If someone asks me to write a personal statement outlining my right to an education one more time, I might just lose it.

When I first ventured out into the world of higher education, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I looked at my education as a noble quest, the beginning of some grand intellectual journey. Entering university felt like walking into a Build-A-Bear for my future, where I could customize my life to my heart’s content, optimizing my chances of success. Now, nearing the end of my degree and looking forward to what life post-grad will look like, I’ve realized that the transition from undergraduate to graduate school is less of a journey and more of a psychological test of endurance designed by someone who exists to stomp out joy and spread misery. 

Applying to grad school seems to be this inevitable right of passage for all those uncertain about the weight their bachelor’s degree holds. 

Each program and school asks for something new, something weirdly specific, something you absolutely did not prepare for because no one told you that to pursue knowledge, you’d have to produce seven different statements, all spiritually identical but formatted in different fonts. Research statement, statement of purpose, personal history, portfolio of work and the contract you signed with Rumpelstiltskin, signing over your birth day for your dream life. 

Then, there’s the specialized exams—DAT, LSAT, MCAT, GRE, CASPer, language tests, you name it. You spend hundreds of dollars to register for the exam, however, many more on prep books and tutors, dedicate months of your life to passing it and in the end, you leave the testing center questioning not only your academic capabilities but your value as a lifeform. In the academic world, it could almost be considered the equivalent of fighting in the colosseum, only you paid for the privilege of being intellectually and spiritually demolished. 

Not to mention the psychological strength it takes to request references from your mentors. Is there anything worse than having to email your professors, managers and research supervisors, begging them to write you a little letter telling the admissions committee you’re competent? Maybe being stabbed. 

Emails sent out to everyone that you have ever had even a modicum of a good relationship with, nearly grovelling for them to vouch on your behalf. 

“Hi professor, I hope this email finds you well. Would you do me the honour of writing me a letter of reference? I’ll owe you my academic career, my life, my soul, my firstborn child and all of the wealth my bloodline has ever accumulated.” 

Or even worse, reaching out to prospective research supervisors after scouring department websites to find at least one person whose: a) research area overlaps with your subjects of interest and b) demeanour seems relatively approachable based on the two-sentence introduction they have written beneath their name.

And then, of course, there’s the cost of applying. Outrageous. Almost laughable, if it weren’t directly siphoning money you don’t have. Each application costs roughly the same as a week’s worth of groceries, plus a processing fee, because apparently the university needs compensation for the insurmountable labour of possibly admitting you. Add the price of official transcripts and standardized tests, and it suddenly becomes clear that the real admissions requirement is generational wealth. If you’re applying to multiple of these programs? Good luck, Charlie.

The irony is cruel and palpable. You’re asking a population famously known to be broke and unemployed—whose pockets were emptied by your very institutions—for money so they can apply to your programs and give you even more money. Right. 

Just when you think you’ve reached your breaking point, scholarships enter the chat. Because if grad school is expensive, the process of trying not to be crushed by debt is even more tiring. Every scholarship has its own theme: leadership, community engagement, academic excellence, personal tragedy, ability to tell a fourteen-part storytime on TikTok—who knows. Each one demands a fresh essay, new documents, references and a blood sacrifice, if they’re feeling fancy. 

At the same time, your final year of undergrad doesn’t just politely step aside so you can dedicate time to your essays and extra exams. You’re still balancing your course load, your job, your volunteering positions, your research, your relationships, your caffeine addiction and whatever crumbs of your life remain in between all of that. 

Unfortunately, life does not pause during these trying times; it crowds in further, driving you up the walls as all of your obligations take up more and more room. You’re finishing assignments by day and statements of purpose by night, squeezing in exam prep during lunch breaks, hoping your professors remember to upload their reference letters and trying not to fail the course you need to graduate.

Some days, you wish you had listened to the advice of the sage old people who had told you to start early. There’s always some requirement you should’ve mastered years ago: research experience, internships, shadowing, volunteering, six publications, a patent, fluency in three languages and the ability to drive a moped. You curse your first-year self for spending time at trivia nights instead of networking events, and your toddler self for not getting started on a cure for cancer by the time you could walk. Maybe if you had begun collecting volunteer hours or drafting a research proposal in the womb, things would be easier. 

It is beyond exhausting. Applying to grad school or professional school is like a full-time job on top of the obligations you already have. You drink iced coffee in December because you don’t have time to wait for anything to cool. You become a machine powered entirely by anxiety and dread, deadlines and the tiniest glimmer of hope that your efforts will all eventually pay off.

By the time you finally submit your first application, you will no longer be the starry-eyed student who walked into university imagining their future like a teddy bear they could stuff and dress to their liking. 

Yet despite all of the agony, imposter syndrome, fees and frantic 11:59 p.m. submissions, you still want to go. You endure the whole circus not because it’s fair or reasonable, but because, against all logic, you believe in what comes next. You believe there’s something waiting for you beyond this gauntlet of stress and paperwork. You still see some version of the potential you glimpsed when you first walked into that metaphorical Build-A-Bear workshop for your life.

Maybe that’s admirable. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s both. 

I just wish they weren’t so hell bent on emptying our pockets.