Writing Conversations

Big Help

In high school, one of my best friends—who remains close to me and is blissfully unaware of this blog—honestly couldn’t hold a fifteen-minute conversation without at least three references to Joe Jonas. When we hang out over my breaks, she still can’t go a half-hour without mentioning her intentions of taking his virginity. I, thankfully, had other high school friends who were much more adept at serious conversations, but I always happily amazed at the change of mental pace here at Vandy. I’ve had so much real and meaningful dialogue in my almost-two-years here. It’s even reflected in my Facebook inbox, where I can skim through four semesters’ worth of secrets shared, friendships built, conflicts solved—and some not—in paragraphs typed rapidly while I pretended to study in Stevenson carrels.    

I often slip into this collegiate-y routine that smells like sugar-steeped coffee, tastes like Rand fruit cups (and maybe several unnecessary trips to the Munchie Mart), and feels like sleep-deprivation. The mainstays of this chaotic lifestyle—the hours I’ll long for when I’m eighty-five and living in a nursing home because my adult children are too ungrateful to keep me in their guestrooms—are not Friday evenings devoted to playing dress-up before frat row, though those are fun, but the frequent heart-to-hearts (and Facebook chats) I’ve shared with the many Vandy kids I adore.   

   Never do I feel as rooted in my leafy-green, Nashvillean second-home as when I am lounging around my dorm, or Chef James, or Alumni Lawn, or the little foyer outside the glass doors of the library, exchanging feelings and questions and mere observations with friends. When teachers prove difficult, and people become cranky, and Spring break seems far away, being honest with people I trust about my worries, fears, and petty little heartaches is the most obvious solution to dealing with problems.   

  Our society says that communication is good—that it’s wiser to pour out our messy, raw feelings than to keep them secret while we fake smiles on our walks to class and upload lots of pictures of ourselves well-dressed, going out, and having good hair days for our 743 Facebook friends to see. Choosing to confide in someone about anything—whether it’s an issue as frivolous as boys or as boring as academics or as somber as depression—is precious and sacred and scary. Kind of like letting them see you without makeup for the first time. There is something priceless about the simple act of trusting someone enough to tell them the very things about yourself that you hate to even think about when you’re lying in your lofted bed at night, with your nose just inches from the ceiling.          

I truly thank God for the people around me—kids whose paths I trust He intentionally and purposefully wove with mine. My Vandy experience would not be as whole or as nurturing or as beautiful without the friends with whom I feel comfortable being honest. And yet—because He’s God and smarter than me or any of the TAs I’ve dealt with in office hours lately—He has made a point to slap me in the face with quite a few lessons these past four semesters. After playing dumb time and time again, I’ve finally decided to accept what God has been yelling at me through a heavenly megaphone for a couple of years.   

I’ll spare you the long version (basically scenes of me sniffling, with a runny nose and a pile of tissues around me, and God being/looking typically cool and macho and way out of my league) and offer a synopsis: “Cast all your anxiety on Me (God) because I (God) care for you (girl with runny nose/mascara).” So maybe I twisted that line from a Bible verse (1 Peter 5:7) that popped up when I just now Googled “verses about God caring,” but it accurately sums up the urgent message He has been striving to get through my thick head.  When I’m lying in bed at night—worried and unable to sleep and already contemplating skipping my 9:10 class—I should be telling God about the things that stress me out, and begging Him for His peace. Confidants are wonderful blessings, but friends aren’t and never can be God. Inevitably, anyone you spend much time around will, at some point, let you down—just like you’ll sometimes disappoint them. They’re human and you’re human and sometimes, in all our humanness, we can’t be wholly supportive of each other’s sufferings because we have infatuations and midterms and family secrets and insecurities and sadness of own to lose sleep over.       

We all have that defining moment when we’re little kids with scraped knees calling out to Mom for a band-aid and a kiss and a cup of orange juice and she takes ten minutes too long to answer because she’s busy on the phone with her boss, or arguing with Dad, or taking care of the meatloaf that just burned in the oven. We’re shocked that first time she doesn’t rush to help us. And then, gradually, we grow used to the idea that parents are just people. Maybe they get divorced, or refuse to and just fight every night over dinner, instead. Swiftly, we come to the conclusion that—while parents are wonderful and necessary and loving—they can’t be the only things that hold us up. Sometimes, they’re on the verge of collapsing, themselves.    

