(This was me channeling my inner Craig Kilborn, a parody of the self-importance I carried through high school and years past. I don’t actually think this highly of myself anymore, I assure you.)

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After two years of toiling in the unforgiving vineyards of political consulting, former wunderkind, ex-journalist, and current urban planning student Arjav Rawal has resurfaced. Extremely humbled, not broken, but marginally better with spreadsheets.

In this exclusive sit-down with the only person audacious enough to ask tough questions – himself – Arjav unpacks the end of his first semester back in academia, his rejection of professional burnout, and his newfound love for zoning ordinances.

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First things first: where the hell have you been?

Spiritually, floating face-down in a sea of unread Slack threads. Academically, rediscovering what a syllabus is. And personally, nesting like a sleep-deprived barn owl in the corner of a campus library, muttering “raster analysis” like it’s a prayer and a threat.

So… school. Again.

Yes. Because my preferred form of self-harm is not recreational drug use or skydiving, it’s returning to undergrad in my late twenties with a full-time job, a full-time fiancée, and a part-time vendetta against ArcGIS.

Be honest. Was this your first attempt at going back?

I am many things: A Capricorn who occasionally moonlights as a Sagittarius, a high school debate kid turned GED holder, and a three-time college dropout. So no.

There was my own personal Kansas Experiment, where my academic commitment lasted roughly the same length as a drive-thru line. There was Des Moines, where I enrolled out of guilt and logged in out of boredom. Then, right before I got the job at The Reader, an attempt at an online degree from Bellevue University, which I ghosted so hard it sent me a “you up?” email two years later.

But this time… This time was different. This time I knew what I was escaping from.

Which was…

Campaign hell. A place where hopes go to die and “untitled document” Google Docs go to multiply. Where people say things like “authentic branding” with a straight face and think “voter enthusiasm” can be manufactured with Canva templates, endless tweets, and passive-aggressive Slack reminders.

So what finally broke you?

The 2024 election. Or more accurately, the sinking realization that I wasn’t building anything anymore, just repackaging loss as strategy and burnout as leadership. I didn’t leave journalism to write fundraising emails for people who think “public service” means leasing a Lexus.

So… urban planning?

Yes. I’d written about bike lanes and streetcars, as well as wind energy, while I was at The Reader, and was unable to let go of the rabbit hole I fell into through that process. And once we moved to Phoenix, I couldn’t stop fuming about how generations of consenting adults and educated professionals thought that *gestures wildly at everything* made sense.

So I now spend my evenings reading about shade structures, BRT stop spacing, and TOD overlays that don’t make me want to cry.

It wasn’t a lightning bolt, more of a quiet rebellion. A conscious decision to stop spinning and to start building.

What did Ashley say?

She asked me, over and over, “Are you actually going to finish it this time?”

And in her defense, that is what any reasonable person would say after watching me abandon higher education more times than America has abandoned its Paris goals.

But once I told her yes, and proved I meant it, she was all in. Like a well-planned street grid: No drama, all support.

How did the semester go?

I’m pleased to report that I submitted every assignment on time, attended (almost) every class, and only cried once. (I can only hope that my high school teachers would be proud.) I now know what a cost-distance raster is, and I no longer fear the words “digital elevation model.”

Am I still haunted by imposter syndrome and a vague sense of dread? Absolutely. But I stick it in the back of the coat closet (yes, they have those in Phoenix apartments, and I don’t quite know what the point of them is) in a recycled canvas tote bag labeled “mixed-use.”

What was the hardest part?

Being older than some of the grad students. Realizing that while others were doing keg stands, I was stuck figuring out how to properly filter datasets on ArcGIS. Getting asked by other first-year students what dorm I live in and having to reply, “An apartment 40 minutes away with my fiancée and two cats who think they’re my landlords.”

What do you miss about the old life?

The drama. The adrenaline. The false sense of moral superiority that comes with writing “we crushed our fundraising goal” while using incognito mode to Google “would faking death allow me to quit respectfully.”

But I don’t miss who I was: A burnt-out wannabe oracle yelling into the void of politics, hoping someone would hand me a purpose. Instead, I’ve started building my own.

What’s next?

More classes. More maps. More long walks where I point at pedestrian islands like a deranged game show host. More saying things like “Complete Streets” with my whole chest.

Eventually? A job that lets me turn all this into something real.