We pulled up to Hedrick Hall on a warm September afternoon. My mom’s Honda CR-V was packed with clothes, shower caddies and twin XL sheets. Students in yellow T-shirts ran around checking in, checking out, moving carts. They wore grins reserved for summer counselors on the first day of summer camp that screams, “I’m your friend and we’re going to get through this scary transition together.”
But the thing is, I had already done this before.
Two years earlier I had pulled up in the same Honda to Bixby Hall, at UC Davis. Different students in similar T-shirts and scary smiles were running around, but that time I was actually nervous.
And my parents cried.
But when I stared up at Hedrick, having decided to transfer to my childhood dream school, I wasn’t scared at all. After living in an apartment my sophomore year, I was stoked to return to the dorm atmosphere. I imagined celebrating 21st birthdays with my fellow transfers, bonding over our upper-division course loads and sharing tips on getting the infamous summer-before-senior-year internship.
But something seemed unusual when I stepped onto my floor. Wide, nervous eyes. Sad, albeit proud, overbearing parents. Snippets of very familiar conversation. Prom. Graduation. “My boyfriend and I are totally going to make it work.” I knew it was true even before I found a yellow T-shirt to confirm.
I had been put into a freshman dorm.
First reaction was sheer panic. “They look so young, why do they look so young?” I thought. “Did I used to look that young? Does this make me old?” I suddenly felt so old.
So I ran. I hopped in a car to San Diego and went to my friend’s 21st birthday party. As I told the tale to my same age or older friends they all said the same thing: wait out the two-week requirement and then switch halls. And as I drove back to L.A. that’s exactly what I decided I was going to do.
Until I realized how much I might miss it.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to at first rolling my eyes and skipping out on some of the kumbaya-get-to-know-each-other dorm dinners and being asked over and over what city I’m from and where I went to high school.
But living with freshmen forced me to look at UCLA, and at college in general, through fresh eyes. As many of my friends were hitting their third-year slump, tired of their group, their party scene or just studying and classrooms in general, I was surrounded 24/7 by people who embraced every new experience.
I realized that living with freshmen didn’t make me feel old – it was just the opposite. I wasn’t expecting to share tips on proper wrist flicking for beer pong or correct lower-division essay structuring, and the only 21st birthday celebrated was my own.
But it didn’t really matter in the late-night study sessions and the 2 a.m. lounge memories that are only made on Thursday nights.
When you’re in the same place, whether it be for four years or even two, it’s hard not to feel restless sometimes.
But my second freshman year, as I like to call it, reminded me to keep trying new things and looking for new experiences. And it’s hard to feel the stress of the real world when you’re writing your cover letters and 15-page papers around people having so much fun just being here.
Whoever said these are the best four years of your life, must have been a freshman twice too.