After months of writing, rewriting, paying fees, gathering transcripts, and refreshing my inbox, I was fortunate enough to be accepted into two MFA programs and land a spot on a waitlist for a third. I imagine that, even now, I still rest there, remaining timeless, floating next to my pack of almost good enough this year. 

This was my first year of applying. I was delighted to receive those two acceptances. Even so, instead of feeling clarity, I felt fog. 

Perhaps I didn’t have time to process it—all of it—from start to finish. Initial applications went out in December. By mid-April, I was in the throes of the waiting game. That’s half a year for me. For you or your future you, it could be more, depending on how prepared you are, or how much time you are willing to set aside to do it right. 

Or do it better. 

Looking back at my writing sample and letters of intent, I’m frustrated now with what I was okay with submitting. I also recognize I’m being hard on myself. I woked on my samples with very limited hours and energy, and was still flirting with ideas of where to apply.  But, in that time of having no time,it became too late. I’ve since learned that it has to be an investment.

That’s the part that people mention but don’t prepare you for: that while the application is the hustle, the aftermath is the haze, and just as consuming. You spend months investing—financially, emotionally, creatively—and then, suddenly, you’re on the other side.

Accepted. 

Or rejected, without the italicization. 

Both. 

And somehow, that’s when the real uncertainty starts. 

Even before decisions arrived, I had already started living in the what-ifs. I imagined myself walking through new cities and towns. I looked up neighborhood vibes. I checked rent. I compared grocery costs, gas costs—every cost(s). I researched places as if they were already mine. I told myself I was planning—perhaps, really, I was projecting.

The truth is, it’s disorienting. No one prepares you for what it feels like to get what you thought you wanted six months ago. No one tells you that acceptance doesn’t guarantee readiness. 

I reached out to former MFA students to find out if my fog was unusual. Turns out, it’s not. 

“I was either very chill or very nihilistic during the wait period,” said Tyler Friend, a VCFA graduate, “which I think ultimately is a good thing.” They also reprogrammed me with some wise words: “Just because you’ve been accepted doesn’t mean you have to do it.” It seemed obvious once I heard them say it. Perhaps I’d just forgotten. 

Those words carried me through the last couple of weeks during my decision-making period. The idea of reapplying next year didn’t feel like failure. It felt like an option. I can’t say I was as calm as Tyler, though. Not in the slightest. 

Another VCFA grad, Lisa Crowe, gave me another perspective. “I decided to apply to MFA programs when I was a little past 60, so I felt that if I was going to do it, I needed to go ahead and make a move,” she said “I guess I didn’t overthink the decision of which program to go to, and I’m glad.” 

Reflecting on how timing made a quick decision right for Lisa, I thought about my situation a bit differently. I realized I did have some time to prepare for this next step in my writing life, and maybe I needed to lean into that. Let a new version of myself emerge before taking off.

That clarity didn’t arrive overnight. It revealed itself slowly, during the long, quiet stretch where most MFA applicants live—waiting. 

Hilary Bell, out of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, puts the agony best: “Stay away from demented little websites like GradCafe and MFA Draft. It won’t make time move any faster, but it will make you feel like you have sandpaper on your brain.” 

Hilary, I found out, is an “I’ll apply again next year” MFAer. 

I asked her about the viability of waiting for the next enrollment year. “If you’re able to, I would absolutely recommend waiting,” she said. “Applying to more than one round is pretty standard. It’s a big decision, and it shouldn’t be rushed. Rejection is just part of the process (forever), so if you find yourself not getting the answers you want the first time, buck up and try again. Don’t worry about what your peers are doing; it’s not about being on the same timeline as them. It’s about getting the most out of a two or three-year commitment and making the best decision for you.” 

Tyler echoed this sentiment. “I’m a big believer in doing the right thing at the right time…If it doesn’t feel right, waiting and seeing and trying other things might be the way to go.” 

I felt no shame in hearing that. 

There’s quite a spiral that begins in the months between applying and hearing back. You think you’re making progress, and then you’re suddenly reading between lines in accepted emails. You refresh portals. You check subreddit threads. (Guilty as charged, Hilary.) You imagine rejections before they happen, and victories that might never come. 

But eventually, answers arrive. 

And in my case, I answered back, “No thanks.” Twice. (I didn’t respond like that. Don’t respond like that.) 

I didn’t decline because the programs had bad vibes, otherwise, I wouldn’t have applied at all. I declined because I want to walk into this next stage of my life knowing I’ve given myself the best chance—creatively, logistically, financially. I want to be less burnt out. Less rushed. More sure. I plan to have a better plan and apply with clearer eyes and a better sample.

Take it from a poet, currently enrolled in a fiction workshop, writing on a nonfiction platform: Deciding not to decide still counts as a decision in the realm of MFAs.

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