With every leap comes a fall.

taking off.

“You can do this,” they say, in their whispers and late-night calls and hallway flyer slogans. “You can. Don’t worry.”

Their voices are slender fingers caressing me. Lifting me. I listen to them because the message is tempting, a siren-song, one that will swallow me if I close my ears. Heeding their words is survival.

The ghost fingers hand me applications, tasks, short-essay boxes and event invitations. I fill out a hundred — I keep count as I go. “It’s a numbers game,” they say, so I keep going. I fill boxes with dates and company names, with status: applied. And slowly but surely, each applied turns to rejected, and I move forward.

They never seem to agree on how to handle that. “Ignore the rejections,” some say. “Don’t lose sight of your goals. Don’t worry.” Others push down on my heart: “Keep the rejections right there,” they croon. “Don’t you feel how much it hurts? It’s because you are not enough for them. You will never be enough until you learn and change.”

Taking off is such a long journey. The birds make it seem so easy, but even they fall on their first jumps from the nest. Humans have it harder — it took us 200,000 years to go from walking to flying — and when we fly, we fly not by ourselves, but with a product of years of innovation and work. So I should not truly expect myself to fly even 200,000 hours after learning to walk.

Still, it’s not enough.

stumbling.

The voices get louder. They poke me with their bony nails; rasp in my ears. “Your best friend got an internship,” they say. “Didn’t you see?” I reply that I’m proud of her. Still, they persist. “Look at your old classmates. Aren’t they doing so well? Forbes 40 under 40… MIT… She’s constantly attending exclusive tech events… He’s fraternizing with the presidential candidates… She’s a bona fide model… And they all have friends… so many friends… and they all love each other. What about you?”

I’m covering my ears. Their words — the bony tips of their claws — tear into my flesh. “I’m trying!” I scream. I’m trying to fly, to escape, filling out more boxes: applied, applied, not applied yet. Rejected. Rejected.

Their voices are everywhere. “Why do you want to apply?” To escape. “Why should we choose you?” Because I am worth choosing. I am. Please. Please tell the voices I am worth it. Please let them know I have worth.

“Of course you have worth,” they say. “That’s why we’re rooting for you.” They smile. Hand me another application. “Have you tried transferring universities? Moving upward?”

and stumbling.

The world is thriving. I can see it. “I’m in love,” they say. “He’s my other half.” They smile. Their teeth are like their hands.

“My boss is asking when I can start this summer. How about you?”

All the while: “You can do it. You can. Don’t worry.”

“I can do it,” I repeat. I cling to their words for comfort, despite how consistently they hurt me. To stop listening is to die. To give up is to never leave the ground.

It’s the new year. New chances, supposedly — I am different now. Or, I try to be. I set rules: Live genuinely. Unapologetically. “It’s easy,” they say. “Just let go. You can do it. Don’t worry.”

I rush a frat. I apply to leadership positions. I confess to a crush. I speak my mind. I study for exams. I arrange Tinder dates. I replace an applied with an onsite interview. I hop on a plane. The fingers stop scratching. They lift me. They linger. “Look how far you’ve come.”

And: I miss my flight back. The onsite interview turns to rejected and the exam turns to a 54% and I miss assignments and my grades drop like a ticking bomb. I miss my flight and I miss the frat interview and my inbox fills with We regret to inform you’s and my crush says no and the dates are cancelled and the voices raise their pitch and their volume and the fingers resume their scraping. “Don’t worry,” they say. “Don’t worry!”

Yet. How can I do much else? The voices multiply; the fingers crawl, hands like spiders over my shoes, up my legs. Over my eyes. My head is so heavy; I crumple to the floor; I tremble. The fingers don’t wipe the tears. The voices screech. “You can do it! Get up! You can fly! Get up! Stop the worry!” But how can I get up? When all they do is weigh me down? When they grab at the back of my knees and keep me weak, when they tear at my hair and the backs of my hands and the edge of my chin?

This is not stumbling.

This.

Is.

falling.

And the nest tips. It’s been tipping. As I cower from the fingers and the voices, the nest shifts dangerously toward the edge. They corner me. I lose my balance. My foot slips back — and I’m falling.

I’m in free fall. It’s at this point that I wonder when I will finally hit the ground. I brush the hands off me — they fall, too. I fling them into the distance — yet the voices remain. They are softer, muted by the wind, but still they chant: “You can do this. Don’t worry.”

What is there to do? I’m falling. My fate is sealed. They implore me to give up. “Try again for internships next year,” they say. “Find other summer plans. And you don’t need to worry about friends if you transfer.”

I listen. But first.

But first.

One more time. My voice is hoarse.

Their teeth glint. They nod. “You are different.” The symphony of hisses coo at me. Hint at a landing pad. “You are different now.”

It’s a new year. I’m different. I live genuinely and I live unapologetically. I force open my eyes. Stretch my limbs. Feel the wind tear through my clothing, leave it billowing. Free fall.

I submit another round of applications. Last shot. I drop a class, shed the weight. I take a vacation, a trip to compete in nationals. I sweat. I hold in the tears. I make resolutions. I do what I want; I don’t worry about fitting in. We lose. It’s fine. And then my inbox pings. Three interviews. The wifi is bad, but I reply, eventually. I return from vacation. Miss assignments.

I’m still falling, and my grades are falling with me. The interviews pass. Second round interview. Third. My inbox pings.

And my heart stops.

Congratulations.

I swivel around. Search for the fingers. Call out to the voices. “Is this real?” They are silent. “Please! Is this real? I need to know!”

Ping. Congratulations.

Ping. Congratulations. Congratulations.

I wonder if I’m dreaming. I’m in a daze. It’s the falling, the gravity. My brain isn’t working. The falling has turned my mind to mush. I’ve lost my ability to read.

My ear tingles. It’s a murmur. A whisper. A rumble. Then a roar. “It’s real,” the voices sing. “You did it. See, you didn’t have to worry. See? You’re flying.”

You. Are.

flying.

The air pushes into my lungs, whips into my hair. I whirl. Extend my wings.

“Look at how far they go.”

The feathers are steel, the wings longer across than I am tall. I’m soaring.

Congratulations rings in my ears, and I’m crying. Grinning.

The world is below me: The discarded applications. The missed flight. The last place trophy. The failed exams. The forfeited interviews. The crush with his girlfriend. The bony hands and white claws scattered among the trash. All behind me, in the shape of a runway. Disappearing into the clouds.

The voices are fainter. I won’t ever lose them, but for now, they have not much to say.

It’s fine. I showed them. I did this. I have worth. I’m not worried. I’m flying.