At my twin sister’s graduation, my father lifted his camera for her name—then the dean said, “Please welcome Francis Townsend, our valedictorian and Whitfield Scholar,” and the man who once told me, “You’re smart, but you’re not special. There’s no return on investment with you,” went completely still as I walked toward the podium he never imagined I’d stand on.

Total: $1,500 per month, roughly $18,000 a year. Still $7,000 short of tuition.

That gap would have to come from scholarships, merit-based ones. The kind you earn, not the kind you’re handed.

I found the cheapest housing option within walking distance of campus. A tiny room in a house shared with four other students. $300 a month, utilities included. No parking, no AC, no privacy. It would have to do.

My schedule crystallized into something brutal but precise. Five am, work at the café. Nine am to five pm, classes. Six pm to ten pm, study, work, or TA duties. Sleep: 11 pm to 4 am Four to five hours a night for four years.

The week before I left for college, Victoria posted photos from her Cancun trip with friends, sunset beaches, margaritas, laughter. I was packing my thrift-store comforter into a secondhand suitcase. Our lives were already diverging, and we hadn’t even started yet.

But here’s what kept me going. Every night before sleep, I’d whisper the same thing to myself.

“This is the price of freedom.”

Freedom from their expectations. Freedom from their judgment. Freedom from needing their approval.