S

aturday, Sept. 4 marked a monumental 
moment in Ann Arbor. For the first time 
in nearly two years, Michigan Stadium 

welcomed in students at full capacity for the 
first game of the Wolverines’ 2021 season. 
And though this wasn’t a homecoming 
game, the event centered largely on the idea 
of coming — or, more accurately, returning 
— home. A tumultuous virtual year left 
students scattered across the world in their 
childhood bedrooms. Tens of thousands of 
them reuniting in one cherished location 
at the same time was cause for celebration, 
even if dampened by lingering COVID-19 
concerns.

Returning as a recent graduate, however, 

added another layer of hesitation for me. It 
was, of course, incredible to be back in the 
Big House. It was like returning to my family 
home after my first semester of college and 
finding my bedroom intact. After feeling 
alienated from everything for a year, it 
reminded me how secure and certain I had 
felt in my place at the University of Michigan. 
But, like returning to a childhood bedroom, 
the experience was bittersweet. Everything 
may look the same, but some part of you 
knows this is not truly your home anymore, 
at least not in the same way it was before. It 
will naturally be taken over by others and 
used for something new.

Given the circumstances of the past 

year, however, the return was not merely 
bittersweet, but in some ways painful. 
Nostalgia for my college experience prior 
to the pandemic was partially replaced by 
heartbreak for the experiences I had lost to 
the pandemic. Game day in Ann Arbor was 
a reminder of everything that never was due 
to the pandemic; acquaintances that never 
became friends and memories that were 
never made.

Wrapped up in all of those conflicting 

feelings, game day above all reaffirmed to 
me that there is something about being in 
Ann Arbor — about being a U-M student — 
that can’t be replicated anywhere else. Being 
back at the Big House was the first time in a 
long time that I’d felt like a part of something 
bigger than myself. And it wasn’t just being 
in a crowd of 109,000 people. It was blending 
into a sea of maize and blue and chanting the 
same chants I had two years ago as if nothing 
had changed. It was almost a blessing of 
anonymity; in the crowd, I couldn’t be 

singled out as a recent graduate or a job-
seeker or a young adult in the transition 
from college to the real world. I could just be 
a Michigan Wolverine for a moment. And in 
that moment, I wanted to just be a Michigan 
Wolverine forever.

I’m certain I’m not alone in this feeling. 

Between 2008 and 2018, more than 96% 
of freshmen completed their first year 
successfully and returned to the University 
the following year. This makes Michigan tied 
for the 11th highest first-year retention rate 
nationally, which is well above the average of 
91.3% for all public schools in the Association 
of American Universities. Similarly, the 
University’s yield — the number of students 
enrolling compared to the number admitted 
— increased over 5% between 2014 and 2019. 
Clearly, there’s something about Michigan 
that motivates people to come here and stay 
here, more so than many other schools.
H

owever, the desire to make the 
Michigan experience last forever 
conflicts 
with 
the 
constant 

pressure to get it done as quickly as possible. 
Eighty percent of the University’s 2012 
first-year cohort graduated within four 
years, almost 20% greater than the average 
four-year graduation rate of AAU public 
universities. This is often touted as a good 
thing, and in many ways, it is. College is 
expensive and getting it done faster can 
save you a significant amount of money. And 
some students may desire an efficient college 
experience for social or personal reasons.

But financial and social pressures to 

finish as quickly as possible and get to the 
next step can detract from the experience 
of the four — or five or six — years spent on 
campus. It seems antithetical to how hard 
many of us worked and how excited many 
of us were to get here only to treat it as a 
stepping stone to what’s meant to come next. 
Perhaps this is becoming more noticeable 
due to the prominence of hustle culture 
among Gen Z at large; the desire to not only 
climb the career ladder but to exploit every 
possible ounce of our productive capability 
begins with our first steps on campus. But 
I think this culture goes back far beyond 
Gen Z. It’s somewhat unique to Michigan, 
an 
internalization 
of 
“the 
Michigan 

Difference” and “Leaders and the Best” and 
every other expectation foisted upon us by 

our attendance of this prestigious university 
— prestige we are frequently reminded of.

