Mont Mégantic in Québec. Photo: Yu Chen Hou

My first year in Software Engineering (SE) was not easy to say the least. I was an international student, and everyone, myself included, had very high expectations regarding how well I was going to do in SE. I did not do well at all.

I struggled from the very first week. We learned concepts in class that were new to me, but were a given to everyone else. It did not end there — assignments that other students finished in half an hour, I finished in days, if at all. This was all a blow to my very delicate ego. I told myself that everyone had to start from somewhere, that I just needed to work harder until I got the hang of it.

It only got worse from there.

I started studying maybe six hours a day after a full day of lectures to try catching up. I kept telling myself that it would get better, that I just needed to work even harder, and it would all work out.

I told myself that with more time and practice, I’d enjoy them more. It didn’t happen.

People I hung out with did not understand why I was struggling, and they’d try to help, but there was only so much they could do. I always felt like my friends pitied me because no matter how hard they tried to help, I couldn’t improve my marks. I started to feel unwanted and eventually stopped asking for help.

My grades were terrible. They weren’t “bad” like a 7 out of 10 but rather a 0.5 out of 10.

Looking back, I should have realized that Software Engineering wasn’t the best fit for me. I didn’t care about the first year classes, and I got bored of them pretty quickly. I told myself that with more time and practice, I’d enjoy them more. It didn’t happen.

I also didn’t feel like I fit in. As an international student, I came from a different background than my peers and couldn’t relate to many of their interests. Because of that, I wasn’t able to strike interesting conversations with most people in my class, and my sense of humour was quite different from many of the students.This only made me increasingly self-conscious.

I felt even more alienated after exams because I would go to class and the professor would say “This is the highest average we have seen in years, an 87%!” I remember I would sit in the lecture hall, very self-conscious of the 40% I had just received.

There’s a sense of superiority that a lot of my peers in Software Engineering had. It seemed like many of them thought of themselves as the chosen ones. It annoyed me beyond belief that they would look down on other programs, especially those outside of Engineering. Yes, it was mostly said as a joke, but after a while, you can almost feel people’s egos inflating, as if these jokes had become beliefs.

That fear devolved into the thought that I didn’t deserve to be in the program, and that I’d stolen someone else’s spot.

One time, I was having dinner in the V1 cafeteria with my friends, and one of them was talking about how they were struggling with an assignment. My other friend in SE dismissed her troubles by saying something along the lines of “I’m sure being in Arts is really hard. Those 12 hours of class must be brutal”.

That’s actually one of the reasons I refused to transfer. I thought that I would be seen as inferior, when I knew I was more capable. I only stayed because everyone back home thought very highly of me, and I thought that I would be disappointing them if I failed or switched out. It did not help that I based so much of my own identity on my grades.

That fear devolved into the thought that I didn’t deserve to be in the program, and that I’d stolen someone else’s spot. Eventually, I started thinking that I didn’t deserve to live, that I was basically a waste of air. I gained around 25 kgs in two months, I stopped showering or brushing my hair, I rarely slept more than 3 hours a day, and I did not leave my room except to go to class. I also stopped handing in my assignments, because, really, what was the point? And I failed 4 out of my 6 of my midterms.

I started thinking about what would happen if I just died; what if I threw myself down the stairs, or just chose not to wake up one morning? How long would it take them to find my body, and would anyone actually care?

I was first unofficially diagnosed with depression by accident when I started crying one day to a random person on campus who turned out to be a licensed psychiatrist. She begged me to make an appointment at Counselling Services, but I thought that other people with real problems deserved their time more. So, I didn’t end up seeking out any help.

I failed that term, and I was given the option to transfer out or repeat 1A the following year. I chose to repeat the year, because I thought that I had stopped trying, and if I’d only tried hard enough or studied more, I would’ve passed. I repeated it the next year, working my everloving butt off, and I passed with a 64% average.

I cried when I saw “promoted to 1B” in an email they sent me after the term. I was just so proud of myself and it encouraged me to work harder in the following term. I submitted assignments days before they were due, I went to more office hours, and studied harder and longer than ever. I rarely ever took breaks, and I can count on one hand the number of times I went out. I worked so hard that by the time final exams came by, I had already burnt myself to the point of indifference and exhaustion. I failed the term, with an even worse average than the first time around. I actually got a 32%, the minimum grade, in one subject.

It was a blessing in disguise, because I would have continued torturing myself unnecessarily otherwise.

After that term, I made the decision to leave Waterloo. I moved back to my home in Egypt with my tail between my legs, but with the genuine feeling that I’d done everything I possibly could. My friends and some of my old high school teachers that I was still in touch with were ecstatic because they felt that something was off and that I wasn’t happy in Canada. My mom was happy because she had her baby back, but my father, not as pleased, insisted that I transfer to an engineering program in my hometown. Despite the pressure, I just couldn’t do it. I was traumatised from my previous experience studying engineering.

Outside my immediate circle of friends and family, though, people would mostly say that I was insane for moving back home, especially since the economic situation wasn’t really the best at the time. They said — and still say — that I should’ve transferred to a different program, or at least somewhere else in Canada. The most infuriating response I got was that engineering isn’t really for girls, as if my personal problems with the program were proof that women can’t hack it in engineering.

I thought that I was not bad at languages and literature, so I decided to apply to an English Literature program. I failed the entrance exam, adding insult to injury. I questioned my purpose in life, and started wondering “why am I even alive?” all over again.

Then, at an open house at another university a few days later, I noticed a booth for a program that had the weirdest mix of linguistics, translation, and literature with a minor in communications and graphic design. I felt that I’d finally found my calling, and applied to that school. I passed the entrance exam with flying colours.

It’s a relatively small program — there’s about 40 students per year — the instructors get to know you on a much more personal level, and they truly care about your well-being. This is uncommon, but it grew to be one of the things I love most about this program.

Now, I’ve just finished second year, and I’ve been on the honour roll since the first term.