It is no secret that change can be difficult, but no one can adequately prepare you for the great transition into adulthood. Despite an infinite amount of advice, experience is the best teacher; unfortunately, experience is tough to set up a meeting with. In high school, we dealt with minor stresses and shrugged financial responsibilities onto our parents. We complained about how hard life was, but in hindsight it was a cakewalk. Graduation was surreal and summer slipped into autumn all too quickly. The buffer time was up, and it was time to face reality. Before I knew it, it was my last night in my quaint home of eighteen years. I sat motionless on the edge of my bed, taking in my now-empty room. “This is it,” I whispered. The grand transport of my life-long collection of clutter into my dorm was nothing short of catastrophe, followed by an eerie calm. After my family bid their farewells and left, I found myself once again sitting alone. Only this time, it was in my new, spacious 15x15 cubicle. Now what. For the next two weeks or so, chaos ensued: awkward introductions, unreliable Wi-Fi, unreliable community bathrooms, finding my way to the wrong class, apologizing and stumbling to the right class. Just like high school, the first semester is the toughest. Unlike high school, you’re on your own. Countless distractions, the struggle to find healthy balance, the struggle to find healthy food, the struggle to climb into your bunk bed that is much too high. It is easy to become discouraged, feeling as though you are stuck in a permanent state of unproductivity and purposelessness. You are surrounded by people at all times, but somehow you manage to feel lonely. And you haven’t called your mother in a week, you asshole. “I’m in a rut,” I complain. “It is hard to find time to do what I love, when I am caught up in pointless classes that are irrelevant to my major. I am tired of jumping through the hoops of blasé routine. Also, boys don’t talk to me here. I have made like three friends. And I still can’t do laundry.” I was plagued by the possibility that perhaps I was unable to adapt. I never had this problem before, so why now? I firmly believed I would end up one of those poor souls who reference the “glory days” with a tone of both wistfulness and bitterness. I peaked in high school, I resolved. There was no other explanation. I saw my friends enjoying college so much, and I wondered if they empathized with any of my concerns. I felt a sting of sadness when they would reference their childhood homes as their “parent’s house.” No, that is your house still, I’d argue. As time went on, things got better, as they always seem to do in the end. I found myself calling my dorm “home” and slowly acclimating myself the certain uncertainty of college. I found solace in the ability to be still, whilst living a lifestyle of tumult and motion. I guess this whole time I had been wondering when I would finally find myself in this endless quest for self-discovery, but the answer is now clear: there is no destination for knowing your own identity; you simply find yourself along the way.
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