In the summer before my junior year, I made the decision to shift from Management to English Literature. It was around that time that a few of my friends decided to shift out of their initial courses as well. And it was then that I realized that the more people changed courses, the more others had to say about the trend.

There is a certain stigma that sometimes comes with changing one’s major. The inability or unwillingness to fulfill one’s initial major already hints at a form of undesirable fickleness. On top of that, shifting to a course perceived as “easier” than one’s previous course welcomes remarks about one’s capabilities, or lack thereof (as if intelligence were measured by one’s performance in calculus or physics alone). Shifting to a course perceived as “more difficult” than one’s previous course, on the other hand, triggers questions such as, “Sure ka ba na kaya mo ‘yan (Are you sure you can take it)?”

There are those in a state of flux—jumping from major to major in the hope of finding the perfect fit. And, of course, with the change in one’s major bound to affect their individual curricula, one’s expected date of graduation may also change—the rift between the shiftee and their original block and batch expanding.

Needless to say, shiftee life is different—both from non-shiftee life and from other types of shiftees. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

There were less than 20 of us in my first class as an official English literature junior. Sitting in a circle in a quiet classroom, we closed our eyes in an attempt to imagine the world—setting, characters, plot, etc.—of our favorite Shakespeare tragedy. My mind raced with images of Desdemona’s strawberry-embroidered handkerchief, Iago’s sly monologues, Othello’s naiveté and despair, and the darkness of the night that encompassed more than half the play. The exercise was an apt welcome into my course; at that moment, I could not even begin to imagine the vastness of the literary world—a world I had been depriving myself of the past two years.

I suspect that this feeling is common to most shiftees—the familiar relief, the newfound drive to catch up on the lessons missed, and the passion to prove oneself in a new course and in a new block.

In my opinion, this post-shift uplift outweighs whatever form of judgment (most of which, unmerited) is passed on shiftees. After all, it is their lives and their futures at stake—not ours. And though many aspects may have depended on their success in their initial courses, they would have been anything but sustainable without willpower. While one’s course is a good outlet and indication of one’s direction, it can neither predict one’s future nor dictate one’s being. It especially does not ensure one’s happiness.

I opened my eyes and glanced at my professor and the students seated around me. They, too, had worlds of Shakespeare’s tragedies intricately wound around and within their imaginations, and they, too, seemed like they were stuck in a state of wonder—one of whom, the most so. My co-shiftee had a smile on her face, and I just knew that she was happy.