The perfect student doesn’t exist—it’s a fragment of our imagination, a construction of all the achievements we think we should want.
In September 2021, I marched onto Queen’s campus with the pressure of academic achievement and the image of the “perfect student” looming over my head.
I had the priorities of a fresh high school graduate. Good grades were integral to proving myself worthy, and fitting in was more important than flourishing in my authenticity. I planned to study hard and continue proving myself as a dancer, as I had done my whole life. The way I chose to spend my time was conducive to the person I’d always been, but not the person I wanted to be.
Some people come to university to reinvent themselves. I came to prove myself.
Naturally, at the start of my degree, my image of the perfect student revolved around the values I had grown up with: science over arts, competition over leisure. I worked hard, but only at the things I knew. I studied tirelessly for my biology classes, I got a research assistant position in a neuroscience lab, and I even ed the competitive dance team.
Though I achieved the image of this perfect student that I had made up in my overachieving fantasies, I’ve realized perfection often leads to disappointment.
Striving for perfection kept me locked in a stagnant expectation—it prevented me from growth and from exploring who I was becoming. By upholding the standards I’d set at the beginning of my university career, I was left striving towards outdated values, trying to please a version of myself I had grown out of.
Because of my tunnel vision toward being the perfect student, countless new and exciting opportunities ed me by.
As time ed, I came across certain people here and there who approached the undergraduate experience in a way that I really ired. I observed the way they held themselves with curiosity and excitement instead of attainability and achievement. It was then I realized my limitations were rooted in the fear of failure. Exploring new interests meant straying away from being a perfect student, and I wondered who I would be if not that perfect student.
I was too caught up in this image of perfection to look around and see the incredible opportunities sitting right there, under my nose.
The beginning of university is an incredible chance to explore all the things you’ve placed on your mood board. From clubs, to classes, to hobbies—the opportunities for new experiences are endless for an incoming first year.
For me, dance has always been a huge part of my life. I carried my competitive spirit with me throughout university by ing the Queen’s Competitive Dance Team. I spent most of my evenings at practice, but I couldn’t help thinking about all the experiences, clubs, and communities I always wanted to but didn’t have time for.
When a moment of hostile, power-hungry leadership made its way to me, I decided it was no longer worth it. Though I love dance, I started to wonder if, at this point in my life, I should be shaping my future, not hanging onto my past. Surely, I couldn’t be known as “the dancer” forever.
So, this year, I left the team.
I couldn’t keep putting my energy into something that was no longer aligning with my values. And though I still have so much love for that team, I didn’t want to keep proving myself through competition. All I wanted was to dance, and if there’s one thing I know about competition, it’s that it’s never just about dance.
Instead, I spent my fourth-year dancing for Project Red, a student-run charity fashion show on campus which donates all its proceeds to the Heart & Stroke Foundation. I was eager to immerse myself in a completely new crowd of incredibly creative people, and to devote my time to a charitable cause rather than to competition.
At this point in my final year of undergrad, it was daunting to try something new. But being exposed to a brand-new community of people felt freeing. I was expanding, growing, and becoming the person I always wanted to be.
I definitely have days where I regret leaving the competitive team. It is, after all, the highest calibre of dance there is on campus. But those days are farther and fewer between. I realize now that you don’t have to be part of the most elite group to prove your ion for something. Although my decision to leave the team was difficult, I know it was the right thing to do.
It’s hard to leave behind the things that have defined me for so long, but I’ve realized, while dance will always be a part of me, it can no longer be what defines me.
Now, I dance in my room and play around with new songs and movements, just because I want to.
As for school, the first-year student who was set on making her career in neuropathology would be thrilled to know she’s going on to do her Master’s in Literature at her dream school. It’s what I’ve always loved, and the choice that best aligns with the person I want to be.
I urge all incoming first-years to not take for granted the vast number of opportunities that present themselves to students at Queen’s. Take it from someone who’s learnt the importance of new experiences. Change doesn’t equate to failure.
So, do what you want, not what you think you should do. And especially, do it for yourself. Stop trying to be perfect. Go on and dance in the mirror.
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