In Chapter 12, “Mental Health,” Efraín reflects on the emotional challenges that accompanied his MBA journey—grief, burnout, and the subtle sense of disconnection from his surroundings. Amid parties and coursework, he confronts the limitations of university mental health support and begins to question the true value of the experience. This chapter offers a candid look at the inner struggles many students face behind the polished image of business school.

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 12 “Mental Health”

Later, an invitation arrived for a house party hosted by a different crowd—local American guys from the “cool kids” circle. I hadn’t spent much time with them before; my focus had been elsewhere, mainly on coping with my father’s death.

The party was quintessentially American—beer pong, loud music, and generous amounts of alcohol. I mingled, made new friends, and enjoyed the novelty of the experience, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t quite fit in with this crowd.

In hindsight, I realized I felt more at home with my section mates or among international students. Something about shared experiences, similar struggles, and diverse backgrounds created a stronger sense of belonging.

A conversation with a close Mexican friend lingered in my mind. He cautioned me against limiting myself to our circle of Mexican classmates. “We didn’t travel all the way to Los Angeles just to meet more people from Mexico,” he had said. His advice stayed with me, nudging me to connect with people from all over the world, to widen my perspective.

Despite the support from friends, I sought additional ways to cope with my grief. Alongside my regular psychiatrist visits every six weeks to monitor medication, I tried to find mental health resources at UCLA.

The search was frustrating. I couldn’t find the kind of specialist I needed. For a university as renowned as UCLA, the lack of robust mental health support was disheartening. I thought about how many other students, facing personal losses or challenges, might find themselves equally adrift.

The experience underscored how vital comprehensive mental health services are—especially in environments like business school, where pressure and personal struggles often intersect. I hoped UCLA would eventually address this gap, ensuring future students wouldn’t have to navigate grief and stress alone.

January ushered in the familiar rhythms of academic life. Classes resumed, coursework piled up, and I eased into the second quarter. Market research in marketing, additional finance classes, and other subjects mirrored the rigor of the first quarter, though the workload felt slightly more manageable. With internship season approaching, the lighter load allowed time to explore potential opportunities.

Yet, burnout loomed in the background. The emotional strain from the previous quarter lingered, and the temptation to drop out persisted. I questioned whether the MBA was worth it.

Seeking clarity, I reached out to second-year students and classmates, hoping for some perspective. What I discovered surprised me—nearly 30% of our class shared similar feelings. For many, the MBA hadn’t met expectations. Some questioned the value of the program, wondering if the investment aligned with their goals.

Knowing I wasn’t alone in my doubts was reassuring. The revelation eased some of the pressure, reminding me that disillusionment was part of the experience for many.

With this newfound understanding, I began reevaluating my own goals. Why had I pursued an MBA in the first place? Was it still aligned with what I wanted for my future? The pondering was uncomfortable but necessary.

But as much as I tried to move forward, the existential crisis that had been brewing within me boiled over. I questioned everything—my choices, my path, even my place in LA.

In a fleeting moment of desperation, I reached out to universities in Mexico, asking about transferring credits and abandoning my MBA altogether. To my relief—or perhaps disappointment—most of them rejected the idea outright. I was forced to confront the reality of my situation: I needed to see this through.

At the same time, I toyed with the idea of pivoting toward something drastically different. I briefly entertained applying for a master’s in music business at NYU. The allure of the music industry, the prospect of starting fresh, was tempting.

But the thought of uprooting my life yet again felt exhausting. I lacked the strength to start over, to abandon everything I had built. As much as the idea sparked excitement, it wasn’t practical.

Still, the moment of introspection left its mark. I realized my desire to leave wasn’t just about academics. It was about reassessing my priorities and asking myself deeper questions about what I truly wanted.

I loved the friendships I had built in the States, but something about the environment felt off—specious, even. LA, the epicenter of make-believe, started to lose its charm. Hollywood’s glamour no longer held the same appeal.

As I peeled back the layers, I discovered that my heart wasn’t set on staying in the U.S. after graduation. I had come to appreciate my time in the MBA program, but I felt a growing pull to return to my roots.

The experience had been valuable, but I realized my future lay elsewhere. And with that realization came a quiet sense of peace—the first I had felt in a long time.