Let’s start at the beginning.
The year is 2021. Dua Lipa is at the top of the Billboard 100. I’m a high school senior, sitting in my kitchen, hitting submit on my final college applications; the knot in my stomach is teaching itself tongue twisters, and I am deathly afraid of the impending transition into adult life.
The year is now 2022, post-Oscars slap. My name has been called and, while sweating slightly in my cap and gown, I’m crossing the stage at graduation. I’ve been accepted into Hopkins as a neuroscience major. Life is looking promising, and I am deathly afraid of the impending transition into adult life.
The year is 2026. I am a senior again, but this time as an undergraduate student. In about a month, I’ll be walking across another stage in a new cap and gown to receive a Bachelor of Arts in Film and Media Studies — plot twist. Oh, and I’m still deathly afraid of the impending transition into adult life.
Some things never change, while others drastically do… Neuroscience major to Film major, let’s talk about it.
I came into my undergrad experience with the burning desire not to fall into poverty. There was nothing profound in my head about breaking boundaries in the field of science, contributing greatly to society or even the basic concept of providing for a family. What I had to motivate me was not a goal or any positive impetus; what I had was fear and deep avoidance. To which I’d say, running on avoidance can only get you so far.
Instead of wants, I had “not-wants.” Instead of goals, I had “anti-goals.” Instead of reaching toward, I was running away from. That’s where the trouble lies. I had nothing to enrich my life emotionally. I wasn't passionate about what I was studying. My only aim was to pass my classes and get a decent job — aspirational mediocrity. I had no desire to excel or rise above — just complacently present. At such a demanding university as Johns Hopkins, this is a recipe for disaster. Burnout happens to even the most enthusiastic, so you can imagine what happened to me.
By the end of my first semester, I was in active depression. The program was lovely, and my professors were brilliant, but I stopped showing up to classes because I couldn’t reconcile my being there. My GPA lowered, and so did my self-esteem. Yet, I couldn’t let go of the concept that STEM was the only acceptable path for me. Even as I looked into other fields of study, it was always the same: neuroscience to cognitive science to computer science, stubbornly trying to jam myself like a square peg into a round hole.
Eventually, my advisor stepped in. Seeing my struggle, she implored me to be honest with myself about what I wanted out of my education. And once I had something in mind, she set up a meeting for me with two different professionals, offering me an outlook on two different career paths: STEM and the arts.
There is something that I must explain. I have been a dancer since I was seven years old. I’ve also been a dedicated thespian since middle school. I sang the alto part in choir, and when I had the blissful naivety of youth, the only thing I wanted to be was a performer. I have always been passionate about art. However, I intended to let that part of me go quiet for the sake of stability — safety in the absence of risk, unable to fail but equally unable to succeed.
Meeting with the two women my advisor connected me with, I realized that, regardless of my choice, my perception had always been wrong. I wasn’t born a rich man’s son; there is no sure, easy path to financial stability. Even the most predictable fields are subject to unforeseen changes. So no matter what I pursued in life, there would be difficult moments. As I evaluated both lives laid out before me, the decision was clear: I’d rather struggle doing something I love than struggle doing something I hate.
I am passionate about art, and it intimidates me. The thought that I may not succeed makes me grind my teeth. The thought that I may not be good enough has kept me up at night on multiple occasions. I’ve considered trying something stable first and then buying my right to make art as if it’s something that has to be given to me. I’ve asked myself if I was making a mistake, but when I wake up every day, I couldn’t be happier.
No matter how deathly afraid I am to present myself to the world and risk rejection, I have to. I can’t conceive of any other way to live. When stripped of social pressures and internalized expectations, this is who I am. I am a film major with minors in creative writing and theater. This interdisciplinary take on storytelling sustains my soul, and I could not be prouder of everything I have achieved by taking the risk to try.
As I am writing this article, I have a film set to premiere in the Parkway Theater. I have lived and worked in Los Angeles. I have attended the Creative Arts Emmys. I have had so many experiences that I thought were inaccessible to me — things I wouldn’t dare to dream of. Yet, the life I never thought I’d have is mine.
Life rewards authenticity. As I’ve changed over these four years of undergrad, I haven't changed at all. Instead of becoming someone new, I returned to who I always was. I returned to being the child who wanted to act and write and sing. I returned to the childlike audacity to persist. Even as I feel that knot somersaulting in my stomach, the most powerful thing I’ve gained in my time at Hopkins is the strength to move forward despite it, because I deserve to believe in myself. We all deserve to believe in ourselves.
As 2026 inevitably turns into 2027 and the years go on from there, I don’t expect to ever lose that tinge of fear toward new experiences. It’s natural to hold apprehension about the unknown, but I am also growing to delight in it. Growth is uncomfortable. As I grow as a person and within my career, there will be growing pains, but that also means that something exciting is waiting just around the corner.
Amaiya Santiago is a graduating senior from Swedesboro, N.J. majoring in Film and Media Studies.
