3 Things I Realized During My "Gap Year"

Sometimes, taking time off feels boring or drawn out. My situation is unique, but I think that you can apply these feelings to any sort of span of time when you take a break from your everyday life.

After an accident in September, I nursed the wounds of a skull fracture, a pelvic fracture, and several bruised organs. My vision, my ability to walk, my inability to swallow—so many basic bodily functions we take for granted were compromised as a result. I spent almost three months relearning navigating my life. It was not the most ideal way to start my sophomore year in college. But, six months later, I am here, thriving and bursting with unparalleled luck.

1. I Have Never Taken the Time to Focus on Myself

I attended one of the most challenging private schools in the country for seven years. My time in high school is commemorated in literal blood, sweat, and tears. I was a varsity athlete, performed in seven play productions, outside of school I was either at the soup kitchen or the dance studio, I took on an extra class my sophomore year, and every Thursday night I would habitually break down because there was no way I could make it to Friday. Every Friday morning when my alarm would go off at 6:15am, I realized that I was here, and I made it.

Basically, I leapt right into college completely burnt out from my time in high school. I graduated having formed some of the greatest relationships with faculty, directors, and coaches I could have ever asked for, but I was exhausted. I entered college with the intention to focus solely on my academics for some time, something I had never done before. Yet I ensnared myself in a dangerous cycle of partying I couldn’t get myself out of. I would rationalize skipping class and handing in assignments late because “it was for me” and I needed to “relax,” convincing myself that I was healing from my overambitious load in high school. When I plunged 35 feet out of a window in September, a harsh realization dawned on me that I had wrongly prescribed 4-days-a-week of intoxication to my fatigue. As awful as my accident was, I have been able to utilize my time in a way that makes me feel good about myself. Days of nothingness where I could lock myself in my head for hours going over how I had gotten myself here and how I would never do it again.

In six months, I have been able to flip my accident into the best thing that has ever happened to me. It was incredibly difficult to arrive at this point, but now, I get to learn and live and grow because I was given the chance to do so. The intensity of my schooling left me without the tools to be happy. Making the effort to allot myself "Summer time" encourages me to adopt a new level of self-respect I did not have before.

2. FOMO Is Not Doing Me In

FOMO is the enemy. The “fear of missing out” is cloaked in the shroud of a cute little acronym even though we have all experienced that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when you see an Instagram from the night before. You probably only missed it because you were doing something normal, like sleeping. I had FOMO before I was 200 miles away from my school in a hospital bed. It was the epitome of my downfall (haha, see what I did there); I lacked the ability to say no because I could not fathom the idea of people having fun without my being there. Disguised by this notion that I was “making memories,” when in reality, I was so dangerously self-conscious that I could not bear the idea of not being at the right place at the right time. Or worse. If I wasn’t there and no one noticed my absence.

After my accident, gaining access to the real world was the worst and best thing that happened to me. There I was, five weeks into being hospitalized, and I had yet to use technology outside of the occasional FaceTime scheduled through my mom (I know you grounded me and that’s why I didn’t have technology, you can’t fool me). I could only see the images on my computer screen if I closed one eye and turned my head, but it didn’t matter because I was IN. Actually, I was out. Very out. Five weeks of photos and inside jokes and beautiful fall weather I had missed because I was busy 6 hours a day trying to write three sentences without tiring out and finagling my way around without a wheelchair. It made me sad, it made me angry, and everyone who called me “strong” probably didn’t realize that I have a playlist titled, “despondency” that I would listen to crying, face-down in my hospital bed with the occasional turn of my face to cram more cookies in my mouth.

I was hungry for more than the Tate’s cookies I kept by my bedside. I wanted information: what was happening, who was doing what, who was doing who. All anyone could say to me was how happy they were that I could talk to them. Yay! But my “yeah, this is so great!” was a feigned expression of gratitude when my only concern was what I was missing. It took me some time to be thankful.

Then it happened. I woke up one morning and decided I didn’t care anymore. How was I supposed to get better, grow to a Summer beyond myself, if I remained fixated on the past? Surely it wasn't going to change. The college scene will still be there when I get back, and now I have the power to decide my new place in that world and the (lack of) important it will be in my life. A new confidence grew in the space where my fear-of-missing-out once resided, taking shape of a genuine smile and overall general content. People were there for me every single day of my hospitalization, my friends would smuggle unapproved Chipotle past the nurses for me, I was experiencing love like I never have before. My accident prompted a reevaluation of my values.

Other patients didn’t get visitors at all. Every single day at 4 o’clock, my visitors would file in and everything else seemed unimportant. It was a reminder that I wasn’t forgotten, that there were still people who thought about me enough to send me flowers and food (I blame these four pounds on all of you—you know who you are) and well wishes. Privately, I validate my feelings of sadness but refuse to let FOMO get the best of me. I’m alive. Perspective, folks.

3. I’m Not Done Yet

Which brings me to my last point: I am not finished here. The universe doesn’t push you out of a third story window and leave doctors and nurses so optimistic about your recovery. Usually, the universe would just end it right there.

But the message was clear from the beginning: you are so incredibly lucky, Summer, and you'd better not mess this up. The odds were in my favor; doctors literally told me I had fallen “beautifully” (is that even a thing?) and phew, cause, you know, I have a good brain to begin with. Before, I had such trouble believing I was important or special in any way—my desire to excel was grounded in the idea that whatever I did was never enough. But then I learned to walk again. I trained my hands to stop dropping the toothpaste cap. My handwriting wasn't so horrendous anymore. I was showing such improvement that I was beginning to shock myself. I can do this?

My vacation from my former life acted as a way for me to evaluate who I had been. My self-destructive tendencies had culminated in a horrifying injury, leaving me scarred and broken. Broken is the wrong word. Disappointed.

I’ve begun believing people who call me “strong” or “resilient.” Before I was embarrassed, and my response always involved some sputtering or other where I would explain that I simply had no other choice. Now I answer with an easy, “I know,” to the people who marvel at my progress. Maybe it was just dumb luck; either way, I will be prepared for the challenges life lays out for me next. My life was spared for a reason.

I heard you universe, and I’m ready.