that girl who rides the horses that dance

In one of my previous posts, I briefly discussed my decision to leave the Rochester Bridges to the Doctorate program. I just wanted to go in further detail about what happened. 

I want to preface this - I do not think the Bridges program is a bad program. It was just bad for me. I feel like I was constantly communicating my concerns (and later on my unhappiness) and they were brushed aside for the sake of a grant. This situation should not have escalated as far as it did, and I want this to be more of a cautionary tale for anyone who may be considering going far, far, far out of their comfort zone. 

It all started in the summer of 2013. I had just finished my internship at the Conservator's Center and was feeling pretty down on myself. I had big plans to move to Rochester and search for a job while waiting for a job opening at the Seneca Park Zoo. However, I had come to realize that this wasn't a very smart decision, and thus I was staying in Greensboro. 

Being that I'm a fierce and independent woman who don't need no man (except for the fuzzy-nosed variety AKA ponies),  I had a hard time reconciling myself with the idea of living at home in Greensboro, of all places. (side note - I love Greensboro. But I have FOMO and love to be around my friends, or on/around campus. Considering the majority of my friends from Greensboro have moved on, Greensboro is unfortunately not the ideal place for me to be right now) This was on the tail of having recently graduated from college, where I lived on my own (with roommates) in an apartment for two years. 

When I received that e-mail announcing the program and encouraging me (me? You picked me? Really?) to apply, it seemed like a godsend. I wasn't going to stay in Greensboro after all! I secured letters of recommendation and sent in my application materials. 

Hold on, you might say. Didn't the program describe what it was looking for?

Yes, it did. However, (in my opinion) it was worded in such a way that was open to interpretation. 

My interpretation was, in so many words - I get to go to graduate school!

My impression of the program at that time was that I could pursue my Masters in Environmental Science, and then my PhD in Biology, which had several different disciplines such as Ecology, Evolution & Organismal Behavior, Zoology, Wildlife Ecology, and so forth. The discipline I was getting my MS in wasn't ideal, but it would work anyway. (whatever it takes) But looking at the list of available and compatible PhD programs, I was getting excited. I would get my PhD in Biology, but just through a different route.

Turns out that wasn't an option. 

I think that, at this time in my life, I was so desperate for validation that I was good enough to do something with my life. And to me, this seemed like the perfect opportunity. 

So I applied. I interviewed. And I got in. 

The first few weeks were blissful. I was so thrilled to be back in Rochester. I was mentally making plans for my PhD, that the first few roadblocks didn't seem like a big deal. Things such as being told that I couldn't pursue a thesis topic that I wanted because it wasn't compatible with the program's aims, and consequently struggling to find a thesis topic that I was somewhat interested in, and one that would help me prepare for my PhD. Once I had found a topic that I was actually meh about (and didn't hate it with all my passion), I felt like I could pull this off. 

How wrong I was.

I was pushed to focus on a PhD in neuroscience, or something involving the brain. I was strongly encouraged to focus on programs that involved work with animals, because I loved animals so much that I wanted to test theories and conduct animal studies. /end sarcasm

By spring semester, I was totally over it. I had expressed my concerns, and I was feeling like I had been cast aside. I was sick of feeling like I had to ask every time I wanted to share my opinion about something.  One incident comes to mind - I had gone to a workshop in Washington, D.C. This workshop discussed one major element in American Sign Language linguistics, and was led by a hearing woman. After an entire day of keeping my mouth shut ("students should be seen, not heard" was my mantra that day), the workshop leader ultimately decided what she had already decided way before the workshop - that she would be making the executive decision about this certain topic in linguistics. 

So, basically, I wasted my weekend. I expressed my concerns to the head of the program, and how offended I felt about how the hearing woman was making an executive decision about my language. He shot down everything I said. 

okay then. 

I clammed up. I no longer spoke up or argued my opinion. Everything they said was right, and everything I said was wrong. I felt like I could no longer do anything right.

Without realizing just how far down the rabbit hole in which I was falling, I unthinkingly cast aside my project proposal. I spent my nights scouring for an escape, thinking that I was just looking for something to do. Not until after I had applied to the Peace Corps and to a full-time position at the Conservators' Center did I realize what I was doing, and how it could be bad. 

When I realized this, I retreated further. 

