A Letter Home

October 25, 2016

It’s midnight, which feels early. Two nights ago, I tried to go to bed at eleven and couldn’t fall asleep for an hour. Mom, you’re probably laughing because I’ve never functioned well on anything less than eight hours of sleep, but it’s like my entire schedule has shifted here. I don’t have class until 10:30, so I’m always up late. Even now, doors are open, people wander. My roommate isn’t back yet. She’s down in the basement, studying; that’s probably what I should be doing, but it’s five weeks in and it’s been too long since I last wrote. So I’m making time.

Confession? School is kicking my ass. Another confession? I love it. I’ve never been in a place so ready to make me be more. The moments here feel realer. I want to live each and every one, even as they slip away—even as I check the calendar on a random Monday night and realize we’re already five weeks in. The passage of time blurs. I blink, and three days are gone.

Here are some things I miss. I miss our house, the bedroom I left behind (hardly recognizable now, with all of my wall decorations taken down). I miss our entire family curling up on the couch in the evenings, bread rising in the oven, Korean food warm in our stomachs. Mom, Dad, you were so right. When I ate Korean food after a month of deprivation, I almost died. I was so happy. I never thought I’d miss kimchi that much.

I miss fall. Here, the leaves change, but only a few. I miss the way the colors creep up on you; how everything’s normal, and then you’re driving to school one morning and you almost swerve off the road because you look up and realize the trees are dancing, swaying, dipped in a sunset that decided not to end. I miss that kind of radiance. I miss the crispness of autumn trail runs, leaves lovely beneath my feet. I miss homemade apple cider, the pure satisfaction of a soft sweater.

But I bike through Main Quad in the sunlight and it all hits me at once: the beauty of this place, the wonder, the desirability, the acceptance I still don’t think I deserve. Mom, Dad, Adri—everyone here is so incredible. I want to see the world like they do; it’s unreal, how they think and speak, each person a surprise, every one of them totally new. And we all do our homework. That’s the craziest thing, really—every single person here does their homework.

It’s a life I’m trying to understand. I have every hour of every day to myself, but I’m busier than I’ve ever been. It is exhausting to live on your own terms. I don’t have to do anything, so I discover what’s important to me. Here are my priorities: school, running, friends. All things considered, I’d say you taught me well. But some college stereotypes do ring true. I’ve tired quickly of dining hall food. I eat exclusively cereal for breakfast, unless it’s a morning when I can’t find milk (like today), in which case I resort to yogurt or a protein bar. It is the most difficult challenge: finding ways to sustain myself. Also, I can’t believe I didn’t bring sweatpants. Everyone else looks so comfortable in theirs.

This place hasn’t settled yet. It will never be ordinary, but it is still new, foreign like a language I want to learn: I feel the breeze walk over the sidewalks, lie in Meyer Green and listen to bikes whiz by, see tourists taking pictures of the Oval and Memchu and watch them want what I, inexplicably, have—and I am overwhelmed. I am here, I will be staying for the next four years, this is real.

1:10 a.m. There are people in my room. They bring the following: cookies, company, requests for homework help. We sit on the window-seat, wrap ourselves in fuzzy blankets, just talk. And I am beginning to realize that other stereotypes are true as well: that the best conversations happen after one in the morning. That free food and friendliness abound. That people here just care—about knowing you, about listening to you, about learning what makes you tick. I miss NC—I miss almost everything about it—but I really love this, here. And I am registering this new feeling: of returning to Roble after a long day, locking my bike, letting myself in, walking down the hall to my room. Of greeting my roommates, happy to see them, comforted and contented by their presence. Of relaxing for a minute at my desk, that small familiarity warmer than a smile.

It’s in those seconds—in pushing open the door, dropping my backpack to the floor, saying hello and being welcomed in return—that I feel it, that delightful, ephemeral thought. Hey. I’m home.

Header image courtesy of interfacelift.com