April 28, 2026 | By Danny Silva (MM '26)
It’s my fifth and final year at the University of Michigan, and as graduation creeps closer and closer, I keep finding myself asking the same question: What the hell happened?
Half a decade has passed, and somehow it feels like both a lifetime and no time at all.
Leaving home without knowing where I was going
I still remember my freshman year move-in day at the notorious Mary Markley Hall.
We drove 4 hours from my suburban hometown of Joliet, Illinois, packing everything I owned into a car and leaving behind everything I knew. I didn’t realize it then, but I was also leaving behind the small, quiet comforts that had defined my life.
My abuela's cooking, the blaring sound of ’90s freestyle layered over whatever was on ESPN on Sunday mornings, the sharp taste of pungent toner mixed with the hum of a hairdryer, and the scent of Redken shampoo as my mom finished up with her client in the small corner of the kitchen she had turned into a mini salon.
It was a hot, sticky Midwestern August day, and I was terrified.
What do I know?
I was a first-generation college student, which meant I had no blueprint for what came next, no one to tell me what office hours were, how to network, or even what a useful major looked like.
I was moving into an all-boys floor, something completely foreign to me. Walking in for the first time, our floor had a faint smell of Old Spice, sweat, and testosterone. The floor was loud. I had never roomed with another man, nor been a friend with one; back home, most of my friends were women. They were the ones who made space for me to be myself and be openly gay. Suddenly, I was surrounded by meaningless conversations about girls, frats, parties, and a culture I didn’t understand.
Do I belong here?
I wasn’t even supposed to be here
The truth is, I almost didn’t come to Michigan at all. Up until the beginning of my senior year of high school, I had planned on attending Joliet Junior College. It felt realistic, safe, and most importantly, in my tax bracket.
But during a meeting, my guidance counselor looked at me, almost confused, and said I should try to aim higher. That I had the grades and the extracurriculars of a model candidate. That I should at least try. I knew I had an impressive student record, but if I’m being honest, I was involved because I loved it. I did well in school because I liked school, and it was a good distraction from the whole being-gay-in-a-small-midwestern-town thing.
So I did. At home, my parents agreed with my counselor. But they were also honest; if I wanted to go, I’d have to figure out how to pay for it myself. My mom had also sat me down and told me about a school she had once dreamed of attending in Ann Arbor, Michigan. A school she didn’t dare apply to because she didn’t think she’d get in.
So I applied for her.
Four months later, on a frigid January afternoon, maize and blue confetti exploded across my iPhone screen as I was in the checkout line at TJ Maxx. And my first thought wasn’t excitement.
It was: Now what?
The reality of “making it work.”
I’ve been working since I was 16 years old. My mom raised me with the mentality that if I wanted things in life, I had to work for them. It was no surprise when I had to look for and apply for a job once I got to Michigan, to help me pay for all my necessities. I had worked as a barista back home, so I applied to an on-campus coffee shop.
At some point, a customer asked me, while making their iced caramel latte, in my first week of working, “How do you have time to work?”
I didn’t really know how to answer because the truth is, you don’t have time.
As I watched him pull out his platinum American Express card, I looked at him and said, “We make time.”
Being here means working long hours and balancing jobs, classes, and leadership roles while trying to stay afloat financially. There were moments when it felt like I was living two lives. One as a student, and one as someone just trying to survive.
It also taught me something I carry with me now: I am capable of more than I think I am.
Changing my mind over and over
I came into college thinking I wanted to study political science. It made sense, I cared about the world and wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help uplift those who were like me, my people. But somewhere between lectures and discussions, I realized that passion doesn’t always mean fit.
So I pivoted. To chemistry. Which quickly humbled me.
Organic chemistry didn’t just challenge me, it broke me. That class ended with a withdrawal on my transcript and a much-needed reality check.
After a lot of reflection (and conversations with my mom and therapist), I tried something new: psychology. The scientific study of people and their minds. For the first time, it clicked.
