During a recent meal at a Harvard dining hall, I was asked about my drab plate of rice and vegetables. “So why’d you become vegetarian?” It is a question that I’m asked frequently, but this time I paused and thought a little harder.

I decided to become a pescatarian during my gap year two years ago. I stopped eating meat and began limiting my consumption of eggs and dairy for humanistic, principled reasons. Like other high-minded liberals, I believed I was single-handedly saving the environment and taking a stand on factory farming.

It wasn’t easy in the beginning. Turning down Grandma Malki’s brisket and forgoing Thanksgiving turkey was a real challenge. But I had a strong moral conviction that my choices were saving animals from unnecessary cruelty and reducing greenhouse gasses in the atmosphere. My carnivorous desires were strong, but my ideals were stronger.

So, when asked recently why “vegetarianism,” I was about to launch into my whole spiel about the environment and the evils of factory farming. But, it wouldn’t be genuine. To be honest, I no longer lose sleep over these things. Sure, on an intellectual level I still think it is important to reduce greenhouse gases. But I used to be passionate about my principles. Ideas mattered and were worthy of high levels of personal sacrifice.

Idealism no longer shapes my everyday decisions as it once did. Inertia has maintained my vegetarianism for the time being, but it is merely a tribute to an ever-fading more idealistic self.

I often think about the demise of my idealism at Harvard. Unfortunately, it’s not just a “me problem.” I’ve heard similar sentiments from other students. Though many students continue to be active in service and advocacy projects on campus, I’ve heard from many of them that their passion to “fix the world” has dulled throughout their college years.

These feelings lead to the prevalent “selling out” phenomenon in which some idealistic students shelve their aspirations in public service or social justice in order to pursue more lucrative careers. Less than 10% of the Class of 2019 came to Harvard dreaming of a career in finance or consulting, yet 35% entered these sectors post-graduation. I once thought I wanted to become a high school history teacher — an ambition I’ve since abandoned.

It’s strange that ideals are cast aside at an institution of higher learning where they should reign. Perhaps it is merely a natural effect of young dreamers maturing and becoming jaded by the real world, but I think that something else is at work; I think the daily schedule of a college student leads to selfishness.

In college, the workload is heavy and class time is fairly light. As a result, the majority of students’ days are spent studying, working on problem sets, and writing papers. Classes, extracurriculars, and social life sporadically break up otherwise continuous stretches of work. The value of a period of time in college is measured in the amount of work that can be performed within it.

Not only does schoolwork occupy the majority of time in college, it also occupies the majority of space in students’ heads. When asking a friend on campus how he or she is doing, the response is often about the stress induced by an upcoming midterm or paper deadline. I’m afraid that obsession with the endless amounts of schoolwork has hijacked our minds. By forcing us to devote so much mental energy to our personal challenges, work dulls the world beyond ourselves. An unfortunate side effect of academic rigor can be moral decay.

Of course, classwork is extremely important to our development as students. It refines our critical thinking skills and work ethic. But, students must be cognizant that overwork can become an unhealthy obsession. It can lead to caring only about ourselves and isolates us from the outside world.

I worry about my own idealism. During my gap year, when academic pressure did not exist, I spent a lot of time pontificating about the world and my place in it. I thought often about societal issues. It was a time when I could easily make a rash decision to give up eating my favorite foods due to an impassioned dedication to principles.

Is it possible for me to revitalize those feelings here at Harvard? I hope so. This semester, my goal will be to think beyond myself more. I hope not to get stuck on the academic hamster wheel. When I’m walking around campus and my mind begins to wander, I wish to think about the larger issues I used to care so deeply about, instead of all the looming deadlines that have constantly occupied me during past semesters.

I will likely fall short. My past experience with midterm and final seasons has shown me how intoxicating the grind of classwork can become. But, after a long winter break of introspection, I know that I can care a little harder and do a little better. My New Year’s resolution is to rekindle my relationship with my neglected idealistic side and, once again, answer the “why vegetarian?” question with passion.

Jonathan L. Katzman ’22, a Crimson Editorial editor, is a History concentrator in Dunster House.