Why do we, as college students (or at least me, anyway) so often forgot to this apply this knowledge to our understanding of friends? Why is it so easy for us to stay out with friends until Sunday morning, then sleep until noon that day without feeling the tiniest bit guilty for missing church? How come, when we do go to church/flip open our Bibles/pray for help being nice to the lab partner who annoys us/skip a couple parties, we feel so immediately noble for ten minutes and then justify forgetting God entirely for a month? How can we (meaning me) really be stupid enough to think that we (with the help of some late-night chats over coffee with our best friends) might even begin to solve all of our own problems? No matter how hard our friends work to be supportive—and no matter how hard we strain to support them—the fact is, we’re all human and we’re all in desperate need of some divine help. I am so thankful for the people around me; I know God regularly uses them to speak to me. But instead of scrolling through my contact list the next time I’m feeling confused—then devoting two hours of Tortellini Tuesday to analyzing life with someone who’s honestly just as unsure as I am—I might as well call out to the God who made me with eternal love and already knows my future.    

 “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

    

Ramblings of a Confused, Sleep-Deprived Vandy Student

You gave me life

Now show me how to live

-Audioslave

 

For the record, I think Oprah’s the antichrist.  Okay, not seriously. I’d be lying if I said I’ve always been immune to her power (yes, power) —but I grew out of that stage during my last year of high school. (So yayy!). 

That being said, I happened to watch a clip of her show on YouTube last week.  This clip was over ten years old and discussed the troubling life of an anorexic, Radine.  I’m not quite sure why I decided to click on an image of a woman who looked like death in human form, but I’m grateful I did.  In the clip, a recovered anorexic, Tracy Gold, (Mike Seever’s sister in Growing Pains—and yes, Mike is the hot one) sat next to Radine on stage and told her that she could get better just like she managed to do herself. Tracy, engrossed with emotion, told her to “nourish her brain, her soul, her spirit, her body..” and weak, fragile Radine just looked at her with wide eyes and interrupted— “but HOW do you do that?” she asked Tracy, who proceeded to feed her this fluffy, motivational blabber. Nadine failed in following Tracy’s tips for recovery and died in a hospital only a couple of months later. It’s easy to tell people what to do—but it’s harder to tell, or rather, show them HOW. 

Wouldn’t life be so much better if there was a How-To book we could follow? I’ve asked successful people what to do to have a better life.  They’ve told me: learn, pray, work, laugh, and love. 

Ok, so now I know what to do. But how in the world am I supposed to do this? What if something’s too hard for me to learn? How often should I pray? Where do I work? When do I laugh? Whom should I love? Frankly, having a list of things to do isn’t enough. Ingredients aren’t sufficient—I need directions.

 

The secret to being happy, from what I gathered from Tracy Gold and numerous motivational speakers, is—get this—being happy! Want to know the secret to accepting yourself? Loving yourself! The secret to being confident? Trust yourself! To having high self-esteem? Believe in yourself!

The problem with all of this is, well, it’s absolute bullshit.  When people ask for help, it’s often because they’ve seen some other person attain the level of success they want for themselves.  When we ask for advice, we usually want to hear from someone who’s gone through a situation similar to ours so we can relate to them.  But, Slumdog Millionaire’s path to happiness doesn’t really apply to me. 

Want to know what I think? I believe most people in the world are happy by chance. I know, that may seem a bit pessimistic—hard work results in happiness, right? That’s why we’re all working so hard, isn’t it?

Maybe we would all be just a little better off if we admitted that we have no idea what we’re doing.  Maybe Tracy Gold could’ve saved a life if she stopped trying to sound like a happy fairy, and just said, “Hey look, I didn’t know how to heal myself. I’m not sure how I’m healthy again. I just had great support from other people. Maybe they helped me by being there for me emotionally. Maybe it was because of that one night I spent in prayer. Maybe it was because that one guy told me I was beautiful just the way I was. I’m not sure how you can do it, but keep trying.”

As much as we’d like to think some of our success stories can be applied to the lives of others, the truth is that it’s just not that simple.  None of us know what we’re doing. So maybe we’d all just benefit a bit more by looking at the person next to us and saying, “keep trying, and I’ll help.” I don’t think the source of Nadine’s problem was simply herself.  If there were more people surrounding her and supporting her, not merely during her illness but prior to, she may have developed a greater degree of confidence.  If we all just quit focusing on our own steps to happiness, maybe we’d realize that everyone around us is trying to get to the same place and none of us know how to get there. Perhaps, if we supported one another, we’d get there a bit sooner.  So, to anyone trying to be happy, keep trying... I’m not sure how I can help, but I will.  What do we have left to lose?

