravest error was clinging to the comfort of the familiar. I continued to engage in activities in which I excelled, avoiding challenges that would force me to confront my weaknesses.

My life during my initial days at Stanford was nothing short of a whirlwind. Between juggling two jobs and actively participating in numerous student organizations, my commitment to my coursework inevitably waned. In an attempt to counterbalance this, I opted for classes that piqued my interest rather than those aligning with my intended major or academic trajectory. Fortunately, my involvement in the Leland Scholars Program (LSP) acted as a lifeline, preventing me from immediate academic derailment. LSP extended its hand to me, but I hesitated to grasp it. The literary works we encountered during LSP filled me with trepidation. I feared that I, too, might become a statistic—a first-generation, low-income student who would drop out of Stanford.

During those initial three quarters, I felt as though I existed in a vacuum, navigating one day at a time with no grasp of time's passage. I failed to comprehend how each decision would accumulate, ultimately leading me to my present circumstances. I approached my course selections with a lack of discernment, enrolling in classes without careful consideration of whether they fulfilled general education requirements or contributed to my major track. I overestimated my capacity for experimentation at that time. I should have recognized that freshman year was an opportunity for calculated risk-taking—a period for exploring courses and extracurricular activities with the understanding that each decision could benefit me in the future. Whether it entailed selecting a class that fulfilled requirements for multiple majors of interest or ensuring I completed the Writing and Rhetoric Requirement (WAYS) in a manner that would prove advantageous in the long run.

My successes on campus were a product of my inherent strengths. My wide, welcoming smile and approachable demeanor facilitated networking and the development of positive relationships with my peers. I diversified my course selections, exploring a myriad of subjects that piqued my curiosity. Any class that tugged at my interests, I endeavored to enroll in. As a result, my transcript boasted a diverse range of courses, spanning from digital art to computer science.

However, I extended myself to an unsustainable degree. As an active member of nearly twelve student organizations, I left no room to dedicate even a moment to my academic pursuits. I overloaded my plate with commitments outside the classroom to the extent that I eventually found myself absent from class altogether. I became a self-destructive people-pleaser, compelled to alleviate the slightest discomfort or unhappiness in others, often at the expense of my own well-being. Within barely three weeks of setting foot on campus, I had secured employment. Financial necessity drove this decision, as my family back home faced challenging circumstances, and the majority of my earnings went directly into my mother's bank account.

The culture shock experienced by a first-generation, low-income student at Stanford is often underestimated, even by the smallest of factors. Observing fellow students frequently dining off-campus, flaunting extravagant gadgets and clothing, exerted considerable pressure on me to project an image beyond my means. I felt compelled to rent a Zipcar for social gatherings with friends, fearing I would bore them if I declined outings in favor of my prepaid dining hall meals.

I grappled with debilitating mental health issues, yet the most challenging aspect was my lack of awareness. I exhibited all the signs and symptoms of depression but never considered that it could be affecting me. Growing up in a household marked by high stress due to housing instability and food insecurity, mental health was never a priority. In response, I developed a self-destructive coping mechanism: sleep. It became my escape, a refuge where no person, no thing, and no thought could intrude. Whenever I faced challenges or found myself drowning in failure, I sought solace in my sheets. Time would pass, my problems would snowball into larger, more significant issues, and I became trapped in a vicious cycle, wearing down my already fragile mental state. I struggled to maintain a precarious balance between hope and despair.

My uncertainty about my purpose at Stanford played a pivotal role in my downfall. At one point, I questioned the very reasons for attending classes, striving for good grades, and ultimately graduating when I couldn't discern where these efforts would lead me. I was consumed by my thoughts, feeling utterly lost. Consequently, my academic journey at Stanford lacked consistency and direction.

Receiving the letter notifying me of my academic suspension did not come as a surprise. I understood that my actions and, perhaps more critically, my inactions, would have consequences. I am grateful for the second chance I've been granted. The events of the past year have profoundly transformed me, affecting my overall morale and my understanding of my identities and roles. Most significantly, I've learned about the immense power of consistency.

Consistency initially manifested in my daily work routine, gradually reshaping how I perceived myself and my capabilities. This internship was my first substantial work experience, and I wasn't entirely sure what to expect. However, once I established a routine and mastered my daily tasks, I tapped into something profound: the realization that I possessed the ability to change my behavior. It began with small changes, such as having a healthy breakfast every morning during my commute (almond butter on multigrain toast and two boiled eggs, to be precise). Then came a daily two-kilometer run. Integrating these actions into my well-defined routine made it easier for me to find the motivation to prioritize my well-being. I gradually introduced each change, and they took root over time.

Once I recognized that I could genuinely change my behavior, I understood that significant transformations emerge from small, consistent efforts. This is a lesson I will carry with me throughout my life, especially at Stanford. Consistently attending a professor's office hours or setting aside time outside of class to review notes are practices I now value. I stand here today, having completed over four months with Infomineo, feeling accomplished and prepared to tackle Stanford once more. This time, I approach my goals with a clearer understanding of how to achieve them consistently. I believe I have uncovered a new source of strength within me—consistency, which propels me forward and fortifies my willpower.

I've used this essay as an opportunity to provide context for my academic setbacks. Advocating for myself has always been challenging, particularly in situations where I felt powerless or had limited control.

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