English Prose

Photo Credit - Nora G

When I first stepped onto the University of New Haven’s campus, I didn’t think I was going to be an English Major. Thinking back, I had a vague and safer plan in mind, something that wouldn’t raise that question at family gatherings, “But what are you going to do with an English degree?” English and any style of writing felt like the ultimate secret, like something I kept hidden in the margins of my favorite book. Reading was always an escape as the library became my home, and I often wrote words that held no commitment. It had been years since such words had been etched from my pencil with such vigor as it did that night. The lead shaved to the slanted point of the years I’d blocked myself from taking that part of my mind solemnly.  

The change didn’t happen in a quick moment of clarity. It was a slow start, like all real changes in small, almost accidental events. The familiarity of the quiet cold air met me at the tips of my ears in my first semester. The low lamp light burned my eyes as I was buried under assignments and textbook chapters for classes that I felt distant from. Every page was re-read until I could remember the last line, but forgotten in the same notion once I turned the page. Different words were floating in my brain, and the crickets chirped, teasing my inability to think. I opened a blank doc, told myself I was still being productive without doing anything school-related, and started writing a poem.

At first, it felt uncomfortable, like speaking a language you haven't spoken or practiced for a while. The meter was uneven, and the images were unsure of their likeness. But something kept pulling me further and further forward. I wasn’t thinking about structure, grading rubrics, or whether it met the class criteria. I just wanted to craft something honest and true to myself. When I finished, a strange feeling lingered along my skin. Steady, but not of excitement, recognition. Like I was in my childhood bedroom again. 

At that moment, something washed over me. I looked at my work, and all of my textbooks, and something changed. The words weren't perfect; in fact, they were a complete mess. But the feeling of these words escaping my mind and being etched into the world by my pencil, the feeling of home that I had missed. I missed the procedural-like atmosphere, consumed by a thesaurus of chaos, that shaped language into emotion, memories into meaning, and feelings into connection. The thing I missed most of all is the way of thinking that writing demands of you: patient, pensive, and unafraid of obscurity.   

The days that lingered after felt like time would decay. I reread the poem over and over, not to criticize it but to understand why it mattered so much to me. It was just a poem, something familiar. Yet slowly, the question formed itself: if this matters to me, why am I not chasing it?

Choosing a major to pursue didn’t feel like something that had to be questioned anymore.It was a path that had started to expose itself after being hidden. What kind of work did I want to spend the rest of my life doing? What did I want to bring to the table? When I examined those questions, English didn’t feel dissatisfying; it felt like the most logical answer.  

Declaring my new major wasn’t theatrical. There was no public service announcement, no heartwarming conversations; it was straight crickets. It was a quiet decision, with submitted forms bearing official logos and emails to advisors for meetings and switches. A breath washed over me as I was finally grounded in a way I needed, the recognition that this was a line of work I had a heart for.  Every sentence read deeply, writing carefully, and observing how language shapes the lens through which we see things. I stepped into a world where those things were prominent and not fragile. 

With all this said, the feeling hasn’t been the same since that day. The fresh start offered me a pure sense of excitement. The essence of rediscovery and possibility painted every one of my senses. Everything was painted a different shade, brighter, newer, bolder. Though the classes I took before would be something I couldn’t carry with me, the semester went on. But soon the initial clarity became clouded.  

Getting into the guts of being an English major, you quickly hang on to inspiration. But there is more than that; it's about revisions, frustrations, some burnout, and sometimes sitting in front of a sentence that won't cooperate with the rest of your work. Some texts will challenge you, not just the ones you would get along with. It's about learning different techniques, as writing doesn’t always convey a smooth expression of thought. It's a process of reshaping, reanalyzing, and starting over.   

There have been moments when the same cold air on daunting nights has plagued me, and I questioned my decision, not because I felt regret, but because I felt prowess. When something matters to you at an astronomical level, it is harder to go about it with a calm demeanor. The skates felt sky-high, bad drafts felt like water torture, and a difficult assignment lingered like shadows in the night. 

But that’s how I knew that the decision was real. 

The excitement that flowed through my body that night when I wrote the poem never truly disappeared; it had changed. It wasn’t instantaneous; it was grounding and laborious. It shows up in the smallest of ways every day. Sentences click together after multiple revisions, in a discussion group where the text takes us on a deep dive into an unknown direction, and in the notion comes the realization. I am learning how to think precisely and creatively at the same time. 

As time progressed and we approach the present, my feelings about the major have become more lasting. Looking back at the initial moment with that poem, the click of recognition I had was important because it revealed a part of me that I had locked away. The days that followed, the workload, and the ideas that flowed made it all stick together.  

I don’t know for certain where this path will truly lead me, and I’m okay with that in a way that would have made my heart race before. What I do know is that choosing English as my major wasn’t about having the answer to every question. It was about doing something that felt meaningful and the willingness to take it seriously. 

That night, writing that poem is engraved in my memory. I didn't just rediscover something that gave me an immense sense of joy. I rediscovered a way of thinking, a way of seeing, that I thought I was ready to leave behind. That, more than anything, was how I knew.