P.S. I am writing this at 3 am in the middle of a difficult week. I’m young, emotional, and tend to ramble…I probably won’t agree with most of this tomorrow. My worldview changes from week to week.

Picture borrowed from cdn.sheknows.com

It's the season for sugarplums and other sweet things.

So, quite obviously, the ladies of Writing Conversations have taken a blogging hiatus. Now, finals have been dominated (or surrendered to); messy dorm rooms have been abandoned for a few weeks of king-sized beds and home cooking; Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa (and any other seasonally-appropriate holidays I have forgotten) have been celebrated; and your bloggers are refreshed and ready to spill their hearts as all good authors must. As a special treat (and because the holiday season and ad nauseam viewings of It's a Wonderful Life put even the best of us in a sentimental mood) I'm sharing an article that was given to us by a sweet, poetic Vandy boy who proves that sensitive boys do exist! Sigh. Happy reading, to our female readers. Male readers: aim to think thoughts as sweet as those of this anonymous schoolmate of yours, and you'll find yourself much more popular with the pretty girls of your lecture halls.

Cordially Joined in Holy Matrimony

Set upon the cliffs of Tuscany, sits a sweet chapel filled with the smell of the ocean breeze and the sound of trumpets blasting into the sky ready to bring these two lovers into eternal bliss. The bride walks down the aisle in her Valentino white gown, her hair flowing over her shoulders, a lace white headband adorned by a veil. She glides down the aisle towards her welcoming groom. Dressed in a black tuxedo and adorning white gloves, he awaits the moment of union at the altar. The trumpets blast and the organ blares as she approaches him, the crowd's eyes aimed to center. A trade of vows and an exchange of promises to complete their fates. A seal of approval in the form of a kiss. A sweet bondage as their lips touched yin and yang interlocking the pair. An eternal couple bonded not by law, but by love. I do, I do...and the sweet kiss lasting but a moment, but remembered for an eternity. A memory not of sight, but instead of tactility for their eyes were closed to absorb the pleasure. A mere sensation and a gentle touch to forever link a lasting love. A calm harmony and a silent crowd, while emotions ran wild within the mind. Then suddenly, the suspense is shattered by the thunder of applause and roars of cheer. Their lips part to make way for honest smiles as happiness floods through the opening doors through which they exited into the world. The safety of that sanctuary left behind for an unpredictable journey of adventure. Love lasting for eternity in this worldly brevity. This is just the beginning of a story called life, hand in hand, husband and wife.

No. We did not pay a boy to write this. Neither did we take his finals for him or bribe him in any way. With that reassurance, don't you feel warm inside? You're welcome; it's our belated holiday gift to you ;) Happy New Year's, all!

Uh, College?

   “Those are the best years of your life! You meet your life-long friends in college!” is all I heard before coming to Vanderbilt. The excitement and enthusiasm really encouraged me to look forward to my freshman year. Then again, it’s not that hard for people to get excited where I come from. Parents get ecstatic just to see their kids graduate from high school.  They’re glad their kids at least lived to see their 18^th birthday and didn’t get shot, land in jail, or become drug addicts. Most of my friends had at least one or two kids before their senior year. These travesties are the life my community knows. It’s already set up for us, so when we overcome those barriers it’s a huge deal. Parents really don’t expect much of their children, except to graduate from high school. That’s enough for most parents .That itself is the equivalent of them winning the lottery, it makes them so happy. And, if for some reason their son or daughter is lucky enough to pursue a college education, they’ll probably have a heart attack…not really, but it’s icing on the cake.

    Coming from a background like the one I just described to Vanderbilt was a HUGE transition. Talk about a culture shocker! I was so used to being around minorities all the time that it was hard for me to get accustomed to attending a predominately white school. I felt really out of place. The first two days in my hall, girls were already talking, going out to parties in groups, and just having a good time. Meanwhile, I was in my room thinking, “What the hell have you done coming here, you don’t belong here.” It seemed like the girls just talked and automatically clicked. I didn’t have that instant mutual connection with anyone. I didn’t even know how to talk to them. I would sit in my room and pretend I was busy so that people wouldn’t think I was a total loser staying in when everyone else was going out. I would talk to my friends from back home and they would tell me what a blast they were having at college. Most of them ended up going to a local university about thirty minutes from our high school. It was dreadful. I didn’t want to tell them what a hard time I was having over here. It was embarrassing. It made me even more homesick. I wanted to be around my friends and have a good time as was expected in college.

