Reflections on the First Year

Do you remember when you were about 16 years old, walled up in your room at your parents’ house, counting down the days until you moved out? Maybe if you were like me, you just couldn’t wait. Adulthood sounded a lot like freedom, and you were living in what could be described as a dictatorship right now. Sure, you followed the rules and did your share of the housework when you felt like it, but it never felt like you genuinely contributed to something you owned.

When I still lived at home, my mom used to threaten us kids with the phrase, “It’s my house, my rules. When you get your own place, then you can make the decisions about it, but until then, you do as I say”. As a 16-year-old who was relatively independent, I took that pretty seriously. In my head, I used to daydream of what my future apartment would look like, mentally decorating it and envisioning a quaint but stylishly cozy corner that I could declare as mine and mine alone. I used to doodle blueprints in notebooks—you could say I was invested.

A few months after turning 18, in the fall of my first semester of university, I did exactly what I had been fantasizing about doing for years. I left home. I moved into the next province, over to a city I had never visited before, to a university no one from my graduating class decided to enroll in. While it wasn’t the apartment of my dreams, but instead a drab dorm with faded yellowish walls, I made it my own. I hit a milestone. One that impacted my future, my perspective, and everything I knew about myself.

I learned about struggling. Not that I never struggled in the past with various things—but true solitary struggle. I grew up, lost weight, dyed my hair, and experimented whenever I could. I explored the city, tried new recipes, and took classes I didn’t think I would like. I cried over tests, essays, marks, and group projects. I was forced to accept that my perspective of myself did not reflect the truth. I fought with my roommates. I fought with my boyfriend at the time. I fought against my own mental health. I changed…I learned to move on from the teenage angst that had plagued me while still living at home.

Looking back on that first year of university, of adulthood, and independence, I realize that as much as it was a rough patch of personal history, had I been given a chance to go back and do it over again, I wouldn’t change a single thing. As hard as the first year and being out on my own was, I have no regrets about my decisions. Sure, I may have “wasted” money on a university I wouldn’t graduate from, but that means nothing compared to the growth I experienced.

If any freshmen or soon-to-be high school graduates are reading this, I hope they look forward to this first year and reflect on it when they are more established adults. The first year is the hardest, not because the workload is heavy or challenging, but because growing up and changing happens quickly.