My family and I closed a significant chapter of our lives on Thursday, March 29 and moved away from the home where I was born. The home where my brother got into college, the home where I discovered my severe nut allergies, the home where I held that fifth birthday party with the malfunctioned piñata, and the home where I celebrated my Stuyvesant acceptance.  That afternoon I came home to a wide-open door with moving men coming in and out, grabbing beige cartons holding sixteen years of my possessions as if they weighed two ounces each. It was unsettling to know that all the items you deem most important can be packed away into two old medium-sized Doritos boxes in an hour.

I walked past dust and the corner which used to hold our grandfather clock to my bedroom. I stopped at the door. For the past ten years, I have written on that door phrases reflecting on my most momentous days. Skimming over them, from “I finally talked to him today!” to “Jonas Brothers <3,” I stopped at the one dated the spring of eighth grade, “I finally got in!” As I looked at this door graffiti two years later, I realized that these four words didn’t excite me; they just reminded me of why I came back to my bedroom for the last time anyway.

Not for that last sentimental parting, but to pack the bit that was left. My textbooks.

I left most of those for the last day, so I’d have them within grasp through the chaos of moving. After hastily packing them up, I threw a couple of quick parting glances at my old and cherished home and ran out to the car.  I figured that the quicker I left, the quicker I could get to the new house and begin my mountain of homework. My dad left soon afterwards, looking grim as he handed over the old keys to the landlord. My mother sat next to me, sniffing and discreetly wiping her eyes, while I felt on the verge of tears myself because of the terrible math test I took that morning and the history essay looming over me.

That day was when the true impact of Stuyvesant hit me.

An unfortunate truth is that we, as Stuyvesant students, compromise our personal well-being for academic achievement. My lack of sentiment about the monumental move is one sign of my gradual assimilation into the constricting Stuyvesant attitude. We are here for laudable reasons. We are here because we’re determined and motivated students with high expectations for ourselves. But the emotional sacrifice and mental instability that we endure for high numbers should be unacceptable.

The competitive nature of Stuyvesant is a motivational tool academically, but it can be equally detrimental emotionally. As I strive to excel with grades and activities, the constant pressure to work harder, get higher test grades, and place higher at Speech tournaments has consumed my life and altered my attitude. My demeanor has shifted from freshmen year, and though I can praise maturity, I cannot help but question the catalyst behind the change. It has been positive thus far in terms of work ethic, but I’ve remained reserved due to the workload.  I feel that I’ve lost not only the qualities I used to praise myself for, my sentimentality and sensitivity, but also my social and emotional bonds.

I’ve always prided myself on my exceptional relationship with my parents, but as the amount of sleep I get each night lessens with every marking period, so does my patience. One night, as I sat at my computer toiling away, daylight long gone, I heard a knock on my door. I snapped a quick and angry “Whaaat!?” as I broke away from my keyboard and saw my mother tiptoe in with a steaming cup of coffee: one sugar, two milks—my favorite. The embarrassment I felt for my reaction was overwhelming. But there was no time to waste apologizing, so I muttered an acknowledgement and returned to my work.

I have neglected to prioritize more important issues due to the inundating workload. I have detached myself from friends, family, and personal goals for the sake of academic growth. Stuyvesant students have grown to accept this ‘fact,’ labeling it a taste of reality before the real world: college. However, high school is not just a pit-stop and precursor to college. It’s a critical stage of my maturity that should not be compromised. With the workload never-ending and vacations simply becoming more time to study, I have lost my personality and become another piece in the Stuyvesant game. Is my main goal to get a 100 on tomorrow’s Chemistry exam or to spend my most crucial years of maturity developing my interests and enhancing my knowledge? The drive for success at Stuyvesant should not consume one’s being, but for me, it has done just that. Even my previous safe havens, afterschool activities, have been compromised because of time constraints due to work. ‘Enjoy’ is just not in my dictionary anymore.

Though I would love to provide a solution to this mental consumption that seems to be the price of success, I am still in search of one myself. To some hardworking Stuyvesant students, this detachment from outside life because of school is acceptable and necessary. However, high school is an experience that I want to cherish and not taint because of increased stress. Tarnishing my relationships with others and altering my previously happy-go-lucky attitude is an adverse effect of the Stuyvesant attitude.

The detachment I felt about my move has helped me realize that emotionally isolating myself for a number on a piece of paper is unacceptable. As determined Stuyvesant students, we let these four years fly by, obscured by advanced classes and packed schedules. We often forget that while our number one priority should be school, we cannot let it consume our entire personalities. At Camp Stuy, Mr. Teitel might say, “Choose two out of three: grades, sleep, and a social Life,” but I refuse to continue my high school career with that mentality. I need to balance all three, while keeping my emotional stability in check. I want to turn my new bedroom door into another graffiti mecca, with new experiences highlighted on there that do not have to do with school. I don’t want the only monumental result of my high school life to be college and a puddle of tears. Instead, I want the memories to stand strong as a true testament to a healthy, happy maturity.