    Don’t get me wrong, I did have people I could have occasional conversations with, but I didn’t consider them my friends. They were just people I would say hi and bye to in passing, or talk about homework with. I didn’t have those types of friends that I could trust with my secrets. Not like my friends back at home. As the semester progressed, I did meet some nice girls that I could “chill” with. I could go out to parties with them, talk to them, but I still didn’t have confidence in them to talk to them about me. At the same time, I felt even more homesick. It had been a long time since I had seen my family. That gap from August till November killed me. My family is really close-knit. In my culture, it’s typical to have a big family and be really close to them. They would call me regularly because they were so excited I had made it to college. They wanted to know everything; how I was doing, if I liked it down here, if I missed them. It was hard to have to lie. I would tell them everything was great when deep down I longed to go back—I wanted to transfer. The only person who knew how I felt was my sister, my best friend. Talking to her helped me decide to give it some time and see if things changed by the end of the year. Luckily, they did. I built various friendships…and remember those nice girls I told you about earlier? I became closer to them and now we’re living and doing this blog project together.

    Everything is not perfect, and I do not expect it to ever be. I’m still struggling to get accustomed to Vanderbilt even though it’s my second year. This year has been better though.  I’ve become increasingly close with some people that have really helped me through and have had moments that are stereotypical, memorable, wild college experiences J

 

Image borrowed from po.b5z.net.

I (Mostly) Love College.

There are mornings when you wake up—not to the coos of birds building nests outside your dorm window—but to the hellish heartbeat of your alarm clock. There are afternoons when you’re forced to choose between finishing your homework before your next class, and waiting in a half-hour line for dry pasta baked by an untalented chef named James—those days, your stomach growls pretty loudly by dinnertime. (And Monsieur James’ skills never seem to improve by dinnertime, despite the fact that he’s getting daily practice on a few thousand mouths.)      

Sometimes, you’re late to your 8:10 class because you feel fat in all five of the outfits you’ve tried on since waking up at 7:49. Inevitably, everyone on your floor has an Orgo test the next day—no one has time to listen to your anguished rant about feeling fat, or endorse your plan to swear off Oreo-toppings on your fro-yo for the rest of the week. In desperate need of moral/emotional support, you call an old high school friend in anticipation of a peaceful chat with a voice you’ve known for years. (“No Bestie, you’re not fat. I mean, I haven’t seen you since summer vacation, but you don’t sound like you’ve put on any weight!”)    

Inevitably, those are always the days when your friend just got back together with her loser boyfriend; you politely let her gush about him for forty-five minutes, and then you realize that you’re five minutes late for a club meeting and your friend still hasn’t shut up about BF’s beautiful smile/big biceps/ lucrative career plans. You excuse yourself from this disappointing conversation, decide against making the club meeting, and want nothing more than to crawl up your six-foot ladder  to bed. Unfortunately, you attend the seventeenth-best school in the nation (measured by percentage of Adderall-dependent students) and have a Psych exam the next day. Instead of pulling yourself under your covers, you head to the Baseball Glove Lounge with a six-pack of Full Throttle. You choose a seat facing a brick wall, so as few people as possible see the tears streaming your face as you ponder the eternal question, “Why didn’t I save my parents $200,000 and go to community college?”              

Asher Roth wasn’t lying when he proclaimed the wonders of college, but we all occasionally endure days here that drive us very close to fits of tears. Last week, when I began writing this article, there was an overwhelming sense of “blue” clinging to my thoughts, feelings, and ability to concentrate on Calc homework. I adore Vanderbilt. I love Thai Thursdays; the leafy-green smell of campus in early morning; the everlasting opportunities for late-night conversations; the liveliness of frat parties after a long week of studying; the friends who force you to rethink opinions and stereotypes you solidified in high school; the beautiful memories made last year in the Commons; and the promise that the next five-and-a-half semesters will be filled with even more precious moments. Intermingled with all of the joys of living in the Vandy Bubble, however, are small disappointments and little heartaches—in the form of pop quizzes, insecurities, the opposite sex, and Rand food—that leave us feeling raw and wounded.           

Both of those adjectives describe the state of mind I found myself in two weeks ago. Unless I told you—and I probably didn’t—you couldn’t have known. If you’re a girl I’m friendly with, I likely smiled and complimented your shoes when we saw one another in the salad line. If you’re a boy I know, I certainly flirted and touched your arm too much when we stopped to chat on the way to our respective classes. I hid my blueness from most people (though I did mention it, lightly, to several good friends); partially because it’s always embarrassing to admit when we’re having problems, and also because I knew it would pass, eventually.    

