Chapter 11, Should I Postpone My MBA?, explores the difficult balance between personal loss and academic ambition. As Efraín Ochoa navigates grief, support from friends and faculty helps him decide whether to press on or step back, revealing the resilience needed to face life’s toughest moments.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 11

The Mexican gang’s insider knowledge became an invaluable resource. As we shared stories about our sections, I realized how fortunate I was. My section, unlike some others, felt harmonious and cohesive. Another Mexican classmate was part of it, which added to the camaraderie.

We built a tight-knit community, frequently socializing outside of class—birthday parties, celebrations, and impromptu gatherings. There were no cliques or the social hierarchies that can make even graduate school feel like high school. It was refreshing to be part of a group that genuinely enjoyed each other’s company.

The same couldn’t be said for other sections. Horror stories circulated about factions forming, creating exclusionary groups that left some classmates isolated. Cliques ruled certain sections, and from these emerged the notorious “d-bags”—those who reveled in making life harder for others. I would soon learn just how important a supportive section could be.

One morning, as I dragged myself to class at 7 AM, still groggy from sleep, my phone buzzed with a series of frantic messages and missed calls. My heart raced. Then came the call that changed everything—my cousin’s panicked voice on the other end urging me to return to Mexico immediately.

My father’s condition had deteriorated. “Come back now. It’s only a matter of time,” the doctor had said. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. The room spun, and I had to grab the edge of a desk to steady myself.

I rushed home, packing in a haze of panic and disbelief. I informed my roommate of the situation, leaving behind my credit card and ID so that my friends could still attend the Pearl Jam concert we had planned for the next day. At least someone would enjoy Eddie Vedder’s soaring vocals and Mike McCready’s legendary guitar solos. I had just attended the second show of Pearl Jam´s residency at Universal City the previous night and all the happiness I felt evaporated in a second.

I sent a brief message to my classmates and teammates, apologizing for my sudden absence and explaining the circumstances. My mind wasn’t in it. I was already gone, muddled, mentally preparing for the uncertain road ahead.

Eduardo, my fellow Mexican classmate, stepped in to notify our professors and explain my absence for the week. His support meant more than I could express, a reminder that even amidst academic competition, friendship and solidarity prevailed.

The journey back to Mexico was a blur of anxiety and fear. I didn’t know if I’d make it in time to say goodbye.

When I arrived, there was relief—bittersweet but comforting. My father hadn’t passed away. We shared precious moments together, and though his condition was fragile, those brief interactions felt like borrowed time.

I returned to LA that Sunday, ready to dive back into classes the next day. My father’s resilience had always been a source of inspiration, and I knew he would want me to continue my studies.

Upon my return, one of the deans met with me to discuss my options. I could take a leave of absence and return the following year, drop some classes, or continue with my full course load. The dean advised me to notify all my professors, ensuring they were aware of the situation and could offer accommodations if needed.

Despite feeling drained and overwhelmed, I decided to push forward. I wasn’t ready to slow down.

A few days passed, but then, at 2 AM, the phone rang again.

My father was gone.

I booked the earliest flight out—7 AM to Mexico City. Grief swallowed me whole.

Before leaving, I sent another message to my classmates, asking them to notify my professors of my absence. Funerals, paperwork, and the aftermath awaited me, but I didn’t have the energy to think beyond the immediate.

Since my father got extremely ill back in 2005, I always felt like the song “Sometimes you can´t make it on you own” by U2, had a special connection to my situation. But wrote that song for his father, who died of Parkinson´s. Exactly the same disease that took mine away from me. As I was about to go to the Gate, I put my headphones on and pressed shuffle, and serendipitously that song started. I couldn´t hold back the tears as it felt like my father was saying goodbye.

The days that followed blurred into a series of emotional highs and lows—family gatherings, memories shared, and long-held grief finally surfacing. It wasn’t until I took my mom out for dinner that the reality truly sank in. Over our meal, we talked about the future—what life would look like for her now, the places she wanted to visit, and the things she had put off.

On a whim, we decided to plan a trip to Japan. It was our way of stepping away from the weight of the past few days, something to look forward to amidst the loss.

I returned to LA the day before the U2 concert at the Rose Bowl. It was a sold-out event—tens of thousands of fans packed the stadium. For me, it was more than a concert. As Bono’s voice soared through the night sky, tears streamed down my face. They weren’t tears I had shed at the funeral, but ones that had been building for weeks.

The music broke something open. It was cathartic, a release I hadn’t realized I heartily needed.

Back at school, professors and classmates met me with empathy and kindness. They offered support, extensions, and encouragement. Their compassion became a lifeline as I navigated the emotional toll of grief alongside the demands of academia.

Despite this, the weight of everything slowly caught up with me. The workload felt heavier, and I struggled to keep pace. I realized I couldn’t handle it all and made the difficult decision to drop my accounting class.

The professor offered assistance, but I knew it was futile. Continuing felt like treading water with an anchor tied to my leg. I let it go, reminding myself that sometimes stepping back is the only way to move forward.

Even as I maintained a facade of normalcy, the emotional strain lingered beneath the surface. Visits from my mom, cousin, and aunt provided a temporary escape. I played tour guide, showing them around Disneyland, using the distraction to mask the underlying unease.

But even at Disneyland, as they enjoyed the magic of the park, I studied for my statistics test. I could feel the creeping shadow of anxiety and depression. The countdown to the semester’s end became a mantra—three more weeks, then I could breathe.

Yet doubts whispered: “What if the problem isn’t the semester? What if it’s something deeper?”

I confided in Eduardo. He listened as I vented about statistics and finance, the two courses weighing on me the most. Eduardo reassured me—the statistics professor, who was also the dean, understood my situation and wouldn’t fail me. He encouraged me to talk to the finance professor, which I did.

In his office, I explained everything. The professor’s response was unexpectedly generous—he allowed me to take the final exam anytime over the holidays. The weight that lifted off my shoulders felt tangible.

I made it through the quarter, passed all my exams, and left for Japan with my mom.

On the second day of our trip, I had a panic attack. Navigating unfamiliar streets and planning simple outings felt overwhelming. At one point, I considered cutting the trip short.

My mom’s psychiatrist suggested she share her medication with me to help manage the symptoms. It worked, and the trip became more manageable.

Back in Mexico for winter break, I sought help. A psychiatrist prescribed medication for anxiety and stress, urging regular check-ins to monitor my progress. I realized how much I had pushed myself—between my father’s illness, living alone for the first time, and the intensity of the MBA, the weight had been too much.

Dropping out or returning to Mexico crossed my mind, but I couldn’t quit. I had come too far.

Returning to LA, a night out with friends reminded me why I stayed. Their support gave me strength, and as the new semester began, I faced it with renewed purpose.

Fate marked my return to Mexico with an unexpected visit from a couple of MBA friends. We spent the evening exploring the city’s nightlife—hopping between bars and clubs, exchanging stories about our holiday traditions. I relished introducing them to Mexico’s rich cultural heritage, regaling them with tales of posadas and festive customs.

As we said our goodbyes, they departed for Cuba, eager to embark on their own adventures. I felt rejuvenated, the warmth of our impromptu gathering lifting my spirits. The winter break had been one of introspection and lingering self-doubt, but with the support of my friends and renewed determination, I felt ready to face the semester ahead.