You reflect on the time you’ve spent in college with cynicism.

When the first cold night of fall settled on campus, you walked the streets in a hoodie, unseen in the dark, fading away. You thought about running, in the way you do when you’re about to crack. It’s better to disappear than to burn. It’s a frequent thought, but you never act on it.

It was one of those nights you felt depressed for seemingly no reason, stuck in that place between apathy and confusion. You told yourself you were tired of school, that you wanted to go home, that you no longer believed in education – all that delusional talk.

There was a time when life made sense, when you didn’t have to fake it to make it. You don’t know what to do with your life – the supposed dilemma of every college student – yet, the decisions have been made. It’s a one way road now.

You’ve majored in something “safe” to satiate your parents’ demands. You do well, but don’t enjoy what you’re doing. Sometimes, you tell people you’re “blessed,” and they praise your maturity, say you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You appreciate the words but know it’s not true.

You wonder how your friends have such an easy time being happy when the situation is this fragile. It’s as if they were born knowing their life’s purpose. In these four years, we will prove ourselves, question our self-worth and establish our role in society. We’ve socially deconstructed our existence. Overnight, we’ve become adults.

In some way, you felt lied to growing up. There always seemed to be a poster plastered in some teacher’s class or another telling you to “reach for the stars” and “pursue your dreams.”

The glamorous careers on television did not reflect reality. The nights you spent in high school watching “Grey’s Anatomy” no longer served as motivation. You’re no doctor.

The business school reminded you of high school, a social parade of people who were cooler than you. You feel pretentious in a suit and can’t be smooth even if you tried.

All the engineers you knew either had a superiority complex or downplayed all the other disciplines. You didn’t want to turn into that person.

Around you, the world kept moving. Your friends were admitted to graduate schools, found research positions, aced their GREs and MCATs, interned in D.C., spent the summer in Italy as you struggled with a passionless existence.

You experiment with your interests, but the things you love most are useless. “Where are you going to find a job doing that?” your parents ask in the condescending tone you’re all too familiar with.

People always seem to be expecting great things from you, but your definition of “great” never aligns with everyone else’s. You’re afraid to settle for less. You don’t want to find a job that just pays, doing something only tangentially related to your interests.

After college, you come home to a lone apartment, five nights a week, asking yourself if dreams still exist. You vaguely remember wanting to do so many things: teach at your old high school, work at Google, travel to exotic countries, write a novel.

As an undergraduate, these are your greatest fears – to wake up one morning and realize you’ve not lived your life. You want to tell the world you were here.

The world will always expect something from you. It’s time to disconnect. First, you owe yourself the right to love what you do.

In the end, you guess it’s time to find that thing called ambition.

Tarif Haque is a sophomore majoring in computer science.