“Look to your left. Look to your right. By Thanksgiving, one of your neighbors won’t be here.”

The teacher at the front of the auditorium addresses the crowd of 15- and 16-year olds planning to enroll in Advanced Placement United States History. Amidst a sea of nervousness, I cross my arms and straighten my back, confident that I will do well in this course.

Six years later, on a chilly evening in March, I trudge into a basement lecture hall. As I slide into my seat, the director of undergraduate studies in my concentration congratulates the assembled seniors. “There were 66 people in the sophomore tutorial. 51 of you have successfully turned in your theses. That’s not something everyone can do!”

One by one, images of my classmates who will not graduate with me this May flash before my eyes: those who left school to take care of their families; those who could no longer afford tuition (contrary to legend, Harvard financial aid sometimes doesn’t work out!); those who had been forced out when the university failed to provide them with the physical or mental health services that they needed. Most of them will come back. Some will not.

The director of studies beams. I am supposed to be proud, but instead I am sad, angry.

As I listen, my mind fades out of the lecture hall and into dorm rooms, laundry rooms, basement corridors, the banks of the Charles—those places marked by late-night crises, tears, hugs.

“I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to make him stop.”

“I need to go. I need to make sure that she doesn’t die. I’m the only one who can be strong.”

“I can’t do it anymore. I give up.”

By and large, these painful stories are hidden from public view. There is something shameful here about admitting to defeat, admitting that we have not overcome all of the obstacles we have faced. Harvard is the “best” school in the country (read: we are the most likely to reject our applicants); we celebrate success. We praise each year’s Rhodes Scholars and Phi Beta Kappa inductees, and the Crimson even runs glowing profiles of students who drop out to start companies, compete in the Olympics, or dance professional ballet.

Those who can’t be placed into narratives of achievement disappear from Harvard’s collective consciousness. We laud those who are succeeding and ignore our classmates’ struggles.

The director of studies tells us that consulting firms love to hire thesis-writers. In other words, the intellectual or social value of our theses pales in comparison to their symbolic value and their utility in helping us gain more success.

Again, my mind fades out of the lecture hall and into my own bed. Overwhelmed by depression, I can barely bring myself to shower, let alone conduct research or write. Thinking back on these times, I know that I was saved by lifelines of privilege—automatic faculty sympathy thanks to my white skin, a supportive family just a few miles away, financial stability. These lifelines have allowed me to mess up, to behave “irresponsibly,” to go through various troubles and pains, and still be deemed successful.

As commencement approaches, Harvard will encourage my classmates and me to think of our college years as times of happiness, success, and achievement. We drink champagne in Annenberg and reminisce about good memories; we are instructed to think of our bright futures ahead.

And what of our friends whose futures look less bright? Why think of them when we have fellowships and job offers and grad school acceptances ahead of us? We worked hard. We pursued our passions. We have succeeded. We are the chosen, the elect.