I reluctantly walked up the four flights of stairs to my office one Tuesday morning. As I walked, I became increasingly anxious–a familiar feeling I get every single time I’m on campus. But on this morning, I was particularly attuned to this uncomfortable feeling. I kept asking myself, “Why do you hate this place?” I, then, remembered something I’d heard about Mary Oliver (the poet) hating buildings. I thought, “Yeah, maybe that’s all it is. I hate buildings too!” Then I explained to myself how unnatural and sterile buildings seemed and that it only made sense for a human being to hate them.
A half hour after arriving to my office, the student I was scheduled to meet with arrived. She walked nervously into my office and sat down. I explained to her that I was her “faculty mentor,” that we would not be talking about classes she should take, but about bigger picture stuff: challenges, career, etc. She nodded and said, “I know. That’s why I’m here.” She went on, very seriously, telling me that she had withdrawn from all of her classes the previous semester and that she was about to withdraw from all of her classes again this semester.
I asked her what had happened, expecting to hear about some sort of trauma. But, instead, she told me she’d just simply developed an aversion to campus. When I inquired about what this aversion looked like, she told me that there were many days that she’d drive into campus, park her car, and be literally unable to get out of her car.
She’d then spend all of class time driving around town, wondering what the hell she was doing. She didn’t know why she couldn’t bear to come to campus, but she couldn’t! “OMG!” I thought. “She’s telling MY STORY!!” She told me that she’d been a good student until now and that she didn’t understand what was happening to her. I could relate to that too. Up until the last two years or so, coming to campus felt fine, but now, it felt like pulling teeth EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
I told her to listen to her body, something I often told students. If her body can’t get out of the car and if her body can’t bear to go to class, she MUST listen. So I encouraged her to take time away from campus, not to put pressure on herself to come back, and to explore what this aversion is telling her. She agreed and seemed a lot lighter when she left my office. After this interaction, I was proud of myself and thought, “YES, leaving school right now is ABSOLUTELY the right thing for her.”
Afterward though, I was struck by the eeriness of the whole event: that the problem I’d been dealing with all morning was the exact same problem my student brought to me. My body is telling me that this place–this career, this job– isn’t for me. I don’t have to walk away today, but I do have to listen. I have an obligation to listen.