I have never found the prospect of writing 700 to 900 words quite this intimidating. Needless to say, I have both read and written more in a single sitting, as has everyone at Columbia by the end of the first day of classes. But it seems almost insane to attempt to distill four years of college—more than a few all-nighters, far too much overachieving, and countless cups of coffee—into one, brief column for the opinion section of the Spectator’s final week of production, the last of my undergraduate career.

That being said, as an academic trained by one of the country’s finest institutions (or so I’m told), I dutifully turned to research as my preparation before committing words to the page. I read and reread the senior columns of years past, soaking up the judicious thoughts of my Spectator peers and mentors, their nostalgic musings as they moved on, their sage advice to underclassmen. Almost immediately, I started to worry. I worried about sounding cliché or using clichés. I feared I would inadvertently mimic others’ writing styles. I wanted to skirt any attempts at weak humor, and I especially needed to avoid offending, aggravating, or boring anyone. I needed to write the Best Senior Column Ever.

Then I stopped. I caught myself. I halted my spiraling, unwarranted anxieties, turned on my Simon & Garfunkel, and just let myself write.

Most people would describe me as a frenetically busy, multitasking, ambitious self-starter. Working toward degrees from Barnard and the Jewish Theological Seminary, I took upwards of 21 credits each semester, interned, taught, devotedly dragged myself to the gym nearly every day, founded and sang with S’madar (the Jewish women’s a capella group on campus), and edited copy for the Spectator for three years.

I think that most people probably know me by what I do, or rather, the amount that I do.

In high school, I noticed that the “how much” seemed to matter more than the “what.” I filled my schedule partly out of genuine desire to participate and partly to gain competitive edge. When I came to Columbia, the race intensified, and I found myself competing in unanticipated, highly ridiculous ways. The battlegrounds? Achievement and sleep deprivation in equal and ever-increasing measures. Those who could pack their résumés with academic honors, leadership positions, extracurricular activities, and big-name internships emerge victorious—and exhausted.

Inevitably, amidst thousands of menacingly impressive fellow contenders, I stepped up my game. I truly wanted to take advantage of the opportunities available to me, but I also felt the need to push myself to keep in stride with—if not a pace ahead of—the crowd.

By junior year, I felt the onslaught of a burnout. My sophomore slump devolved into junior recession; my passions and energy had all but expired. So when it came time to apply for managing board positions at the Spectator, a time I had awaited since my early days as a staffer, I hesitated. And for the first time in my life, I turned down an opportunity. Despite my minor obsession with grammar, my extended time working at the Spec, the company of the friends I had made there, and of course the pressure of The Race, I chose not to apply for head copy editor.

When I look back at my time with the newspaper, and at my specific role as one of the many cogs in its machine, I know that my choice to copy edit derives from a bonded love of the complex beauty of proper grammatical structures and of the comfort of a quieter place in the background. As a copy editor, I did not have to strive to ascend. No one expected me to write front-page stories, devise content, or manage bureaucratic issues. I simply reworked others’ writing, with no desire for a byline or any more prominent post.

During my nights spent editing at the Spectator, I maintained grammatical standards, encouraged other sections to enhance their attention to grammar, and increased the overall readability of the newspaper. I filled a critical but humble role at the Spec, and I did work I enjoyed, free of pressures to be the best or the busiest. I put forth the greatest efforts that I could, and I began to stop comparing myself to others.

To all of the underclassmen: take full advantage of the multitudinous possibilities available at our incredible institution and in the booming metropolis of New York. Inhale college credits with your morning coffee, overdose on extracurriculars, and submit willingly and cheerfully to the requisite slave labors of the intern life. But remember that you don’t have to do everything, at least not all at once.
Learn that it’s okay to say no to opportunities, to set limits for yourself at a university—and in a country—where we’re always told we can do it all. Ease up on pushing to best the competition—in fact, forget it altogether. Instead of constantly measuring yourself up against everyone else, let your participation, efforts, and achievements be for you.

I guess I didn’t really need to write the Best Senior Column Ever, after all.

The author is a dual degree at Barnard College and List College, majoring in religion and Bible, respectively. She was an associate Copy editor on the 130th Associate Board and a deputy Copy editor on the 131st Deputy Board.