For a few weeks before my roommate figured out how to set up a timer, I was routinely blinded every night by the ten gallon fish tank that sat on her desk. I had done quite a bit of internal screaming the day she had shown up in our bedroom with the empty glass fish prison. Not to mention a sack of rainbow gravel and a bucket the size of a toddler that her boyfriend dragged in after her. You can imagine then, that I was less than thrilled when the LED lights with a brightness comparable to staring directly into the sun were installed in the tank. Then, of course, came the water, a dark green sucker fish, and five teeny-tiny, brightly-colored guppies. After a few nights, the brightness that had once infuriated me became almost a comfort. It was no longer a bother, but more of an eccentric, fishy night light. I began to find myself spending long spans of time observing the little fish in their great big aquarium.

I realized quickly that I shared a very common storyline with my new “roommates.” Like me, the guppies had been transplanted in a completely new setting which, while terribly exciting, was also unimaginably different from the one in which we had lived before. I’ll never know what it feels like to move from a crowded tank in a pet store to an entirely new place overnight, but I’d bet it feels a lot like moving from my sheltered suburban bubble in LA to San Francisco. The transition to college is hard enough, but the little fish in a big pond metaphor felt like it applied even more when I moved to a big, iconic city on my own. The city was my new tank, and I was learning, along with the fish, that a drastic change in environment takes a lot of adjusting. The five fish have persevered against the odds and managed to thrive in their new environment, giving me the hope that I can do the same. The first fish my roommate brought home died on it’s second day in our room, but thankfully, I have adapted to my new life slightly better than he did.

Now that they’ve been in my room for a few months, I’ve started to recognize that the fish are really sensitive. Once it’s been almost a week since the water in the tank was changed, the fish get sluggish and confused. They swim erratically and slowly, and hang around in a group, bumming it near the surface. It’s the job of my roommate to keep a watchful eye out for these signs and then take action to help the little guys out. I, too, am a sensitive fish who cannot function well when faced with messiness. It is common knowledge that things get messy: relationships, emotions, schedules, desks. If I’m not paying enough attention to the building craziness, I react just like the fish do. Life gets harder to navigate, and I feel more than a little out of control. Of course, my mom has been telling me for years that if my room is cluttered, my mind will be cluttered, too, but it really hits home when it comes from the fish, right?

As petrifying as growing up and moving on to new experiences is, it’s always comforting to know that you’re not in it alone. I doubt I would be having the wonderful time I’m having right now if I hadn’t found some great friends to go through it with me. The fish probably wouldn’t have lasted very long if they didn’t have their Fish Clique. My roommate claims that the first fish died because he had a parasite and was very sick, but I also know that he was all alone in the tank for two whole days. Coincidence? No way! The greatest tip I’ve picked up along the way is to find those who share your interests and stick with them. It’s as simple as “Hey, we both live on the seventh floor!," “I like that movie, too!” or “We all have gils and fins and eat fish flakes!” Finding that common connection anchors you to other people and serves as a powerful reminder that you’re never the only person in the world going through something tough. A brand new situation can be overwhelming and scary, but it can also be a brilliant new adventure as long as we remember to keep swimming.