diary of an almost dropout

I almost dropped out of grad school today.

The program I prayed for. The one I worked my ass off to get into. My parents and I poured thousands of dollars into tuition, applications, and supplies. I spent countless hours on recommendation requests, essays, and sleepless nights preparing for it. And today, I wanted to throw it all away.

And the reason? Because I haven’t made any friends.

It sounds so stupid when I write it out. If you’re reading this, you’re probably thinking: You’re a grown adult. Are you serious? You don’t drop out over that. Believe me, I’m saying the same thing to myself. I know how ridiculous it looks on paper. Why should the desire for friends override my dream to help people, to pursue an education, to use knowledge for good?

And yet—here I am.

Loneliness has always followed me. It seeps into every corner of my life, until I start to resent it. And when it shows up here, in a place I worked so hard to reach, my instinct is to run.

I’ve seen the pattern before: friends who stopped talking to me, invitations that never came, sitting beside people as they planned dinners or trips right in front of me—without me. In undergrad, there was a group of girls I sat with every class. They’d go out together, laugh together, post together. Not once did they invite me. I got so tired of feeling invisible that I started skipping class, even at the risk of my grades.

So when I say this grad program was my dream, I mean it. I poured everything into it. But deep down, I was always praying for something else too. Every birthday candle, every whispered wish: I just want friends. I wanted the road trips, the late-night texts, the “come with us” invitations. I wanted to feel wanted.

“You should learn to be okay alone.” I know there’s truth in it, but I’m exhausted by it. I’m tired of always being the one to comfort myself. I’m tired of convincing myself that my own company is enough.

The few friends I do have live in other cities. They have their own lives, their own circles. So here I am in week two of grad school, watching classmates form groups, and my brain screams: Not again. I can’t do another two years of this. I can’t be the outsider again.

Now if I’m being honest, I know part of this isn’t about them, it’s about me. My self-image is so twisted that my first instinct is to assume everyone must secretly dislike me. Why wouldn’t they? That’s the script my brain runs on repeat. So instead of giving people a chance to prove me wrong, I wait for them to prove me right. I wait for silence, for exclusion, for rejection — and when it doesn’t come fast enough, I imagine it anyway.

The truth is, people here, unlike in undergrad, actually seem nice. They’re just loud, outgoing, quick to connect in ways I’m not. And that’s definitely not their fault, it’s mine. I hide because I’m afraid of failing socially, of being seen and found lacking. I don’t talk because I don’t want to be a bother. But then I look up and realize I’ve erased myself before anyone else even had the chance to.

It’s not just that I feel left out—it’s that I leave myself out before anyone else can. I build walls and then sit inside them, waiting for someone to knock them down. And when no one does, I tell myself it’s proof that I don’t belong. It’s a cycle I’ve never figured out how to break. But maybe one day I will. Maybe that’s part of why I’m here—not just to learn my field, but to learn how to let myself belong.

So yes, today I thought about quitting. Not because I lost my passion and not because I could ever imagine myself doing anything else. But because loneliness feels heavier than tuition bills, harder than assignments, scarier than exams. And I wish it didn’t. But for me—it does. Still, I don’t want to keep erasing myself. I don’t want to live small. I don’t know exactly how, but I want to try—to show up, to risk being seen, to believe I’m worth being here.