The glorious one-week stretch before April should feel like freedom. It’s a moment to pause and take a breath away from the stress and demands of college life. But before April 1 even arrives, I find that time has already slipped through my fingers. Every year, I convince myself that things will be different. I’ll be the person who takes a trip, posts pictures on Instagram instead of unarchiving them; proving that I am young and fun and effortlessly happy just like I should be. But I never leave my bed. No matter how much I want to be that person, I never am.
Senior year has made it painfully clear how many things I once thought would happen never did. The spring break trips my high school friends and I planned in the back of Advance Placement (AP) literature never happened. The summer getaways we swore we’d take never became real. Back then, I assumed there would always be time. Now, I sit at my desk, scrolling through LinkedIn, half-heartedly updating my resume while knowing deep down that I still haven’t done enough. And worse, I don’t care to do more.
Months ago, I promised myself I’d have everything figured out by now — a summer internship, a plan, a direction in life — but the only thing I’ve mastered is overthinking. The pressure to succeed is suffocating, and yet action always feels just out of reach. If I had only spent half as much time on my degree as I did daydreaming, my prospects would probably be looking better right now.
Even the idea of a “break” feels ridiculous. A week off from school doesn’t mean a week off from stress. My mind doesn’t pause just because classes do. Instead of relaxing, I cycle through the same worries repeatedly: how everyone else seems to have their life together, how the things I planned for myself never seem to materialize, and how every moment spent resting feels like wasted time. I can’t help but spend the entirety of my break rolling around my bed until I’m at risk for developing bed sores, wondering why I hadn’t applied to that job months ago. Thinking about how I should have booked a trip with friends while flights were still cheap. I should have done something, anything, to make myself feel like I’m moving forward instead of standing still.
Meanwhile, my high school friends — the ones who continuously spoke about taking that final senior year of college Las Vegas trip — already have their spring break planned, down to the hourly itinerary. They’re booking hotels, splitting costs and texting about outfits. My name is in the group chat, but it feels like an afterthought. The invite was there, but it didn’t change anything. For some reason, I can’t get myself to be excited, can’t get myself to make plans. I can’t even convince myself that it’s going to be a good time, even though I know it is.
Sitting at home sounds better than a week of pretending to have fun. There is something so strangely comforting about returning to the routine you’ve had since you were twelve years old. I spend hours in my room doomscrolling and watching YouTubers from my childhood, eating the meals my mom prepares while avoiding conversations about what I did during the day.
After the break, I’ll have to return to my depressing apartment, stare at the pitiful poster of Pitbull saying “Been there, done that” in my living room while only finding my fridge stocked with Celsius and Diet Coke. I can already imagine the endless monotony of my final quarter at the University of California, Riverside (UCR).
Fear of missing out (FOMO) builds itself out of comparison, convincing people they’re missing something essential. I don’t want to go clubbing, and I don’t want to spend money on a trip that would drain me more than it would excite me. But watching others do it makes it feel like an obligation. The perfectly curated Spring break shouldn’t matter. Studies have shown that social comparison fuels FOMO, making people feel lonelier and less satisfied with their own experiences. Even knowing that it’s hard to ignore the feeling. The worst part is that FOMO isn’t even about wanting the experience itself — it’s about not wanting to feel left behind. It’s the realization that everyone else is out living their lives while I sit in the same spot, convincing myself that next year will be different.
Spring break is supposed to be a time for rest, but rest has never come naturally to me. Stress follows, embeds itself into every moment, and turns relaxation into a deadline I can never quite meet. Maybe that’s why doing nothing feels like the only option—because no matter what I do, it never feels like enough. Some breaks aren’t about relaxation. They’re about sitting in silence, confronting everything left unfinished, and realizing that time doesn’t pause just because I want it to.
Spring break has never felt like a fresh start. It’s just another reminder that the cycle continues, the future looms and nothing slows down long enough for me to catch up.
