I work at the Career Center. My job title is career fellow, and we essentially act as representatives for the center to promote its resources and events. It’s a great job.
The other day, I was reviewing a first-year student’s resume. It was your typical first-year resume: about three pages of long green text talking about all of their positions in student government. As usual, I pointed them to resources that would help them transition their high school resume into a college one, taught them how to structure bullet points and explained the importance of formatting.
Toward the end of the review, the first-year asked me, “What are your qualifications to be helping me? Aren’t you a student, too?”
I was awestruck. It was apparent on my face.
I looked at him, looked at his resume, then looked back at him.
He had a point.
I mean, I am still a student. I’m not that old yet. I still have classes, still do my homework (maybe a stretch) and am still figuring out my life. Other than the four-year age difference and the twinkle in our eyes, the first-year and I aren’t that different. So why am I giving him advice? What qualifies me to help him? And why should he even listen to me?
Practically, there are things that separate the first-year and me. Obviously, I have three more years of experience at Tufts — taking classes, walking up President’s Lawn and learning how to cut the line at Dewick. From a career standpoint, I’ve not only been trained by the Career Center, but have also gone through the internship and job-search process myself. I can guarantee that I have applied to and been rejected by internships and jobs many more times than that first-year who was questioning my qualifications.
But to be fair, none of those experiences make me feel like an adult.
Not that I expected a big ceremony or a new title I could add to my LinkedIn, but I thought there would be at least a different feeling or sensation.
Instead, there has been nothing. No sudden realization. No increased wisdom. No newfound ability to understand what people mean when they say they have a “five-year plan.” I just came back to Tufts and suddenly I am a senior.
I still procrastinate (it’s actually gotten worse). I still have no idea what I am going to eat for dinner. I still get nervous before going to social events where I know 90% of the attendees (shout out Senior Bar Night).
But even though I still feel the same and there has been no celebration for my supposed adulthood, others have noticed. Others have decided I am an adult now — no matter how hard I push back.
New members of the clubs I’m a part of start asking me for advice on classes, recruiting and just life in general. They’ll ask me where certain buildings are on campus or recommendations for food in Davis Square. And now, the dreaded question of “What will you be doing after college?” has officially entered my world.
The weirdest part is I still remember being a first-year, looking up at seniors and thinking they had it all figured out. They always seemed so confident, so knowledgeable, so old. Now I am that senior, and I can confidently say that I have no idea what I’m doing.
But do I have to know all the answers? Do I have to know what the f--- I am doing to be qualified to help those younger than me? I don’t think so.
I think I’ve been waiting for a moment when I finally feel like a senior. When I feel older, wiser and more prepared. But that moment hasn’t come. And it may never come. Maybe I just have to keep moving forward, picking up experiences that change me in ways that I will never fully understand.
So, to the first-year who asked me whether I was qualified to help them: I may not know what I am doing or have all the answers to life. But I’ve had many accomplishments and successes — and even more mistakes and failures — and I’ve learned from all of them. That’s all the qualification I need.
I may not feel like an adult, but maybe I don’t have to. Perhaps adulthood is just realizing that, even though we’re still figuring things out, we have learned enough to help someone else along the way.
But for the record, the green text had to go.
Still figuring it out,
Ben Rachel
