The spring semester of my sophomore year was the worst.
At least, that’s how it felt at the time. Now I realize it was just full of growing pains.
I’d fallen into a stage where I’d found the friends who made campus feel more like home. Only, they wouldn’t be here forever. Graduating, transferring, until all that was left was me.
I wasn’t happy. I was doing everything I was supposed to be doing, but there was no heart nor conviction in my work. I needed to see it matter. The work you put into college doesn’t always come out in the form of instant gratification. I know not to expect that now.
Nevertheless, I attended classes most days, through the rain and snow and sunshine. I sat in on weekly chapter meetings in a sorority that I no longer found belonging in. I declared a major in English, plowing through my classes like I was checking them off a list more than satisfying a thirst for knowledge.
I longed for connection on a campus that was built on it, sitting on benches in the sunlight or eating in the atrium if only to be seen for a moment by someone familiar.
I tried to put the malady into words. I could not. Because as far as I knew, I was at my dream college. It was supposed to feel like I was home. The paradox didn’t make sense to me.
How it all changed
I knew I needed a job. I needed to feel capable, competent, and in motion.
I hadn’t been employed in about two years, so the first step back into the working world seemed daunting. The only memories I had of working included my stint at a coffee shop and my time supervising teenagers at a public library. The latter got me into my current position as a circulation assistant.
My first day was much like stepping into a childhood memory and bringing it back to the surface. The library was colorful — quite literally, the summer reading program’s theme was “Color Our World.” The windows were adorned with floral art and the desk covered with coloring pages and a bin of craft kits.
My child self always wanted to be behind a library desk, scanning barcodes and collecting returns from the mysterious book drop (where did those books go?) I was no longer in my childhood bedroom pretending to check out books for my stuffed animals. I was actually stepping into the role. This was exciting enough to me that trying to fulfill the role the best I could and learning the ways of the job occupied my whole summer.
The more solo shifts I had under my belt, the more comfortable I became with the work. It gave me room to connect with the patrons. I liked being able to remember them by name and being a part of their day, even if it was small.
Much of the summer evenings were spent alone, after the library traffic tapered off and coworkers left for home. All that was left was me and the shelves of books. I sat by the desk overlooking the windows, watching families walk dogs along the trails under the setting sun.
What I did with the alone time was reconnect with a version of myself I’d long abandoned. I walked the shelves and looked at books. I began to read more. Write more. I’d fix up the shelves and make sure everything was in order. I’d lock the building and drive back to town in the sunset with my windows down and classic rock music filling my ears. I’d get a burger and fries for dinner, a Thursday evening ritual.
I came to like the different selves that I embodied when I started classes again. I was more than a college student. I was a library assistant. The Saturday shift girl. The girl who helped at the tattoo booth during the summer reading party. Oddly enough, it made my return to campus have more purpose. I did my homework with more purpose and fell back in love with what I was studying.
At an insular campus such as at Kenyon, it’s easy to feel confined by the Kenyon bubble. I didn’t realize how narrow my world had become until I stepped outside of it. I love my life at Kenyon, but I came to appreciate it more now that it’s not my whole life. Problems at Kenyon seem to roll off my back more easily now. I appreciate time spent on campus and in class more than I did when my whole life was confined there. I reconnected with versions of myself I’d forgotten about after becoming absorbed in college life. That was all I really needed. A reminder that life is bigger than campus, even when it feels like it ends there.
