The moment you set foot onto campus during that manic O-Week, it begins to sink in just how small you are. The buildings seem taller than in that virtual tour you did at the dinner table, the people plentier, and the expectations far greater. At first, that smallness feels exhilarating and empowering, but the thrill crashes quickly when you realise that, for the first time in twelve long, carefully structured years of school, you do not know what the hell you are doing
That cliche your matric teachers repeatedly told you proves to be true: you are no longer exceptional at what you do just because you are a veteran of the high school system. Suddenly, you are a small fish again – a mere sardine packed tightly into echoing lecture halls with lecturers who flip through slides so fast you feel whiplashed. It becomes overwhelming to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with others who look like they understand something you missed.
Throughout my undergraduate studies, I was supported by an academic bursary. On paper, this meant someone believed in my potential. In practice, it placed me in rooms full of brilliance that felt more intimidating than affirming. I met peers who seemed effortlessly extraordinary. They were academically excellent, leading and serving in their communities, and participating in student life all while maintaining hobbies. Watching them, I decided that that was the benchmark. If they could do it all, I should too. So, I tried. And in doing so, I carved a wound into myself.
Billy Joel wrote “Vienna” as a reflection on the ills of chasing the American Dream. After visiting his father and seeing an elderly woman sweeping the streets, Joel remarked on how sad it was that an old woman had to do that sort of work. His father corrected his pity, saying that this woman had found her role in society. To reflect on this is to shatter the metric of what success is “supposed” to look like. We are constantly lining our lives up with someone else’s and calling the difference failure. Comparison is a self-inflicted violence. It convinces you that resting is laziness and your worth must constantly be proven by the amount of work you do. We have fallen into the capitalistic trap that if we just keep running for long enough, we will win. We will eventually arrive somewhere that feels good enough. But nine times out of ten, we learn far too late that we have been conditioned to keep shifting the finish line further away.
Joel asks, “If you’re so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?” The question stings because it exposes that wound again. My discovery at the centre of this relentless strife for “better” is that even continuous achievement cannot protect me from fear. In fact, it amplifies that sense of “hurry to catch up with everyone else”. “Vienna” teaches you that it does not matter how hard you work or what you achieve if you cannot celebrate those achievements. It is not your duty to continuously strive for more without first acknowledging how far you have come. It is a song about slowing down amid the rush to figure out exactly what you should be doing.
The inner compulsion to live up to high standards can steal your university experience from you. I’m not encouraging you to neglect your studies, but I am encouraging you to “cool it off before you burn it out”. Slow down, inhale the scent of the jacarandas, and understand that you are a beginner again. You can afford to lose a day or two.
Remember that feeling of being small when you first arrived? Hold onto it and let it humble you. Most of what we panic over will not matter in the long run. The world will always tell you to hurry up. Vienna waits anyway.
Visual: Jemma Thomson
