It happens one night. You realize that you’ve been neglecting a large part of what makes you who you are; for you, that is the study of English literature. Reading and writing have always been your biggest combined passions. You went to college to get a degree in English. Almost ten years later, you finally decided to stop wasting time and go for your Masters in the same subject.

But there comes a time in the semester when everything sort of starts to weigh in on you. Deadlines loom. You’ve lost track of days and dates, and suddenly you have two days to turn in your annotated bibliography that you haven’t even started yet, and less than 10 days to finish two papers. One of which has three pages written to it and the other has one paragraph. There are eight years between your bachelor’s degree and the start of your master’s degree and while it starts out all fun and games, eventually, only three months later, you start to wonder if you should really be doing this……

But then you remember how much you love this studying English thing.

You remember the joy you gain from research and study and writing about everything you’ve learned.

You remember that you get to express and live your passion every day doing this Grad school thing.

Then all of a sudden your papers are turned in, your course surveys are done, and you’re off for over a month between semesters.

Is it all worth it?

Fuck yes.

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