Nothing particularly exiting happened today—although I did spend several hours exchanging life/Fall Break stories with a friend; and received an email from a teacher, stating that my quiz scheduled for tomorrow was moved to two days later—but I was happy being pleasantly bored. After all, it’s a delicious feeling—being “pleasantly bored” in the cozy piece of Nashville we now call home. It seems preposterous, today—as I recall the finer moments of the last two weekends, and the weekday chats and laughs I shared over meals—that I have ever felt gloomy at beautiful Vandy. But life, emotions, and hormones are cyclical. Sadness clung to me two weeks ago, it has struck me before; and, as circumstances shift and situate with the falling of leaves and changing of seasons, it will visit again.    

Part of growing up, I’ve decided, is not becoming immune to periods of blueness, or numbing ourselves from our feelings, but learning to accept fluctuations in emotion as an inescapable aspect of life.  And so, I’ve composed an action plan for the next time sadness strikes: I will smile often; flirt freely; help a friend; pray before bedtime; study diligently; and let someone in front of me in the salad line (but only if it looks as if there is no danger of the chicken running out). Blue can be a beautiful color. Blue is the color of the yummiest popsicles, my favorite wintertime jacket, and—of course—the sky. While we wait for our personal skies to clear up, we can challenge ourselves, every day, to do something that makes someone else a little bit happier.      

Right now, though, I am going to climb up in the air to bed and perfect my costume plans for Halloween this Saturday. I love college, too, Asher.

 Image borrowed from www.familyanatomy.com

 

Studying isn't the only thing that makes college hard.

 Most people would say their first year of college was a year of self-understanding and self-discovery.  But, the only thing I discovered about myself is that I actually don’t know myself at all.  I finished my first year of college more confused than when I first arrived. I’d love to say that the only thing about me that stayed strong was my Christian faith, but I can’t even truthfully say that. The only thing that seemed not to change was my love for writing.-- at least my passions remained the same.  But I felt as if I came to school and lost my identity.  For the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t find anyone that I truly identified with. I think part of this stemmed from the fact that now that I was away from all my friends and family back at home, I had the ability to re-create myself. I could be whomever I wanted, and I think this decision overwhelmed me. I didn’t know who I wanted to be.  But I knew who I didn’t want to be—and that was who I’d been before coming to Vandy.    My VUceptor tried to convince me, along with the rest of my inattentive VUcept group, that it was vital that we be true to who we are and just be “ourselves”… But, what you have to realize is that I didn’t like who I’d been in the past… I REALLY didn’t like who I’d been.

 Over the year, I made choices I’d come to regret. These bad decisions became progressively worse over the year. From the third week of school, when I got extremely high and wasted at the same time—to the last week of school when I let a guy I hardly knew into my room and had the worse night of my life-- my decisions, well, really fucked me up.  I’m actually surprised by how many times I had to ask myself the “what the hell was I thinking?” question. See, I wasn’t this person before college. Every choice I made in high school was carefully planned out. Sure I made mistakes, but they were normally personal matters that didn’t affect anyone other than myself.  My freshman year though, I hurt a lot of people. I hurt the ones I’d promised never to hurt and that ruined the way I viewed myself.  I’m going to have to deal with the consequences of the choices I made last year for a long time to come.

As I continue to blog, you’ll be able to hear some of those stories, but don’t worry, not all my stories are bad. I made some really good decisions my first year as well.  I developed friendships that I’m sure will last after college and I’ve learned from other people and become more accepting of other people’s beliefs and values.  My first year had a lot of bad and a lot of good and I wish I could say the good outweighed the bad, but I’m not really sure if that’s the case with me.  I’m still trying to figure things out and understand myself, but once I reach some sort of conclusion, I’ll be sure to tell the world.  As for now, I’m still struggling with the idea of understanding myself. I’ve become so unpredictable to the point where nothing I do seems to surprise me.  I’ve become such a different person that I almost feel as if I’m living two different lives. It’s as if my personality is a dress—I put on a different one based on each occasion.  When I go home, I have to remember how those at home remember me and I have to be that person. I have to behave the  way my parents raised me to behave, or they’ll be disappointed in me.  Of course, everyone keeps things from their parents—but I wonder how long it’ll take me before I get fed up with my hypocrisy and finally tell them I’m an adult and entitled to make my own decisions, even if the consequences are negative. I’m still trying to figure out what I want from life, but I can’t do that if I’m not allowed to explore. So I guess if anything, my first year was full of self-exploration. I wonder what my second year has in store for me—hopefully a 4.0 GPA.