I fell in love with my classes. From abnormal psychology to the sociology of deviance, I started building a life around this career track. I joined Wolverine Support Network, facilitated support groups, worked with SAPAC, and even joined a research lab that focused on Queer, POC populations.
It felt meaningful and purposeful, until it didn’t.
The moment everything fell apart (again)
By senior year, I thought I had it all figured out. I was going to go to school for social work, become a therapist, and get involved in social activism on the side. But then I walked into my first social work class, which I was able to take as a senior. I hated it.
As I listened to the professor talk about what being a social worker looked like, it didn’t feel right. If anything, I felt immense dread as to what my life could look like. I remember leaving that room thinking: Did I really just waste four years of my life?
It was one of the lowest moments of my college experience. Everything I thought I knew about myself suddenly felt uncertain.
So I did what I do best: act on it and figure it out.
I met with a career coach and spent an hour venting, spiraling, and questioning everything. I talked about never truly feeling like an academic. I spent so much time in classes feeling like everything was redundant and like I didn’t fit in with the students in my classes. I wanted to do something that allowed me to be creative, collaborative, and feel fulfilled.
Then she asked me something simple: “What do you enjoy doing right now?”
At the time, I had just gotten a leadership position for Wolverine Support Network, and I loved it. I got to help lead a team, build something, and create impact.
She suggested something I had never considered: business.
I immediately rejected it. I didn’t fit the image. I wasn’t in Ross. I wasn’t “cutthroat.” I wasn’t a logical thinker; I led with empathy. But she pushed me to explore anyway.
So I did.
And somewhere in that exploration, I found marketing. It centers on consumer behavior, creativity, storytelling, and is entirely collaborative.
It felt like everything I loved, just in a form I had never imagined for myself. So I applied to a business master's program. Somehow, for the second time in my life, I got into Michigan again.
So what happened?
If you asked me what I learned over the last five years, I don’t think I could give you a clean answer.
But I know this: I have almost finished my master’s degree. And in a way I didn’t expect, business school taught me even more about myself than undergrad ever did. It pushed me into spaces I never thought I belonged in, and then showed me that I actually did.
I picked up marketing roles on campus that reawakened a creative side of me I had tucked away for years. I became a server at a restaurant, learning how to move through chaos with confidence and connect with people in entirely new ways. Outside of work and school, I started building a life that felt like mine. I got into sewing and upcycling, started reading again, became an avid lifter, and even joined a campus fashion magazine I had always admired from afar but never thought I could be part of. Somewhere in all of that, things started to click.
For the first time, I wasn’t just chasing something that made sense on paper; I was choosing something that actually felt right. I realized that I want to work in the fashion industry.
I decided to take time to reconnect with my inner child and do some reflection on what I used to love. I loved my dolls. Not because they were beautiful, but because they were my canvas. I would cut their clothes and make them into something new, make dresses out of whatever I could find in my craft box, and put on my very own fashion shows.
Bridging this with my newfound interest in business made me realize something. I can bring together everything I’ve grown into: creativity, storytelling, identity, and connection.
So, what happened? I changed my mind. Again and again. I built a life in places I once felt out of place. I learned that belonging isn’t something you can just find; it’s something you create. I learned that uncertainty doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it means you’re getting closer to something real.
Maybe most importantly, I learned that the version of myself who moved into Markley had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
And honestly, I still don’t. But at least now, I have faith in myself that I will figure things out as I go.
And that feels like progress.
To the reader
To whoever is reading this, if it’s not working out, don’t be afraid to pivot.
I know it may be scary, thinking about change, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that time doesn’t come back. Years slip away at the blink of an eye. The only thing you can do is have an open mind, change your mind a thousand times, and live for yourself.
So, it’s not working; don’t be afraid to do something about it. I promise, it’s worth it.
The opinions and reflections shared are those of individual students. Spectrum Center supports inclusive campus discourse and open conversations around LGBTQ+ experiences.
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