The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
14 — Wednesday, April 21, 2021 
statement

Lost at Michigan: a reflection of my 
transition from rural to university life

O

n the evening of Wednesday, 
Dec. 16, 2016, I lounged in my 
old bedroom, exhausted from a 

particularly grueling competitive cheer 
practice, mindlessly scrolling through 
my phone after yet another day of going 
through the motions. Just after 8 p.m., I 
refreshed my Gmail, only expecting to 
delete more emails from various stores 
— hello, Victoria’s Secret and Forever21 
— who flooded my inbox with promo-
tions each day. Then, suddenly, there 
it was. An email with the subject line: 
“Your University of Michigan Admis-
sions Decision.” Without even opening 
the email, I glanced at the first few words, 
written just under the subject line, that 
read: “CONGRATULATIONS Elayna — 
You’re IN!” 

Startled and in utter shock, I jumped 

out of bed, sprinted out of my room and 
down the stairs to the living room — slip-
ping multiple times in my socks on our 
wood floors — and ran up to my older 
sister. Wordlessly, I shoved my phone in 
her face as I stood in front of her, speech-
less and in tears, attempting to catch my 
breath. My parents looked at us in bewil-
derment, wondering what could possibly 
be on that phone screen. My sister, real-
izing I was at a loss for words, filled them 
in: “She got in!”

I got in. 
I was quite apathetic throughout the 

entire college application process. My 
sister had matriculated to the University 
as well, but generally, attending a large, 
four-year university was an exception to 
the rule in our little 2,000-person home-
town. For the most part, members of our 
tiny graduating classes found themselves 
attending local community colleges or 
small state schools, going to trade school 
or entering full-time work on fam-
ily farms, in factories or local real estate. 
Many would stay in the town, or at least 
the county, for the rest of their lives, find-
ing success and happiness in their homes, 
families and work. 

The academics at our high school were 

tailored for this. A squat, one-story build-
ing shaped like a square with two small 
wings, Bronson Jr./Sr. High School did 
its very best to breed success for its stu-
dents. Housing grades six through 12, 
with a generous estimate of 475 total stu-
dents, the school was chronically under-
funded. Our textbooks dated back to the 
early ‘90s and monstrous box televisions 
still hung from the ceilings in the corner 
of the classrooms, most of which still had 
chalkboards. We didn’t have any official 

International Baccalaureate or Advanced 
Placement programs; our sole AP class 
— AP U.S. History — couldn’t even be 
listed as an AP course on our transcripts, 
reputedly due to financial reasons, and 
we didn’t have calculus or biochemistry 
either. Seniors spent half the year taking 
a class on U.S. government and the other 
taking what was meant to be economics, 
but our teacher chose to focus on person-
al finance instead. This was a reasonable 
choice given that these skills are much 
more practical — therefore more likely 
to be used by most students after gradua-
tion — as compared to a high school-level 
understanding of macroeconomic con-
cepts. 

Many of my friends and family mem-

bers, along with my entire community 
back in Bronson, found happiness and 
success by utilizing this education, find-
ing work that they enjoyed and that 
allowed them to support their families. 
They not only embrace but thrive in their 
small-town, humble lifestyles, building 
friendships and tight-knit community 
bonds that last for generations. My com-
munity loves living in a place that feels 
familiar and intimate — where everybody 
literally knows everybody.

But, deep down, I always knew the 

small-town life wasn’t meant for me. I 
wanted to do something more. I didn’t 
know what “more” was, but I knew I 
had the potential to do it, and I knew I 
couldn’t find it in Bronson, Mich. 

This has always been a source of guilt — 

the idea that the lives my family and com-
munity members lived somehow weren’t 
good enough for me. After announcing 
that I would be attending the University, 
I knew some members of the community 
would immediately label me as preten-
tious and arrogant — but it wasn’t about 
them. They found their own versions of 
success, and I am immensely proud of 
them for that. But my imagination was 
big, my desire to learn was bigger, and 
my feelings of being trapped inside such 
a small box were suffocating.

As I started to think about attending 

college, I had little hope that I would 
achieve my ever-lofty goals. I was aware 
that my education hardly compared to 
that of students from even the neighbor-
ing towns, let alone that of students from 
fancy private schools. My standardized 
test scores were in the top tier of my high 
school but in the bottom tier of the Uni-
versity’s average admissions. If it hadn’t 
been for the handful of Bronson gradu-
ates who had successfully matriculated 

to highly-ranked universities before me, 
including my sister, and the support I 
received from my parents and a few key 
family members, I probably never would 
have applied. 

But I did. And I got in. 
I truly never could have predicted 

what the next four years had in store for 
me. Despite my general awareness of how 
far behind I’d be in comparison to my 
future peers, I thought the dual enroll-
ment courses I took at a local commu-
nity college would help prepare me for 
the increased academic rigor. I thought 
that it would be easy to find friends and a 
community on such a large campus, given 
that there were literally tens of thousands 
of students to meet. I genuinely believed 
that after leaving the town that I never 
felt I belonged in for a place like Ann 
Arbor, I would find myself, my people and 
my passion quickly. 

