A 6.5-Year College Story — Because I Waited Too Long to Be Ready

“Why did it take you 6.5 years to graduate?” That question always comes up during interviews. And honestly, I never have a proud answer.

I wasn’t an outstanding student. I wasn’t active in organizations. I wasn’t even particularly “busy.” If I’m honest with myself, it all started with one thing: I didn’t feel ready.

So I procrastinated. Again and again. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because of a vague, shapeless fear—fear of failing, fear of looking stupid, fear of moving forward without knowing where I was going. And the longer I procrastinated, the harder it became to start again. Until one day, “not ready yet” quietly turned into “already too late.”

At that point, it felt like there was no way out except a miracle. Not only because everyone else had moved far ahead, but because I had lost trust in myself.

This is embarrassing to admit, but for a while I became a hikikomori. I locked myself in my room, avoided social interaction, and cut myself off from the world—simply because I felt too far behind and had no idea where to begin.

Only after it was all over could I look back and realize one crucial truth:

Feeling late is far more dangerous than feeling unready.

Feeling unready may cause procrastinate. Feeling late makes you stop.

When you feel late, you begin to surrender. You assume everything has already passed, that dreaming is no longer allowed. And yet, maybe—just maybe—if I had moved forward back then, even without confidence, the outcome wouldn’t have been as bad as I imagined.

And the more I reflected, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about me. It’s about many of us.

There is a dilemma that quietly paralyzes countless people: “I’m not ready yet.” It sounds wise, but often it’s just fear wearing a polite mask.

We wait for the perfect moment, complete readiness, absolute certainty—without knowing when it will come or what we should do to reach it. Time keeps moving, and without realizing it, we slowly drift from not ready to too late.

And here lies life’s cruel irony:

The fear of moving before we’re ready often leads us to the most painful moment of all—when everything feels already too late.

Being late is heavier, because it carries regret and lost time. We envy those who dared earlier. We are haunted by “if only.” And eventually, we don’t just fear failure—we stop trying altogether.

Feeling unready still contains hope. Feeling late feels cold. Silent. Final.

Imagine chasing a train that’s about to leave the station. At first, you hesitate. You feel tired. Unsure if you can run fast enough. But once you start running—despite fear—there’s hope. The train is still there.

Now imagine arriving when the train is already disappearing. What remains is despair. Running feels pointless. Every step heavier than the last.

That’s why feeling late is so dangerous: it drains courage itself.

So what should we do?

If you feel unready, ask yourself: When will I be ready? If you don’t have a clear answer, that’s your sign to move now.

Readiness is not something that arrives first. It is something that forms while moving—through trying, failing, learning, and growing.

Bravery doesn’t mean the absence of fear. It means moving despite it.

Fear is deeply human. It’s not weakness—it’s awareness. Without fear, we wouldn’t survive. Fear makes us careful.

A professional rock climber still feels fear while hanging hundreds of meters above the ground. That fear makes them double-check their ropes, test their grip, and stay alive. A climber without fear would die quickly—not because the world is cruel, but because they ignored it.

Fear is a signal to act wisely, not a reason to stop.

Those 6.5 years remain one of the darkest periods of my life. But finishing—late by many standards—became my greatest turning point.

From that experience, I learned what fear truly looks like. How procrastination quietly cripples. And most importantly: any step forward, no matter how small, is better than waiting for readiness that never comes.

I won’t repeat the same mistake. If I fall again, I won’t stay still. I’ll keep moving.

Because that, it turns out, is the only way to grow.

And yes—despite the regret, I’m grateful I lived through it. Because that was where I began to meet the best version of myself.