In mid-to-late April, I had had enough. In the middle of the week, with nothing except the clothes on my back, I hopped in my car and drove seven hundred miles and thirteen hours to Greensboro. It was a blissful few days. I got my car inspected, I visited the barn and got to see Bucky, I saw my parents, and I got to play with Jake, my parents' puppy. I was able to visit my best friend from high school at her new big-girl job.

One highlight of this was visiting my old high school. I wandered through the hallways, staring at the high schoolers, who looked like they ought be in elementary school. In the years since I had graduated, my school had annexed the middle school and become one huge campus. After an hour walking around and exporing the almost unrecognizable school, I realized I had one mission in mind - to visit my old art teacher. I had taken Art 2 and then two years of AP Studio Art with her, and if anyone at my school would be excited to see me, it would be her. 

I think she got the shock of her life when I walked in her classroom - which had been my art classroom when I was in middle school. After hugs and greetings, she asked me how I was doing, and I told her about the Bridges program. Once I had finished giving her an overview, she looked directly into my eyes and asked, "Are you happy?" Standing stiffly, jaw clenched, I told her, "Yes."

And at that moment, it hit me. I had been lying to Joe. I had been lying to my advisors, my professors, my mentors, my classmates, my sorority sisters, my friends, sister, my parents, and most importantly - myself. And now I was lying to this sweet old lady in front of me, who was retiring at the end of the academic year, who wanted nothing more than to know that I was happy. 

En route back to Rochester after playing truant and running off on my mini-vacation, the right front wheel hub came off my car. Standing on the highway next to my poor broken-down three-wheeled Bambi, I thought I had hit rock bottom. Nothing was going right. 

Just a week and half later, I recorded a ten-minute video and sent it to the head of the program to inform him of my desire to leave the program. He sent back a thoughtful e-mail that essentially said, "The ball is now in your court. Do with it as you want." There were, of course, other details - he encouraged me to stay longer and explore my options.

Boom. We had a call to discuss this matter further, and it was essentially true. The ball was indeed in my court, and I could decide to either pass it, or shoot. 

I tried to shoot. I tried so hard, and I missed. 

We never discussed this matter again, not even during our trip to San Francisco for the Association of Psychological Science national conference. A day after returning from San Francisco, I was on a plane to Costa Rica.

Upon returning from Costa Rica, I spent a couple of days in Chicago. And after that, I was blissfully back in Rochester. I had done a lot of thinking in Costa Rica, and casually texted the program head a question. 

Now, this is where it gets sticky. I don't know what happened. Maybe my question wasn't clear to him, or I took his response personally. But essentially, things blew up. Harsh words were traded. After meditation through a third party, I walked away. Forever.

This is when I actually hit rock bottom. I was standing in a teeny tiny hole, staring at a distant pinprick of light. I had lost everything. I had lost my stipend. I had lost someone I thought was my mentor. I had lost a few "friends."

I still can not believe that I walked away from a $2.1 million federally funded program. The roommates I was living with at that time in the little house along the Genesee River didn't believe it either, but they were fantastic roommates and helped out so much as I clawed my way back from rock bottom. They were patient with me as I struggled to pay my rent and utilities. If I was late on a payment, they didn't hold it over me, and I am eternally grateful (a hundred and one million shoutouts to all of you!). 

I had an exit interview in December, and officially cut all ties from the program. During this interview, my interviewer mentioned that they hadn't noticed that I was experiencing so much turmoil during my tenure as a Bridges scholar. That was what finally set me with both feet on solid ground. If they had missed such glaring red flags, brushed aside my opinions and concerns, and pushed me toward a PhD in a field I didn't want, then clearly my decision was the right one. 

I have had countless conversations with my family, my boyfriend and my best friends (you ladies know who you are - shout out to you three. 601-5 reppin!) and began to patch myself up. 

What did I learn? 

I learned that I'm in my twenties. I'm allowed to be selfish. Under no circumstances should anyone tell me what to do with my life. I learned that even if I did something drastic, everyone would still have my back. 

Sometimes you just gotta stop being spineless or being a people-pleaser. Grow a pair. And walk away. 

That's what I did. 

I'm still paying for it, but I'm far happier.

Note: This was hard for me to write. Even now, three minutes before it's scheduled to be posted from my queue, my mouse is still hovering over the "Publish" button. This isn't an easy post, and I know there will be people who will be offended by what I write. What can I say? I wrote from my heart. I thought, and formulated, my words and ideas. I shared this post with some people before officially deciding to add it to my queue. It is now part of my story, and I'm an open book.