I love a good, classic loading screen. I 
don’t mean those obnoxiously slow progres-
sion bars or the tracker timelines on food 
delivery apps that halt on each stage for 15 
minutes. My favorites are the small, simple 
graphics that repeat in perpetuity with no 
discernible end to their progression. The 
repetitive, continuous motion is oddly calm-
ing. I love the little revolving lights that 
circle around and around, lavishing away 
the time. Or the hypnotic pulsing atop the 
TikTok menu as it struggles to load new 
content.
I love loading screens because, in that 
ephemeral period of rendering, the stakes 
are lower than low. It’s a liminal moment, a 
beat between lines, a time to rest. There are 
no expectations on you because, by nature 
of the technology, there’s nothing you can 
or should be doing in that instant. It’s like 
the calm before the storm. I know that in 
a moment, I’ll be forced to reckon with the 
task at hand, but all I can do in the meantime 
is wait.
As soon as the application loads, you’re 
thrust back into the turmoil of anticipated 
productivity; the clock resumes its inces-
sant ticking. Rest takes on a new name: pro-
crastination. My screen assaults me with a 
thin, blinking cursor on the fresh Word Doc, 
mocking and prodding with each flicker. 
Now you see me, now you don’t. Why won’t 
you put me to use? While the loading screen 
represents a brief, sanctioned, finite hiatus, 
the cursor could blink on in judgment for-
ever.
Sometimes I wish I could dive right 
into the loading screen and ride the blink-
ing light on its ceaseless track like a digital 
merry-go-round. More often, however, I feel 
like the lone cursor, resting on the precipice 
of potential, flashing in and out of existence 
like a specter haunting the page as I conjure 
up my next great passage. If I dwell too long 
on the pressure of the task, I simply freeze 
in place.
There is no gradient in the way I experi-
ence stress. Whether I have a deadline in 
three days or three hours, if I’m struck with 
writer’s block or my ideas won’t calibrate, 
my anxiety will evoke the same measure 
of stress. But every time I decide to take a 
break, to indulge in the luxury of relaxation, 
I can feel the pressure melt away. That same 
sense of serenity is renewed every time I let 
myself push the task off for another day.
I had a friend who told me once that she 
liked to wear her retainer once a week — 
no more, no less. She relished the feeling of 
slight discomfort that came with the spo-
radic endeavor. Any more often, and her 
teeth would have molded to their proper 
places, undermining the purpose of the 
exercise. Any less often, and she would be 

denying herself the masochistic joy of the 
experience.
That’s kind of how I feel about procras-
tination. I know that eventually, I’ll have to 
address the task, but there’s a certain thrill 
in letting the deadline inch closer and closer 
for a buzzer-beating win. Counterproduc-
tive as the strategy may be, the risk is part 
of the reward.
Stalling is a dangerous vice because its 
short-term benefits eclipse the long-term 
consequences. What is the point of punc-
tuality? Why would I ever elect proactiv-
ity over procrastination when the former 
requires so much more effort and the latter 
packs a more rewarding punch? I can live 
with the blinking cursor’s nagging admoni-
tion, especially when I can simply close my 
laptop and willfully forget.
***
W
hen I was in sixth grade, my mom 
mysteriously vanished from our 
Thanksgiving celebration early in the 
morning. It was a full week before my dad 
explained to my brother and me that our 
mom had checked into rehab and was seek-
ing counsel for her alcoholism.
I don’t remember my mom’s addiction 
being an imposition on our family. I was 
only 11 at the time, and my brother was even 
younger. Sure, my mom drank on vaca-
tions, but I couldn’t yet discern the differ-
ence between social drinking and drinking 
to excess. She never drank and drove, she 
never embarrassed me, but clearly, the issue 
was severe enough to warrant treatment. 
All I knew was that when my mom returned 
home, she seemed happier and healthier than 
I’d ever remembered her being. Last week 
was her 10-year anniversary of sobriety.
I’ve always regarded my mom’s decision 
to check into rehab as the pinnacle of matu-
rity and self-discipline. She had the remark-
able foresight to get ahead of her addiction, 
addressing the problem while her children 
were still young before it had the chance 
to fester any further. As evidenced by this 
decision, my brother and I were raised in a 
household that valued accountability and 
acknowledged the dangers of addiction.
There were no flippant analogies to 
addiction in my house; no graphic tees with 
the phrase “chocoholic” or “addicted to 
naps” plastered across the front. I’ve pon-
dered the weight of this disease since before 
my adolescent growth spurt. It’s one of, if 
not the sole reason why I can say with com-
plete sincerity that I have addictive tenden-
cies when it comes to procrastination.
I wasn’t always prone to this behavior. 
My whole childhood was an exercise in self-
censorship and perfectionism. I distinctly 
remember the first time I ever dared to ask 
my parents for something without already 
knowing their answer would be yes. I natu-
rally fell into the mold of a “perfect daugh-
ter,” and some part of me was afraid that if I 
started poking holes in that facade, it would 

