It’s hard to write this. It’s easier to focus on the highlights—the conference presentations, the passing of major exams, the “academic wins” that feel LinkedIn-worthy. But the truth is, my transition into grad school was anything but smooth, and I want to share that side of the story.
When I first started, I struggled to find a routine. I thought I had study habits and productivity figured out after undergrad, but grad school was a completely different game. There was no structured expectation—just an overwhelming pressure to constantly do more. Publish more. Get further ahead. Prove myself. And somehow, in trying to keep up, I ended up isolating myself.
Mentorship was another challenge. No one tells you how crucial it is to set boundaries early, and I learned that lesson the hard way. I didn’t know how to navigate the dynamic, how much to ask for, or what to expect. Instead of seeking support, I convinced myself that I was alone, that there were no resources, that everyone else had it figured out while I was barely treading water.
And then, there were the experiments. Oh, the experiments. I would repeat the same one over and over, convinced that I was the problem. Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t working hard enough. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. It took me an embarrassing amount of time to admit that something fundamental—like the reagent I was using—was probably the issue. But even when I did succeed, I felt like I wasn’t far along enough, that there were always voices telling me that I should be doing better.
Eventually, the weight of it all became too much. I needed to start therapy again. I reached out to my friends, and most importantly, my mom, who reminded me to breathe when I felt like I was suffocating. I also forced myself to stop hiding—I joined clubs, I met other students, I became part of the Biomedical Engineering Graduate Mentorship Program, which connected me with like-minded people who just got it. And the most surprising part? The more I talked about my struggles, the more I realized I wasn’t alone. Other students felt the same way. Even faculty had gone through their own versions of this transition.
One thing that helped me reframe my mindset was finding things outside of academics. For so long, I had been focused on grades and achievements like getting A’s. But grad school doesn’t offer that same validation, and I had to find other ways to feel accomplished. I got curious about the world of venture capitalism and started reading more about it. I also began running, setting a goal to complete a half marathon. On top of that, I started making a new recipe every week—something completely unrelated to schoolwork, but that still made me feel like I was achieving something.
I don’t think I have it all figured out enough to give advice, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the transition from undergrad to grad school is insane. In undergrad, I knew how to study, how to ace exams—but none of that prepared me for the open-ended, expectationless-yet-high-pressure environment of grad school. And to top it all off, I was watching my friends land “real adult” jobs, earn salaries, move on with their lives while I stayed stuck in this weird in-between. I kept asking myself, why am I doing this? And for the longest time, I didn’t have an answer.
If you asked me now what success looks like, I’d say it’s any day where something astronomically bad didn’t happen. I’m only in my second year, but I’ve realized that grad school is just time—time to think, time to question, time to prove things wrong. It’s hectic and exhausting, and sure, the pay is low, but at the end of the day, someone is giving me the space to learn. And I’m learning.
So, if you’re struggling, give yourself grace. Not every day has to be a breakthrough. Not every experiment has to work. Not every moment has to feel like progress. Some days, making it through is enough—and that’s okay.