Two Weeks, No Full Night’s Sleep How I Won—and Lost—Chasing My Goal

It was the final year of university, the second semester drawing to a close, and the pressure was mounting. Amid overlapping assignments, my team and I embarked on an ambitious group project for a final module that directly impacted our grades. The project had two parts: half the team, including the programmers, was tasked with building a game engine, while the other half focused on creating the game itself using the tools and systems provided by the engine. With just one month to bring our vision to life, we were determined to succeed, though the timeline was unrelentingly tight.

Our team of seven worked seamlessly at first, collaborating and making steady progress. Each member brought their strengths to the table, and our game was taking shape. For the first few weeks, everything seemed on track. But everything changed when our grades for other modules were released.

The Turning Point

That day, I calculated my final grade trajectory and realized I needed a first-class mark on this project to secure an overall first-class degree. I spoke with my teammates about their grade goals and discovered that the majority of them only needed a 2:1 to achieve their final target grades. This left me as the only one requiring a first-class mark, turning the project into a deeply personal challenge for me—one that transcended being just an assignment.

Earlier that year, my grandmother had passed away. Her loss had shaken me profoundly, but I clung to the knowledge that she had been proud of my academic progress. I’d imagined celebrating graduation with her, sharing that moment of achievement. Achieving a first-class degree became my way of honoring her memory—an emotional promise to myself that felt non-negotiable.

Pushing Beyond Limits

I faced a dilemma: I couldn’t demand more effort from my teammates, who were already satisfied with their contributions. When I spoke to them, I made it clear that my goal was to secure a first-class grade from this group project to achieve a first overall, but I didn’t share the deeper, personal reasons behind it. Instead, I resolved to lead by example, taking on additional responsibilities. I handled the base boilerplate, rendering, positioning, and editor UI systems, ensuring the project stayed on course. But as the deadline loomed, it became clear the game wasn’t coming together as I’d hoped.

Determined to succeed, I pushed myself harder. In the final two weeks, I adopted an unsustainable routine: working through the night, sleeping only six hours every two days. I tried every trick to stay awake—cold showers, caffeine, high-calorie snacks, push-ups, and sticking my head out of a window in my room to let the cold air wake me up. My grief and self-imposed pressure fueled me, but the strain began to show. Even my teammates expressed concern for my well-being.

The Aftermath

When the project was submitted, I’d accomplished my goal—just enough to secure a first-class degree. But the cost was immense. The burnout hit me like a tsunami, leaving me unable to engage with programming for months. The passion that had once brought me joy felt drained, and I struggled to apply for jobs, weighed down by exhaustion and self-doubt.

During my recovery, I reflected on the choices I’d made. While I honored my promise to my grandmother, I realized the price I paid—my health, happiness, and my love of programming—was far too high. It was a harsh but valuable lesson.

A Cautionary Tale

Looking back, those two weeks changed me, but not for the reasons I expected. University had already transformed me over three years, taking me from someone who struggled to socialize and keep up academically to someone who could program a self-driving car from scratch, build virtual worlds with just a keyboard, and find a close group of friends who shared my passion for creating and learning.

But those final weeks taught me something deeper: relentless effort fueled by grief and pressure is not sustainable. For anyone channeling pain or anger into work as a coping mechanism, I urge caution. That fuel burns out, leaving behind only exhaustion.

During those sleepless nights, I thought I was proving something to the world, to my grandmother, or maybe to myself. But standing over her grave after achieving my first-class degree, I realized she would have been proud of me no matter what. She wouldn’t have wanted me to sacrifice my well-being for an ideal she never imposed on me.

The Real Lesson

In the end, the only thing that sustains you is genuine love for what you do. For me, that’s programming. Pursuing what you love allows you to endure challenges without sacrificing your health or happiness. Grades and external expectations can’t compare to the intrinsic joy of creating something meaningful.

If I could go back, I’d remind myself to find balance, to let passion guide me rather than pressure. I’d tell myself that the moments of connection, growth, and joy are what truly matter—not what is written on my degree.

Final Reflections

Those two weeks of sleepless nights are a vivid memory, but they’re only a fragment of my university journey. In three years, I transformed from a struggling student into a competent developer. Most days, I’m proud of how far I pushed myself. But I’ll always question if it was worth the sleepless nights, the burnout, and the sacrifices.

Sometimes, the greatest lesson isn’t about how hard you worked but about understanding when to stop, reflect, and prioritize what truly matters.