My First Big Failure

If my life were an Instagram feed, it would look like this: sunsets painting the ocean gold, tidepools reflecting endless skies, and sunlit strolls through La Jolla's quaint streets. But what you wouldn’t see—tucked between those dreamy snapshots—is the colossal faceplant that reshaped my trajectory. Think of it as the unfiltered version of Julianne: messy, uncomfortable, but ultimately—resilient.

My first big failure? It happened in the serene, salty haven of UC San Diego when I discovered I was not destined for a life in marine biology, despite making it my entire identity up until that point. Spoiler alert: realizing you’re terrible at your “dream” can do a number on you. But buckle up—this tale isn’t just about heartbreak; it’s also about growth, the wild ocean of self-discovery, and learning to course-correct before the tide sweeps you under.

The Disaster Science Experiment

Now, if you grew up in La Jolla, people expect you to appreciate three things: brunch by the ocean, overpriced flip-flops, and marine life. Considering my mother spent more time with tidepools than Netflix, pursuing marine biology felt like fate. Pacific oceanic DNA practically ran through my veins.

Early on in college, I pictured myself as a future Rachel Carson—scribbling groundbreaking findings about coral colonies while sipping kombucha under the academe’s fluorescent glow. (Yes, I romanticized fluorescent lights. I was that delusional.) But that dream unraveled faster than a loose thread on an H&M sweater.

You see, marine biology wasn’t all about “saving the oceans” and Jacques Cousteau vibes. It was spreadsheets. Endless lab work. Dissections. And gallons of fish-smelling formaldehyde ruining my jeans. I vividly remember one lecture about mollusk reproductive systems where my professor said something scientifically important, but all I heard was my future crumbling into pieces as my stomach churned. Who gave octopi permission to have THREE hearts, by the way? It felt unnecessarily smug.

It was like dating someone you’re infatuated with—a match on paper—but deep down, you know the chemistry isn’t right. The spark was gone. I was faking it, turning in subpar lab reports, and wondering if I’d picked the right ocean to dive into.

That One Semester

I realized things were spiraling when I failed Introduction to Oceanographic Data Analysis. Hard. Think “scoring-lower-than-your-classmate-who-cut-half-of-their-lectures” hard. I remember looking at the exam results and wanting to sink into La Jolla’s deepest kelp forest, never to emerge.

Failure does this thing where it forces you into reflection, whether you’re ready or not. For me, it wasn’t just the sting of a 48% (I can laugh about it now). What gutted me was the nagging realization: I didn’t belong in this world as much as I wished I did. My grades were receipts confirming the truth I didn’t want to face.

But when one wave crashes, another sneaks up behind it. Around this time, I found myself inexplicably drawn to UCSD’s creative writing department. Initially, it was a detour—a single course I signed up for while procrastinating on marine biology assignments. It wasn’t meant to be “serious.”

And yet.

One essay, one journal submission, and one beautifully compassionate professor later, I officially jumped ship. Leaving marine biology wasn’t just a pivot; it was a free-fall into uncertainty. Would everyone think I was giving up? How would I explain the switch? Would my parents—saints though they were—secretly be disappointed in their newly minted “artsy” kid?

What Comes After the Plunge

Here’s the funny thing about failure: it’s like the ocean itself. Waves knock you down, but they also teach you how to swim. And no one gets through life without a little salt in their hair.

Looking back, failing at marine biology wasn’t the calamity I’d made it out to be. It was a detour that rerouted me toward something I was actually good at. Creative writing not only filled me with joy; it reintroduced me to myself. It didn’t hurt that I could still nerd out about marine ecosystems—just now in an artsy, Joan Didion-ish way that didn’t require dissecting squids or crunching data at 3 a.m.

Some might say, “Okay, Julianne, cool story, but how does this relate to relationships or life in general?” Glad you asked.

Lessons From Failure (So You Don’t Have to Crash and Burn Like Me)

  1. Face Reality Early, Not Late:
    If you’re questioning something—your career, your relationship, or even that expensive pottery class—listen to your gut. Denying what you really feel only drags out the inevitable. The sooner I admitted I wasn’t vibing with mollusk labs, the less time I wasted.

  2. Permission to Pivot:
    Changing direction isn’t quitting. Nobody’s going to hand you a life map and say, “This is the correct route.” In dating, this means dodging red flags or leaving relationships without needing a dramatic excuse. In work, it’s okay to outgrow Plan A and start sketching Plan B.

  3. Failing Means You Tried:
    Let’s normalize talking about failures without adding a side of shame fries. Not everything we attempt is meant to be a highlight reel, and that’s fine. My epic bio flop? It’s just proof I gave it a shot. Experimented. Grew.

  4. Find Humor in the Hot Mess:
    Trust me, laughing through the chaos helps. It’s like remembering how every ex you've ghosted has probably written their own texts full of typos. A dose of self-aware humor makes failure a lot less daunting.

  5. Own Your Story:
    My failed marine bio stint? It’s part of who I am. Failures shape us, just like triumphs, hot summer romances, and questionable bangs from fifth grade. Own your lows with the same pride you own your highs—they make life feel full.

Saltwater and Fresh Starts

When I’m down by the surf these days—watching the water sparkle and the surfers' rhythmic dance—I don’t feel regret. Marine biology may not have lasted, but it connected me to my deeper passions, and I’ll always carry the lessons with me (as well as a random file of mollusk trivia for cocktail parties).

So, if you’re floundering in your own tidepool of failure, remember: it’s just one chapter, not the whole story. Maybe this detour is pointing you toward something greater, something truer, something you. Just don’t be afraid to ride the wave and see where it takes you.

The ocean’s big, after all. And there’s plenty of room for new beginnings.