Happy Living :) 

(image borrowed from http://www.sojones.com)

Through the Eyes of a Vandy Freshman

  As I lay in bed looking at the dorm room’s ceiling, I could hear the faint sounds of music outside; girls gigging in the hallway; and someone talking on the phone in the room next to me. But I was used to the background noise by now. It was October already.  I couldn’t believe it. The time had flown by so quickly. I could distinctively remember freshman move-in day: the nerves, the new faces, the stress of getting settled, and the nagging desire for my parents to “leave me alone already.”

    I had just taken a psychology midterm and I was desperately in need of a brain-break. Should I go out tonight? It was Thursday, after all. Maybe this would help distract me from school work. But if I went out, who should I go with? This was the dilemma. In the past two months I had met more people and made more friends—or, should I say “acquaintances”—than I could have ever imagined. But even with the company and friendly exchanges of these thirty or so classmates (I may be overstating the numbers), I still felt like a bit of an outsider. I hadn’t really latched on to a core group of friends, especially girl friends, who I could tell my deepest secrets to, or at least rely on for a good laugh or a shoulder to cry on. There was no one to turn to when things got difficult, and this left me with a strange feeling of vulnerability. As I continued staring at the ceiling I realized that I could use a good friend, especially now.

    A few days previous, I learned that a girl I knew was spreading rumors about me to the extent of, basically, “She’s a slut.” Initially, this had bothered me; why would someone I thought I could trust turn around and stab me in the back? She was the first person I met at Vanderbilt and lived down the hall from me. I felt alone, with no one to turn to except some guy friends I had made on campus, who were frankly more interested in my looks than my personal problems. The majority of the girls in my hall acted weird towards me. I think it was the combination of the rumors and my shyness that drove them away. They thought I was stuck up. But in reality, I just wanted a close circle of friends I could count on and go out with at night. I was tired of constantly hopping from one group to the other.

    College had been a huge change for me. Prior to coming to Vanderbilt, I never drank alcohol, never messed around with guys, and only had a small group of friends I had worked hard to get close to. I was shy, and worried about fitting in during my high school years. When I packed the car to head to Vanderbilt, I made the conscious decision to leave that past behind me. As nervous as it made me, I was going to reach out to others, try new things, and attempt to fit in more in my new environment. But just how much was I willing to change? This was the money question. What could I change about my habits that would make me a “better me” and what changes would actually turn me into a different person? I still wanted to be me, but I was having trouble finding a balance between fitting in, and being happy with my identity. These were the things on my mind that October afternoon, starring at the ceiling and pondering my choices.

    Fast forward a couple months. Now it was December and exams were in full swing. I hated exams. They have always made me jittery and nervous. I had struggled to control my severe anxiety during my four years of high school with little success. Often I would get so worked up over school work in general that I would not socialize, ride my horses, or even eat in extreme cases. The last consequence of my anxiety lead to me spending the first three months of senior year in Texas Children’s Hospital. But that is a story for another time. The good news was that by freshman year of college, although exams were still a relatively stressful time for me, I was able to handle myself much more reasonably. Part of this probably had something to do with the events of the past couple months.

    Since that afternoon in October, I had finally decided to stop trying to be someone I wasn’t comfortable with—in order to fit in with the people I had already met at Vanderbilt—and instead, be my old self, and reach out to students who would accept me for who I was. This, so far, had led to a few promising friendships with girls on my hall that I had not previously taken the time to get to know. In addition, I had met a boy. No, not like the boys I had met when I got to campus: completely obsessed with their new freedom, independence, and the much too frequent consumption of alcohol. No, this boy was different. We had met in Economic Statistics (such a romantic topic!) and began hanging out on the side. I soon learned we had a lot in common and, after my experiences with Vanderbilt freshman boys, was almost shocked to find out that he really wanted to get to know me. Although this was still a new relationship, I was happy to have him there for support. I was glad I had stopped trying to be someone I was not. I discovered that it’s important for me to be myself, regardless of my situation. As simple as it may sound, it is a lesson I am constantly re-learning. Nevertheless, I finally felt like I had found my niche at Vanderbilt, and could not wait for next semester, which I could sense was going to be even better than the first. With that thought, I smiled as I refocused my Calculus 150A review. Humph. Calculus, what a horrible class.

(Image borrowed from www.thesource4ym.com)

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