My first semester was the stuff of dreams. I became a part of a lot of student organizations, had two books of mine published that I had been working on for a year and a half, and met some of my best friends. My GPA was something I was proud of, and I was incredibly happy with who I had grown into as an adult transitioning into the world of signing leases, doing laundry and trying to remember to eat three times a day.

Now, as I mentally prepare myself for paying way more for textbooks than I should and walking in the snow to class, I realize that freshman year is almost over.

In May, I will say goodbye to my roommate and my meal swipes. I will no longer be held under the bylaws of residence halls. I'll start entering into classes that are more specific to my major, and soon say farewell to my 100 level classes and wish that the burn of 200 didn't scar so badly.

This year changed me as a person in the most amazing way. I saw parts of the world I didn't want to, which allowed me to be so much more open-minded. I met people who came from the same places as me and shared similar stories; I bonded with friends I'd been dreaming of having my whole life. I met professors who shaped me into a better student, and a better writer; these people pushed me to tears in the best way. The scary, gray abyss that college became a place called home.

Thinking about my second semester, I feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment; I am one step closer to the career I've dreamed of pursuing my whole life. I get to enjoy all of the perks of freshman year now, but this time around actually knowing what I'm doing (to some effect, anyway).

It's hard coming to the realization that one out of four years of the best times of your life is almost gone. There's a sadness that lays there; a feeling of loss, even despair. Freshman year is unlike anything else; I don't want to lose it too soon.