all come crashing down.
I was a top-notch kid. I don’t say this 
seeking any praise. It’s just true. I got perfect 
grades, had a diverse set of extracurriculars, 
worked 30 hour weeks at the local ice cream 
shop — the whole nine. I did everything that 
was asked of me above and beyond. I had 
high expectations for myself.
One night in eighth grade, I asked my 
parents if I could go to a 9 p.m. movie with 
a friend. It was a chilly fall school night, and 
I’d finished all of my homework, but I wasn’t 
sure if they’d let me go to the late show-
time that ended slightly after my curfew. 
But when they said yes, a whole new world 
opened up to me. I began to recognize my 
own agency, particularly as it pertained to 
abstaining from the expectations that I’d 
always just assumed were requirements.
In my senior year of high school, I was 
editor-in-chief of our school’s newspaper. 
That was when I started pushing my luck 
with deadlines. On the eve of the first edi-
tion, I realized that we were one-story short 
from filling the pages, so I churned out 1,500 
words in a single night and sent the complet-
ed edition off to the printing presses. It was 
a successful bout of simulated procrastina-
tion — a gateway into the more egregious 
offenses to come.
From then on, I procrastinated writing 
at least one piece (if not two or three) until 
the week of production. Quite frankly, it 
was invigorating, because I just kept getting 
away with it. I was hooked on the thrill of 
inaction.
The tendency to postpone and binge 
my responsibilities began seeping into 
my formal academics. My class had a full 
year to write our senior theses, but I wrote 
mine over the course of four afternoons. I 
crammed for every test the night before. 
I would accumulate work over weeks and 
weeks and then hole up in my room for a 
weekend every month to catch up. And I still 
graduated with a perfect record.
When I got to college, my self-destructive 
habits began to catch up with me. A’s turned 
to B’s turned to a whole semester of sealed-
off grades for classes that I barely passed.
I was a sophomore when the pandemic 
hit campus and students were sent home. 
For the next two semesters, I did the bare 
minimum to get through my classes. I would 
wallow in a depressive state for hours on 
end, attend Zoom meetings with my camera 
turned off and whip up a subpar discussion 
post in 15 minutes before logging off for the 
weekend.
I cut off contact with every campus orga-
nization I’d joined. I didn’t call my parents 
or pick up when they called me. I would 
check in every few weeks to let them know 
I was still alive, but for the most part, I kept 
everyone at a distance. This was my prover-
bial “rock bottom.”
Growing up, before I discovered the 
splendor of edging my responsibilities, pro-

ductivity and punctuality were my default 
modes. I never learned how to choose to 
work. It was like I was functioning on auto-
pilot. Instead, I learned to choose by learn-
ing to let go. Yet once I’d let go, I didn’t have 
the skillset to start back up again. Account-
ability is so much easier to destroy than it is 
to create.
Sometimes I wish I’d never realized my 
agency, the power I have to simply press 
pause. Maybe then I’d be graduating with a 
better GPA or a fuller resume. Maybe then 
I’d be blissfully happy. But I catch myself 
whenever I lapse into that line of thinking 
and remind myself of my mom. If I hadn’t 
gone down this path when I did, I would 
have had to reckon with it later in life once 
I’d amassed more to lose.
***
W
hen you’re addicted to a substance, 
the treatment is simple: You cut 
yourself off from the substance completely. 
This is not to say that the process is easy or 
inconsequential, but at least you have a road 
map. When your vice is something like pro-
crastination, which will always exist as an 
option, there is no way to avoid its persistent 
beckoning.
During those few semesters, the urge 
to procrastinate was debilitating. When-
ever I was overtaken by a passing thought 
of guilt, I brushed it off by doubling down 
in self-righteous inaction. I’ve since come 
to terms with the fact that guilt has value. 
It reminds you that what you’re doing is 
wrong, and encourages you to reverse 
course. I had to stop taking offense at rea-
sonable criticism, even when it came from 
my own conscience.
I am still making an effort every day 
to be better than I was yesterday. I am not 
always successful. For example, I turned 
this essay in over 12 hours after it was due 
(sorry Statement friends). But the biggest 
thing I’ve learned from my “lost semesters” 
is that yesterday’s failure does not give me a 
free pass to make the same mistakes today. I 
have to choose to work all over again every 
single day.
What is the benefit of punctual-
ity? Improved mental health, for one. Why 
choose proactivity over procrastination? To 
prove to yourself that you are capable of it. 
Perhaps that is easier said than done, but at 
least I know it’s possible. At this stage, that’s 
enough for me.
It’s fun to submit an assignment days 
before it’s due, with Canvas congratulating 
me with digital confetti for a job well done. 
The TV shows I used to employ as a dis-
traction from the compounding workload 
are better without that constant twinge of 
anxiety looming over me as I watch. Load-
ing screens are an earned respite when 
you know you’ve been working hard, and 
the blinking cursor is stripped of its power 
when it’s met with a piece of writing that I’m 
proud of.

MELANIE TAYLOR
Statement Correspondent

A Proclivity for Procrastination: The Story of My

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
8 — Wednesday, December 1, 2021

S T A T E M E N T
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