I wish I could begin this by saying I figured everything out.
I haven’t.
I’m 25, I work at McDonald’s for slightly more than minimum wage, and I still spend a lot of my free time looking at research programs I’m afraid to apply to.
My lowest grade in university was 96 percent.
I majored in kinesiology and minored in physics. I graduated at the top of my class. Professors talked to me about graduate school, and for a while, I thought I knew exactly where my life was going.
I wanted to do research, possibly at a university. I was interested in the brain and nervous system, especially mapping neural circuits and studying how early life stress affects the body.
Then I applied to the research program I wanted and didn’t get in.
That was one rejection from one program. I know that. Plenty of people get rejected and keep applying until something works.
I didn’t.
I took it as proof that I wasn’t actually smart enough.
The laboratories I was interested in were at much better known universities than the one I attended. I had gone to a smaller, less prestigious school because my athletic background helped me pay for it. Even with my grades, I felt like someone from a “real” university would look at my application and wonder why I thought I belonged there.
So instead of giving other programs the chance to reject me, I mostly rejected myself for them.
That is probably the hardest part to admit. It would be easier to say I did everything right and the system failed me. But I haven’t tried nearly as hard as I could have.
I applied to one supervisor at one school. When it didn’t work, I froze.
My friends and family have been pushing me to try again. Most nights, I spend around 20 minutes researching supervisors and laboratories. Sometimes I find a program that sounds perfect for me. Then I start thinking about the university, the other applicants, and all the reasons they wouldn’t choose me.
Twenty minutes a day is my attempt to keep myself from giving up completely.
There are other reasons I ended up here.
I have severe OCD, and it affects me in ways that make many of the usual kinesiology jobs difficult. One of my biggest problems is touching other people’s bare skin. That obviously creates an issue when most clinical jobs involve working directly with patients.
I’ve had interviews and practical assessments for jobs in my field, but I’m bad in clinical settings. I don’t have great social skills. I overexplain things until I confuse people or make them nervous. I know what I want to say, but once another person is standing in front of me, it can come out wrong.
That is one reason I wanted research so badly. I genuinely love it, but it also felt like the part of my field where I might actually fit.
My OCD became much worse after graduation. I was working labor jobs for a while, but I developed medical problems, lost 70 pounds, and started passing out. I also have epilepsy, although I’m getting close to three years without a seizure.
Eventually, physical labor wasn’t a realistic option anymore.
McDonald’s was hiring. The job was something I could do, and it allowed me to stay in my small city, where living is still relatively affordable.
I could probably find more opportunities if I moved. People point that out whenever I talk about my situation, and they aren’t wrong. But moving costs money, especially when you don’t have much saved and don’t know whether the opportunity at the other end will work out.
I tell myself I would move if I got into a research program.
Maybe that is a sensible boundary. Maybe it is another excuse. I honestly don’t know anymore.
My younger sister makes the whole situation feel even stranger.
She is 23 and works as an assistant manager at a resort, where she earns six figures. She barely made it through high school. I was the person getting nearly perfect grades and being told I had a bright future.
Now she is thriving, and I’m working the fry station.
I’m not jealous of her. I’m insanely proud of her. She is happy and good at what she does. She understands how to deal with people and how to function in the real world in a way that I never learned.
University made sense to me. There were instructions, deadlines, and grades. If I did the work correctly, I got a good result. When a professor told me I had potential, I could believe it because there was evidence sitting in front of me.
After graduation, that structure disappeared.
Nobody tells you which person to contact or how many rejections you should tolerate before changing direction. Nobody grades you for trying. You can spend hours researching a program, send an application, and never hear anything meaningful back.
I was very good at succeeding when someone else defined success for me.
I’m much worse at moving forward when I have to define it for myself.
I still feel embarrassed when people ask what I do. I was always “the smart one” in my family, so now I sometimes get made fun of for ending up at McDonald’s. I laugh along because I understand why it’s funny.
But it hurts too.
I keep wondering whether I chose the wrong degree. Maybe I should have majored in physics instead of taking it as a minor. Maybe I should go back and finish a physics degree. Maybe I should force myself into clinical work. Maybe I should move. Maybe I should send 50 emails and stop caring how many people ignore me.
Every option feels obvious until I have to actually choose one.
I recently started getting professional help for my OCD. I’m trying to work on the things that have limited my career and affected my relationships. I’m also looking into clinical research organizations and research programs connected to hospitals and neuroscience institutes.
I want to say that I’m going to keep applying until I get in. Right now, the more honest answer is that I’m trying to become someone who can keep applying.
I don’t know where I’ll be in five years. I hope I’ll be doing research. If that doesn’t work, I may return to school for physics. Or I may end up doing something I haven’t considered yet.
I’m not happy with where I am right now.
But I’m also not ready to believe this is where I’ll stay.