aditional aditional

Idropped out of high school when I was 16.

I sat on my bed, filling out the small withdrawal form on top of my algebra textbook. I was fed up with everything around me, and I wanted a way out. As I signed my name at the bottom of the page, I felt a wave of relief wash over me, even as anxiety for my future loomed.

Yet any doubts I had were not enough to change my mind. I mailed in the form, and it was official. I was a high school dropout.

Despite my choice, I eventually ended up as a double Bruin – once for my undergraduate degree and again as a current student in the master of public policy program. But as a nontraditional student, my time at UCLA has not been easy.

I am not alone in my identity. Thirty percent of UCLA’s student population is considered nontraditional, according to the NonTraditional Student Network, UCLA’s student organization that advocates and provides resources to nontraditional students. The definitions of a “nontraditional student” are as varied and broad as the individuals themselves. Students who received a GED, are over 25, have delayed enrollment in higher education or are caregivers all fall under this umbrella along with many others.

A few years after I dropped out of high school, I moved from Minneapolis to Los Angeles to be closer to my family. I made the move knowing I was ready to return to school and hopeful I could fulfill my longtime goal of attending UCLA. When I saw Santa Monica College was a top school for UCLA transfer applicants, I quickly enrolled.

Yet, I wasn’t prepared for the challenges of community college. In my first semester, I received a C in English –one of my best classes in high school. I soon came to the bitter conclusion that I needed to work harder than my peers to succeed. I tutored myself using Khan Academy and easily surpassed my classmates in the time I spent studying for exams.

My grandpa, who never had the chance to go to college, was one of my biggest and loudest supporters throughout it all. As I would study, he would bring me snacks and, most importantly, words of encouragement.

“You will be successful. Keep studying hard,” he reminded me.

A few years later, I found myself sobbing into his chest after I learned I was accepted into UCLA. It was also one of the few times I have seen him cry.

I was immensely relieved. While I took pride in receiving admission to a top school, getting into UCLA was about putting my past behind me and making a childhood dream come true. As I excitedly prepared to come to Westwood, I didn’t even consider how my nontraditional status would affect my daily life as a student.

In some regards, I was like any other incoming student. I was mesmerized by the high ceilings of Powell Library and loved the dining hall food I tried during orientation. And, like my peers, I initially struggled with the fastpaced quarter system and rigorous course load.

I also faced peers and professors who didn’t believe in my ability to succeed – simply because I was a nontraditional student.

At the beginning of my first quarter, one of my professors made an offhanded comment about the SAT as he discussed standard deviation and variance in an upper-division statistics class.

“You all took the SAT, so you should know this,” he said.

Half the class remained silent, and he quickly noticed.

“You all did take the SAT, right?” he asked. “You are at UCLA for a reason.”

My face flushed as anxiety shot through my body. I had never taken standardized exams for college admissions, and I quickly began to doubt myself. Did I deserve to be in the classroom, surrounded by other students who had taken the SAT?

Impostor syndrome. I had heard of the term before, but I couldn’t connect with it until then.

A few weeks later, I took a midterm for the same statistics class. After the exam, a few of my classmates and I walked back to the Hill. As we commiserated about the difficulty of the material, I mentioned I was a transfer student. I was unprepared for the unwarranted comment that came my way.

“Oh wow, then this must be extremely hard for you,” one student said.

I went silent. I began to believe there was something different about me – that I was less capable than the rest of my classmates. In short, I felt like I didn’t belong.

My heart sank even further when I checked the distribution of exam grades in my dorm. My D+ fell far below the class average. At that moment, the dreams of success I had carried with me to LA seemed out of reach.

Halfway through the quarter, I had reached my breaking point. One night in Powell Library, I began researching schools I could transfer to, hoping other universities could offer me the happiness I could not seem to find at UCLA. But as I began to fill out applications, my friend took notice.

“You want to leave UCLA because of one bad quarter?” they loudly whispered. “No, you are staying.”

In the moment, a wave of anger washed over my body. How could my friend possibly understand what I was going through? But in retrospect, I realize they saved me from a decision born out of fear and frustration. As I faced the remaining weeks of fall quarter, I fervently hoped there were better times ahead.

When my second round of midterms arrived, I felt more prepared. After my last exam, I visited Ackerman Union to purchase my first UCLA item, which I hoped would provide me some sense of belonging.

As I perused the UCLA hoodies, I ran into a family with a daughter who dreamed of attending UCLA. In response to her parents’ questions about the admissions process, I shared everything I wished I had done differently: more extracurriculars, rigorous internships and volunteer work that showed off my passions. In return, the family offered me words of encouragement, telling me they were certain I would excel in whatever I wanted to do. When her kids had picked out their gear, the mom turned to me and looked at the hoodie that had caught my eye.

“Did you get what you wanted?” she said.

I froze in disbelief. I told her it was OK, that her family owed me nothing.

But she insisted. “No, I want to do this for you,” she said. “All I ask is that if one day you are in the position to do this for someone else, please do it.”

That family bought my first UCLA item – a blue fleece hoodie with “UCLA” stitched in gold. It hangs in my closet to this day.

I walked out of the store finally feeling at home on campus. Not because of the hoodie I wore but because I realized I was surrounded by supporters I didn’t even know.

After my first year, I earned better grades and adjusted to the quarter system. On the day of my graduation, I felt like I had finally succeeded, and I wholeheartedly joined my class in cheers as we made our way into Pauley Pavilion.

But I never thought I would return. As much as I appreciated the opportunity to attend UCLA, I didn’t want to experience it again.

Following graduation, I became a part-time caregiver for my grandpa. Near the end of my first year at UCLA, he had been hit by a car and sustained severe injuries. When he was also diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, I reevaluated my original plans to attend law school, knowing it would not provide me the time I needed to care for my family.

But I still wanted to continue my education. I began researching master’s programs and discovered the master of public policy program at UCLA. It was two years long, included classes related to law and had a curriculum that built on my academic strengths. It felt like the perfect fit – except for the fact that I would have to brave UCLA once more.

In March 2021, I opened yet another acceptance letter from UCLA. This time, it was not a joyous experience. I instead felt an overwhelming pressure to “redo” my undergraduate career, taking the lessons I had previously learned and using them to excel.

I started graduate school at an already challenging time. Many of my classes were online at the start of fall 2021, and the prolonged screen time triggered migraines. As their frequency increased, I forced myself to study through the pain.

To complicate things more, I was still a caregiver. Despite my own struggles with online instruction, I needed to stay at home as much as possible to avoid spreading COVID-19 to my high-risk grandpa. I ended up advocating for hybrid learning options – a stance that drew support from some of my peers and condescending comments from others. As I heard remarks that I should have gone to an online school, I wondered how others could question my place at UCLA without knowing my story.

The pressure I put on myself to succeed quickly took its toll. Rarely did a day go by in which I didn’t face a migraine, and I began to obsess over my grades. I found myself wondering, what was I trying to prove?

To some extent, I was doing it for my family. I hadn’t forgiven myself for the pain I inflicted upon them with my decision to drop out of high school, and I wanted so desperately for them to be proud of me.

But ultimately, I was still trying to prove myself worthy of being at UCLA. When I finally achieved everything I wanted as a graduate student – straight A’s, multiple extracurriculars and prestigious internships – my accomplishments still left me wanting more. I finally realized what I wanted was to fix the past, but I couldn’t change a decision I had made when I was 16 years old, no matter how hard I tried. All I could do was move forward. I knew my final year at UCLA would have to be different if I truly wanted to find peace.

As I enter my final months as a student, I am forever grateful to those who have reminded me that I am not alone, including my parents who have continuously

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