One especially oppressive part of this 

culture is the expectation that you should 
have everything figured out, a culture 
perpetuated 
by 
everyone 
around 
you 

seemingly having everything figured out. As 
early as August, LinkedIn connections are 
“thrilled to share” their internship plans for 
next summer or, even more daunting to those 
of us who feel behind, their return offers 
upon graduation. As a junior transfer, the 
gravity and immediacy of finding a junior 
year internship were impressed upon me 
before I even attended a class at Michigan. 

As difficult as these pressures can be, they 

do seem to be at least a common malaise, and 
in light of the pandemic, some students at 
Michigan are questioning the overemphasis 
on the junior year internship altogether. As 
much as it seems everyone else seems to 
have the future figured out, there are also 
reassurances that most people don’t and 
that everything will work out eventually. 
But getting to the end of my degree and 
feeling like everything expected of me hasn’t 
materialized can be a very lonely experience.

Upon 
commencement, 
I 
lost 
the 

camaraderie of collective struggle. I lost 
access to the social groups that carried 
me through college. In the days following 
graduation, I was removed from several 
group chats and listservs that had brought 
me together with others before the pandemic 
and kept me sane during it. Though I had 
been anticipating this separation, it still 
felt sudden. A few months later, as others 
celebrated a triumphant return to campus on 
the first day of classes, I spent that day in the 
same way I had spent the past year: working 
alone in my room. As much as I was thrilled 
for others to get back to campus, every joyful 
Instagram post and Snapchat story I saw 
made me long for a chance to return, to be 
invited back to the party.
G

raduation was also the moment that 
“real world” expectations came on 
in full force. I can no longer just say 

“I’m a student” when asked what I do. I had 
felt the pressure of knowing my future before 
graduation, but it became so much more 
visceral after losing the buffer of being in 
college. Whether it’s a doctor’s appointment 
or dinner with relatives, the question of 

“what’s next?” is asked less out of curiosity 
and more out of urgency. I’m no longer 
afforded understanding for my uncertainty; 
I’m 
presumed 
lost 
and 
directionless. 

Perhaps this is tied to the pressure to always 
think way ahead and to know exactly what’s 
coming next. After years of this culture, 
being uncertain after graduation and not 
quite sure of the next step is indicative of 
personal shortcomings and maybe even 
unworthiness of the Michigan pedigree.

The 
most 
interesting 
part 
of 
this 

internalized guilt is that I don’t believe 
my present state is the result of failure, 
but actually of choice. Truthfully: I need a 
minute. Maybe I’m just not ready to move 
on. I need a minute to linger in the space 
that was once mine before it becomes 
something else, just as my room at home 
was quickly converted into storage space. 
I need something between a victory lap 
and goodbye tour, or just a chance to finish 
writing this chapter in a way I’m at least 
somewhat satisfied with rather than having 
the page forcefully turned over. As much 
as I feel strange and even a bit unwelcome 
sticking around, I do believe there is value in 
lingering.

According 
to 
the 
University 
of 

Washington, it takes the average college 
graduate three to six months to find a job 
after graduation. As much as Michigan has 
constantly reinforced the importance of 
being different, of leading and being the best, 
I’m trying to be okay with being “average” in 
some measures, including this one.

As difficult as it can be following several 

years of an incessantly forward-looking 
culture, we need to allow ourselves and 
others space to linger and feel uncertain 
after graduation. Despite how the social 
environment at Michigan makes us feel, 
it’s normal to need time and to not have 
everything figured out even after you’ve 
received your diploma. This is especially true 
for the class of 2021: as much as you may feel 
urged to move on as if things were normal, 
what happened to our college experience 
frankly sucks. It’s more than okay if you 
need some extra time to wrap things up.

I have some ideas for what the next phase 

is, but for the moment, I’m not finished here. 
I’m going to linger in between Michigan and 
whatever’s next for right now. And besides, 
there’s always grad school.

Wednesday, September 15, 2021 // The Statement — 4

BY MARY ROLFES, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT
Lingering in between