I was incredibly naive. 
T

he very first hurdle I faced was 
the realization that all of the 
dual enrollment credits I had 

taken during high school were worth-
less — the credits couldn’t transfer 
because the classes I took at the com-
munity college weren’t on the Univer-
sity’s “approved” list. In order to appeal 
this decision, I was expected to obtain 
the syllabi from those courses and inde-
pendently petition the professors of the 
congruent classes at the University to 
approve them. This is an outrageous 
and intimidating ask of a young, ter-
rified freshman facing such a drastic 
transition, already aware of the gaps 
in her academic preparation. Anxious 
and intimidated, I didn’t even bother 
to try, knowing that the outcome was 
less than likely to be fruitful. Instead, I 
accepted my fate and surrendered near-
ly an entire semester’s worth of credits. 
I was reminded of this every semester 
as I tried to enroll for courses, always 
last in line due to having fewer credits 
under my belt than my peers in the same 
year as me. 

With this happening in just the first 

few weeks of college, my feelings of 
inadequacy were underscored and came 
to define my freshman year at the Uni-
versity. My first semester was a blur of 
social anxiety, academic hardship and 
imposter syndrome. From the moment I 
opened my acceptance email, some part 
of me truly felt that my admission to the 
University was a fluke. I thought I wasn’t 
smart enough to be here and that all of 
my peers were far more enlightened and 

intelligent than I was. I felt that I could 
never succeed in a place like this. These 
feelings made the thought of opening up 
to my peers terrifying. 

At home, I was always one of the “smart 

ones.” But suddenly, everyone around me 
at the University was talking about their 
IB diplomas and listing the entry-level 
courses they would skip because of their 
academic backgrounds. At the same time, 
I was struggling to keep up in those entry-
level courses, as the professors frequently 
skipped over material they assumed I 
learned in high school. I was so insecure 
about whether I even deserved my place 
at this university that I thought that if I 
talked to my new classmates and dorm 
neighbors, they’d figure out that I wasn’t 
actually smart at all. 

Between unawareness and a simple 

lack of resources, the University didn’t 
help much with this transition. I didn’t 
technically qualify as a first-generation 
student because my mom and stepdad 
earned their degrees online during my 
childhood, so the community and the 
resources for first-generation students 
weren’t available to me. There’s no pro-
gram on campus that specifically seeks to 
aid students who are expected to teach 
themselves class material that professors 
assumed I had learned. I was too embar-
rassed to admit what I felt was my stu-
pidity during office hours, so I had two 
options: seek out tutoring or deal with it. 
I couldn’t afford tutoring, so I was left to 
fend for myself.

Eventually, I started to adjust. During 

the second semester of my freshman year, 
I finally found a small, like-minded group 
of friends with similar academic experi-
ences who made the transition a bit easi-
er. Slowly but surely, I taught myself how 
to study, how to write papers and how to 
teach myself all of the material that pro-
fessors skipped over. I really started to 
wish my high school economics teacher 
had placed more of an emphasis on those 
macroeconomic concepts. Still, I pushed 
through, even when I spent countless 
hours in the UgLi studying for an exam 
that I ultimately performed poorly on 
despite my best efforts and great desire to 
understand the material. 

I later learned that my lack of academ-

ic preparedness wasn’t the only factor 
contributing to the hardship I’ve faced 
at the University. Just two months ago, 
as a second-semester senior, I was diag-
nosed with attention deficit hyperactiv-
ity disorder — meaning that I endured 
nearly the entirety of my undergraduate 

career undiagnosed and untreated for 
something that makes learning so much 
more difficult. Those times that I barely 
even managed to finish timed exams that 
I spent countless hours studying for, and 
that everyone else finished much more 
quickly, suddenly made a lot more sense. 

I applied and chose to attend this uni-

versity because I wanted to learn and I 
wanted to be challenged. I thought that 
the hardship I was facing was exactly 
what I had asked for. To an extent, it was. 
But I wasn’t supposed to face it alone. 
And it wasn’t supposed to be as hard as 
it was. 
M

y acceptance into the School 
of Public Health saved me 
from giving up on my academ-

ic goals. As soon as I was able to dive into 
a field of study that I was deeply passion-
ate about, I finally found myself perform-
ing better academically. The support I’ve 
received in this program from my advi-
sors, professors and peers is invaluable. 

As my undergraduate career comes to 

a close, I’ve managed to earn University 
Honors and obtained my first 4.0 semes-
ter grade point average in Fall 2020. 
These accomplishments feel so small to 
students who came in prepared, but for 
me and my family, I may as well have won 
an Olympic gold medal. 

Still, looking back, I can’t help but 

wonder how my academic experience 
would have been different had there been 
resources available for students like me. 
It was hard to find people with similar 
backgrounds because I was too embar-
rassed to talk about my struggles — and 
they probably were, too. For those of us 
who don’t technically fall into those first-
generation college student categories, or 
who attended a high school like mine, it’s 
incredibly intimidating to talk about our 
experiences without having feelings of 
inadequacy take over. 

I felt all of those feelings, in addition 

to pure loneliness, for so much of my 
undergraduate career. It took until my 
senior year to truly feel that I belong here. 
Nobody should have to feel that way.

If you’re reading this and my story 

resonates with you in any way: you’re not 
alone. I wish that there was some cohesive 
community on campus for students like us, 
but unfortunately, there isn’t. Until there 
is, please remember: You belong here. You 
were admitted because you deserve to be 
here. You’re intelligent, competent, pow-
erful and worthy. Go to office hours and 
don’t be afraid to ask for help. And, most of 
all, please don’t give up.

BY ELAYNA SWIFT, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR

ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY

