what's it like to attend
Phillips Exeter Academy
a journey through boarding school, a story of growth, a promise to myself
PART III
the edge
In comparison to Exeter academically, college initially felt like a breeze. The social science and humanities departments at Michigan were incomparable to those at the academy, which I realized the moment I got an A on my first English assignment and subsequently succeeded in the rest of my courses, ultimately ending the semester with a 4.0, something I had never managed to do in high school. Going from being a B-average student at Exeter up until my senior year, to becoming a straight A student during my first semester in college didn’t seem to add up. In my head, the only explanation was that college was much easier, because my intelligence levels couldn’t have increased that much in one summer. But Exeter alumni did mention on several occasions that surviving Exeter would lead to everything else being a cake-walk. So I went with it. I convinced my college peers and faculty that I was intelligent, so much so that I began to convince myself the same, prompting myself to surpass healthy levels of confidence and instead move into the realm of pretentiousness, at least internally.
But such spouts of arrogance were short-lived and quickly subsided a few weeks into my winter semester, after I rashly switched into one of the much more notably difficult courses offered at the University of Michigan (and generally any college or university)—Organic Chemistry, or Orgo I. While I had always been apathetic to the field of medicine, despite both my parents being doctors and my sister pursuing an M.D. herself, I never could tell if such feelings stemmed from genuine disinterest, unwillingness to follow in my sister’s footsteps, or a general fear of the hard road that lay ahead for any pre-med student in college and beyond. However, after one semester of success at UofM, I suddenly decided that giving pre-med a chance was worth a shot and even dreamed of getting an M.D./Ph.D, not because I enjoyed research, but because I wanted to prove that I was smart enough to do it. Moreover, my parents always dreamed of having both of their daughters follow in their footsteps, and the Indian community in general is notoriously known for its obsession with the field of medicine. I wanted to make everyone proud. I wanted to erase all of my parents' previous feelings of disappointment after witnessing me struggle so much in high school. And while successfully completing my first semester of college temporarily boosted their morale, I assumed they had very specific standards for success, which entailed studying pre-med. So two days before winter semester began, I switched into an Orgo 1 lecture that fit with my schedule, and committed to hopping onto the pre-med track. And I began that semester with a level of determination I didn’t even know I had. Until I didn’t have it anymore.
The first lecture for the course left my head spinning and my confidence wavering. I hadn’t taken a chemistry course in 8 months, but I didn’t expect to have forgotten so much in that time period. Yet during that first lecture, I found myself wondering if I even knew what an atom was and how chemical bonds actually worked. That should have been my first sign to drop the course, but the confidence I developed in the previous semester also came with its own share of an ego, and so I persisted despite my gut telling me otherwise. I refused to be that person I knew I was in high school—the one who cowered in the face of adversity and who caved under the pressure of school and academics. However, three weeks later, the last week for the add/drop period, I was committed to switching out and back into a course that I actually found enjoyable. But by then it was too late—no professor was willing to let me jump ship and into their class after missing three weeks worth of content, and I wasn’t able to simply drop Orgo without a filler course if I wanted to meet the credit minimum to count as a full semester student—in other words, get my money’s worth. So I channeled the resilience in me and stuck it out.
But while I was unable to literally quit, I allowed myself to give up mentally. I slacked on going to office hours or reviewing content that didn’t make sense. I convinced myself it would never make sense and that my brain was just unable to process this kind of information—that I was incapable of studying a subject like this. I convinced myself that excelling in this course was impossible, and instead I focused on passing. After many sleepless nights full of failed attempts at studying, followed by feeble efforts to find hidden corners in the basement of the library where I could silently sob to myself, I managed to complete the course with a C, which was all I needed for it to count as “acceptable” for pre-med requirements. But I knew that after that class, I had reverted.
It was as if the strenuousness of the subject matter triggered me, and suddenly I was the same person I was in high school, unconfident and incapable, someone who didn’t belong at the university, at least not in the STEM fields, which were objectively considered the most legitimate fields by many of my peers and family members. All the strength and confidence I developed the previous semester dissipated. I felt like a fraud. I felt like my friends had now witnessed the real me, and that they no longer respected me. I felt like a failure.
But still I persisted. I continued to stay on the pre-med track despite my lack of enthusiasm for the subject matter because I was unsure of whether my dislike for the content was genuine or whether it stemmed from these feelings of insecurity. It took me one more semester of pure resentment, anger, and a complete demonstration of my weakest, helpless, and most vulnerable self before I decided to tell my parents that I wanted to quit pre-med, and more importantly, convince myself that it was okay. When I told my friends what had occurred, they legitimately clapped and breathed out sighs of relief, commenting that they had never seen me so miserable than when I was studying for those classes. And I was so thrown aback at what I had let myself become and at how easily I let something as minuscule and materialistic as classes and grades impact me so gravely.
But I knew it wasn’t necessarily the grades themselves or the fear of not doing well that affected me. My high school self had already come to terms with failure after having experienced it time and time again at Exeter. What really transpired was the ways that those courses made me feel ignorant and incompetent in a manner that was so similar to how I had felt throughout my high school career, the very feelings I worked so hard to break away from that first semester of college. And all that growth felt like it came crashing down when I attempted to tackle something a little bit more challenging. After that I began to wonder if I really did grow as a person or if I found a way to mask this version of myself by avoiding the things that brought out the truth. But the academic pressures of my first year in college were not even close to my biggest test of growth. Because that following summer I was jolted into a much different reality, one far from the simplicity of navigating school and grades, one that showcased a much darker side of life than I had ever experienced. I used to marvel at the irony of how frequently mental health issues seem to haunt my own life despite not having endured any myself. But then again, that’s the thing about mental health—everyone is impacted to some extent, either directly or indirectly, in the wake of it’s damage unto others. While in some cases, the mental health issues someone is facing very much warrant and deserve a formal diagnosis, such diagnosis isn’t always necessary to recognize when someone needs help. I failed to see that mental health is about a person’s behavioral, psychological, and emotional well-being. And despite society’s general inclination to overlook the needs of and stigmatize the effects of the mind, its impacts are wide-ranging and often spare no one.
In the summer of 2017 I was hit by the heaviest effects of depression yet when my 19 year old cousin had killed himself. The day before we heard the news was the day I climbed to the very top of Angels Landing—a 1,488 ft rock formation in Utah—feeling as strong and confident and proud as ever. I felt invincible as I stood at the edge overlooking Zion Canyon. I never intended to go to the top, to climb up the rocks past the point of safety and enter into the zone of risk and potential death. I saw my brother and sister walk in the direction of the rock climbing and assumed they were just reading the sign. None of us were skilled in climbing and none of us came in with the intention to do so. Yet they continued forward. My dad told me I could stay back, that he’d stay with me. I wonder if he was scared, too. But I knew that if I went back that day while my sister and brother pushed on, I’d regret it. So I persevered as well.
Surviving that climb was the happiest moment of my life thus far. I’m not one for physical challenges or any adventure that could possibly result in pain or death. But after having accomplished that hike, I felt like I could take on anything. I felt like I had become a new person, a better person. But growth is funny in that way. It loves to push you to the point of feeling greater than ever and then slam you back down. I often look back at that day not remembering the emotions I felt when I stood at the top, taking in the view of the canyon in all its vast glory, but rather remember the moment as one where I instead fell off the side of the cliff, one where the growth that let me survive the mountain was the very growth that threw me over the edge, along with all my newfound confidence and spirit. Because the very next morning is when my dad got the phone call.
A view from the top of Angels Landing. It doesn't do the true sight or experience complete justice
It was early when my dad groggily woke up in the hotel bed next to mine to answer his cell phone, which was ringing for what felt like hours. The sun had just begun to peek up above the clouds, its rays scarcely penetrating through the window’s shades. I was barely conscious and didn’t think much of it, as phone calls at odd hours were a norm for Dr. Vellanki. But suddenly, I heard my dad jerk up and breathe a surprised “what?” into the phone. My sister jerked up in bed beside me, gasping like she had just woken up from a terrible nightmare.“It’s Sakki isn’t it? He’s dead!”
I looked at her with disbelief, surprised by her reaction, confused as to why she would say that, and angry at her for even daring to wonder something so impractical. And then I looked at my dad and noticed an expression I’d never seen before. Defeat.
Saketh, my 19 year old cousin, who I grew up with, who was in the same year of school as me, who loved music and books, who studied for the SAT with me, who shared stupid Freshman year of college stories with me, who promised to teach me how to skateboard, and who without fail would always be willing to talk to me, was gone. And suddenly, I recalled that one night in winter semester when he randomly texted me that he needed to talk to me about something. I was never fond of phone calls—still am not—yet, his text felt ominous so I figured something was up. It was during that phone conversation that Sakki asked me to check in on him once in a while. It was an abnormal request, especially from a family member, because up until that year, none of us really allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with anyone. But his tone felt casual, and I couldn’t decipher what he meant.
Or maybe I simply didn’t want to. That year I had been acting as the “rock” figure for a lot of my friends, but being there for family was uncharted territory. Moreover, this was the semester of Orgo, the course that was literally (and embarrassingly) taking a toll on my own mental health by reverting me back to those feelings of ignorance and incompetence from my high school days. Finding that balance between providing support for your loved ones and caring for your own goals and well-being didn’t get any easier after high school. In fact, in college it was almost like I was doing the opposite of what I did with M, almost like I was trying to make up for my previously failed efforts as a friend. At the time, my friends were experiencing their own versions of depression, anxiety, and loneliness, and a few (not just one or two, but a few) were trapped in toxic, abusive relationships. And to my own surprise, I managed to be there for my friends in a way that I was never available for M. I was proud of myself for it too. I became the “drop everything and help” kind of person, the one focused on everyone else for once, even if my grades would suffer. But in doing so, I failed to be the anchor for the one who needed it most, Sakki. I couldn’t see his pain. I couldn’t run to his side when he felt sad or alone. I couldn’t bring him food as a means of temporary comfort. And without witnessing his struggle, I didn’t know how to—I couldn’t—I failed—to prioritize him. Instead, I stood him up.
While we kept in touch, our conversations were bare and brief. The one time we engaged in a discussion about feelings was when I actually vented to him about my own academic issues (because at the time that’s all I really knew of struggle), to which he provided unconditional support. And afterwards, when I finally “checked-in” on him by asking how he was doing, Sakki officially admitted to me that he had been depressed, but quickly assured me that he was doing better, that he’d found peace, that he’d found a new purpose. And that marked the end of any future conversation centered around his well-being—a regretful decision that soon morphed into globules of guilt still weighing on my conscience today.
The next few hours is a blurred memory of scurrying to find flight tickets to Virginia, packing up the hotel room as fast as possible, rushing through the airport, waiting silently at the gate, overhearing random comments from my dad and mom trying to find a reason my cousin would do this, trying to find a reason we didn’t see it coming, trying to find a reason to remain normal, and finally making the tumultuous trip to Sakki’s home, with random bursts of secretive crying interspersed throughout. And the following days are a foggy collection of moments of arriving at his house, beginning the funeral procedures, a lot of prayers and family/community gatherings, a trip to the temple, many sleepless nights, a trip to see a grief counselor, and an outpouring of tears in random but frequent spurts.
Throughout it all my mind was numb, reluctant to feel and process the heartache burning a hole in my chest, but unable to fully escape. All I could think about was how I failed him, how I let him down the one and only time he asked for my help, how I grew overconfident in my ability to be there for others when I simply ended up picking and choosing who was worthy of my care depending on who needed—whom I believe needed it the most. But everyone hurts, everyone struggles, and everyone deserves the attention of their loved ones—especially when they ask for it, something I had realized too late. The guilt devoured me. We stayed at his family’s house for two weeks. But when we went back home it was like we had entered a new reality. Sakki’s was the first death in our immediate family. His was the first death of someone close to me. And while I was aware of the treacherous toll that death could hold, I had no idea how hard the pain would hit.
Sophomore year of college was difficult to say the least. And while I knew I had my friends to lean on, it was hard to open up to anyone about what I was experiencing. I mostly wanted to talk to my family. But I didn’t know how. I was scared of bringing him up, of triggering someone, of angering someone. I was scared of coming off as overdramatic. So I resorted to bottling up my emotions until I could release them during spontaneous long walks alone late in the night when I could cry in peace or when I could find spaces to hide out on campus that were less well known to other students. I’d spend so many moments journaling in my notebook about the pain, the anger, the guilt, the what ifs, the what nows, the if only I coulds. I even took a stab at some subpar poetry, anything to help me cope with the reality that my cousin was no longer alive, and that in some sense it was his own shattered confidence that finally broke him, a confidence he had in all of us and in the rest of the world to support him, save him. A confidence that we—that I—crushed and let crumble.
Nevertheless, I was fortunate. Despite my work to push everyone I loved away, a few close friends stuck by me and supported me in whatever manner they could. Moreover, I had teachers that I could trust enough to ask for help, to ask for leniency and time when necessary. I had people to rely on outside of my immediate family. And eventually, the pain lessened, the tears subsided, and my vision began to clear. Life began to feel as normal as it could and I had begun to accept my new reality. And while my academics suffered a blow, I managed to stay on track.
"...it was his own shattered confidence that finally broke him, a confidence he had in all of us and in the rest of the world to support him, save him. A confidence that we—that I—crushed and let crumble."
I didn’t realize how lucky I was to have gone through my grieving process in a time where I had support and where I did not feel the same level of academic pressure as my brother did in Exeter or my sister did in Medical school, until I spoke with my brother about his own grieving experience as he entered a new school with new people and new stressors. But while my brother credited his reclusiveness and unwillingness to speak about his feelings to his personal choice, I wondered if part of his reluctance to disclose any emotions around his grieving was due to Exeter culture itself. He mentioned the insensitive nature of some of his peers, their tendency to criticize the concept of suicide, to casually throw around the phrase “I want to kill myself” when things felt difficult. Yet, my brother also understood that such an apathetic way of thinking plagued youth social culture everywhere. And he was right because people like that also existed at my college, in my own classes and even in my own circles of friends.
However, I couldn’t help but feel badly for him. I knew he had already been experiencing the challenge of entering a new school, especially one that required a different level of adjustment like Exeter. Additionally, he entered in his lower year, a year after most of his peers already had a head start in understanding and practicing the Harkness Method, had already forged their friend groups, and had already adapted to the Exeter way, academically, socially, and politically. So much newness must have been difficult to navigate without having an established support system or a trusting relationship with any teachers or mentors.
While my brother is already one to shy away from emotion-centered conversations, I couldn’t help but wonder if Exeter culture itself further prevented him from wanting to open up. I knew that when I attended the institution, I found it difficult to trust others to provide me with support when I needed it, not because they were bad at it, but simply because they were too busy to find the space to care for someone else’s life on top of balancing their own academic and social obligations. Because at that age, especially at that academy, our priorities were centered around getting into a great college, not strengthening our relationships or working on our own character, not providing comfort and support for those who needed it, no matter how hard we tried. At least, that’s what it felt like for me—I struggled with that balance so I figured others did as well. And while such pressures and priorities are not unique to those who attended Exeter, at the time it was difficult to recognize that reality and much easier to blame the institution itself for causing students to think in such a self-oriented way. And I wonder if I were in my brother’s position instead whether I would have simply quit, given up, abandoned the side of me that at the very least continued persisting, and withdrew from the institution instead. If I attended Exeter at the time my brother did, would I still consider the experience to be worth it? Would I still attribute its challenges to the growth I underwent, or would they have ultimately been my undoing?