It's been a steady two months since I finished my first year of college, which I think constitutes somewhat of a reflection. And when I think back to those months I spent on a college campus, many things come to mind. Some of my regrets, some of the fun times. Late nights of giggles fueled by sugar. Crying the first day. The smell of the laundry rooms. Missing my dog. Going to my first college football game. Missing the dining hall hours for the fifth Friday in a row. Playing my ukulele with numb fingers in the winter chill of the Quad. Getting my first B on a test. Completing my last final before moving out. Crying in the arms of my hallmates who were transferring.
The main feature that strikes me is how much more different I emerged from the experience. Directly after I got home from college, I hopped on a plane to go to a convention in Chicago, the first time I'd traveled on a plane as a person not four feet tall and clinging to my mom's hand, and equivalently, the first time I'd stayed away from family and instead in the hands of internet friends which were thankfully not old men planted to kill me. Somewhere in retrospect, after facing so many of my greatest fears and emerging from college as a more mature person, a dawning realization struck me.
Who I was in high school did not, and does not, define who I was, and will be, in college.
My high school days were mostly spent at home. I didn't get my license until the week of my graduation. My circle of friends was limited to those who I only felt comfortable hanging out with during school hours. I wasn't interested in partying or experimenting, joining clubs, or even just participating in group activities that required festive sleepovers or nights on the town. At the time, refusing to leave my house on the weekends was fine to me. I knew that if I was happy lying in my bed with my computer or a book, I wouldn't regret taking risks later. I thought that as long as I was satisfied being on my own, I wouldn't miss the fun that I thought I wasn't missing out on.
Even after I graduated, I continued to tell myself this. I was content doing nothing.
Only recently have I discovered I was lying to myself. I'm already beginning to regret my complacency, and nothing scares me more than staring down the barrel of the gun at my three years left at college and wondering if the same results will occur.
I look at the events I have marked on the calendar stuck to my wall with Command strips and ask myself for the ninth time, "Do I want to go to this because I think it will be fun, or do I just need an excuse to get out of my room?" It's hard to undo that habit of forfeiting plans due to my own laziness rather than go out and have experiences. It's harder to silence the voice in the back of my 16-year-old high school self-insisting that I do.
I used to cry myself to sleep at night in the shadow of my older sister. She graduated eighth in her class, got automatic admission into a prestigious college, and boasted a long and detailed resumé. Teachers loved her, she was gorgeous, and she was always outsmarting me in and out of class. Throughout my educational career, I had always begun to accept that she would always excel more than me, that she would always be my parents' favorite because of her drive to work hard.
Just recently, I've begun to realize how these shortcomings I often felt distressed about were entirely fixable. Easily fixable. And I did fix them by going into freshman year with a more open mind, a more stable sense of self-confidence. For starters, actually studying seemed to be the one thing that helped most of all.
Once I realized that I was capable of being as successful as I dreamed, as long as I tried, many more unlocked doors presented themselves to me. During this summer spent trapped under the heat, the weight of online classes, and working full-time, I haven't quite managed to peek through those doors yet. But I still have three more years.
At the end of last semester, my friend (and now, future roommate) planned a birthday party at a casino. I had initially agreed, although I hated the idea of it and the girls accompanying me knew about it. We were to leave at 10 PM, a time when normally I was bereft of pants and huddled neck-deep in my blankets. Such was the case when I got a knock on my door, and after I declared that I didn't feel like coming anymore, was beseeched into getting ready. Nothing about the night appealed to me. I had never been to a casino but felt no desire to be around gambling, drinking, or smoking (although I had never been before in my life). I felt no desire to drive two hours one-way away to Oklahoma. I felt no desire to participate in any of the gambling, or to go to IHOP afterward as some of the girls mentioned. I needed sleep, I needed to be close to comfort, I needed control in my own hands and not under the jurisdiction of a group. But bearing in mind my friend's special day, I went.
It was that Saturday morning at 6 AM, sitting across from dazed-eyed, loopy-grinned hallmates of mine in an empty IHOP that reminded me it was time to take more risks, to do more things I didn't know if I would enjoy or not. As we clutched our hot chocolates and deliriously laughed at unfunny jokes as our waffles cooked, I found myself admitting to the girls that this was the latest I'd stayed out. That I'd never been out in public this late, especially on my way back from a casino. That this was one of the first times in my life that I'd actually taken a risk, and actually enjoyed it.
I have three more years to not repeat my mistakes.
