At the end of my first semester at Hillsdale, I was diagnosed with cancer.

I had felt a sharp pain pressing on my windpipe during the last few days of finals. I went to the doctor’s office as soon as I flew back home, and after a day of bouncing from clinic to clinic, the verdict came back: it was lymphoma. Though there was little chance of death or lifelong injury, I was going to have to leave college for two semesters to undergo an intensive chemotherapy regimen.
I canceled my classes and took my first step on the long path through the next year. Days and weeks began to blur together, and in the absence of any obligations or difficult mental work, I gained a clarity that I had seldom experienced before. For the first time, I had time — time in which I reflected upon my foray into college life.

I had arrived at Hillsdale with a typical bright-eyed outlook. I was focused on learning, enjoying my college experience, and preparing for my future career. I tried out for clubs, joined organizations, went to networking and Career Services events, did my best to keep up with academics, and studied subjects outside of my classes when possible. 

I tried to do everything right, attempting to create for myself the college experience I had imagined when I chose to come here. I wanted to be both academically excellent and not over-focused on academics; to be widely socially integrated while retaining deep friendships; to be involved on campus without being overcommitted. In short, I wanted to become the model Hillsdale College student.

And at the end of my first semester, I fully believed I had succeeded. I had fulfilled all of the goals I had set for myself when I came to college. I had made great friends. I was enjoying competing with the Mock Trial team. I had done well in my classes. 

It took stepping away from Hillsdale to realize how empty my life had been.
While undergoing treatment after treatment to try to whip my rebellious lymph nodes back into line, I did a lot of pure, unfettered thinking. When I reflected upon my first semester at Hillsdale, I began to realize how much I had sacrificed to make my dreams of collegiate life come true. Yes, I had achieved every goal I had set for myself, but at the same time I had no free time in which to savor the fruits of my achievements. 

I was so focused on academics that I cared more about my paper and test grades than actually learning the material and engaging with it in class. I was so focused on getting into clubs and doing well in them that I had started attending them for resume padding rather than actually enjoying the activities therein. I had loaded myself with so many social obligations that a fair amount of time performing them was spent worrying about how I would actually get my homework for the night done in time. 

Essentially, I had managed to construct such a good life that I was pouring all of my energy into maintaining it, with none left over to spend enjoying it. 

The worst part of that, I realized, was the fact that, absent my diagnosis, I would never even have recognized that life for what it was. This sort of overcommitment trap is especially pernicious in that way: you don’t know you’ve sucked most of the joy from your own life until you’re forced to step away from it. And personally, the idea that I would have lost my four years at this wonderful school in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of club meetings, social obligations, and last-minute work scares me more than any disease. Being able to step away for a year was a privilege; it prevented some of the best years of my life from becoming nothing but a blur. 

I returned to Hillsdale with new eyes last spring and realized how many people are stuck in the same mire I used to be. The purpose of this article isn’t to burden you with my sob story, but to cause you to reflect upon your own life here; why you came here, and why you’re here now. I’m sure I’m not the only one who fell into the overcommitment trap when they arrived here, but I’m pretty sure I’m one of the only ones who was forced to wake from it by a cancer diagnosis. So, if you’re in the same position I was at the end of my first semester, think — and realize that your life might actually become richer if there was less of it.