You can’t grow up in America without being exposed to some sort of media portraying the coveted life of the glamorous sorority girl. It looks like the ideal college experience: best friends, parties, and frat boys galore. Not to mention built in study buddies — it’s hard to be in a sorority with more than 400 people and not know someone who’s taken the same class you’re barely scraping by in. For a lot of girls, this is ideal. When you find the right group of women who understand you and share your values, it can be a match for life.
Depending on the school you’re at, there are different levels of participation in Greek life. My campus happens to be teeming with fraternity men and sorority women... and I came here thinking I’d be one of them.
And I was, for one semester.
Coming from Michigan, I had no idea how big of a deal sorority rush was and I had honestly just never experienced a sorority in real life. I imagined myself strutting around in pretty dresses, drinking from cute glasses with my pinky up at the first day of Ice Water Teas, baking cookies or something for sisterhood day, I don’t even know. I definitely wasn’t prepared for downpours, tornado warnings and, worse... blisters.
But I endured.
When the doors opened to those giant houses on sorority row and 50 girls started singing in perfect unity and I saw everyone’s flawlessly painted fingernail polish, enviable outfits, and unbelievable tans, I wanted to run away and hide (preferably in the shade — Alabama in August is toasty).
But I didn’t.
After I got my bid, went on my retreat, and attended my first swap, I knew I didn’t feel as ‘at home’ in my sorority as everyone else was saying on their Instagram posts. I was never super excited to go to a party on a Thursday night before my 8 a.m. on Friday. I didn’t have a closet full of clothes with my letters on them. I couldn’t bring myself to adhere to the over-sized T-shirt trend. And honestly (don’t hate me) fried Fridays were my worst nightmare. I hoped that it would just take a little longer to feel at home. So I got initiated.
Three more months of themed swaps, date parties, chapter meetings, and (my thumbs still hurt thinking about this) pomping for homecoming went by and I still found myself feeling like I was playing a role: Meghan- sorority girl version. It didn’t feel authentically "me." My visits to the house tapered — and then they came to a distinct halt and I realized there was no longer a point to paying more for my sorority than I do to go to school.
It’s really as simple as that. I wasn’t enjoying it, it wasn’t adding to my life, and I no longer wanted to continue it.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being in a sorority, and if I’m being honest, I really wish that I had liked it. But I didn’t, and that’s okay too.
Being in a sorority is not the most important thing in the world. If you don’t get a bid from your top pick, you will still survive. If you decide Greek life isn’t for you, you’ve got ⅔ of the University of Alabama student population to keep you company.
