My first day at Ashoka with my parents is still etched in my mind. The rush, the excitement, and the quiet pride for finally making it. Beneath all that exhilaration, though, was a flutter of nervousness at the thought of separating from them. As I walked through the hallowed halls of Residence Hall 4, they reassured me that this new chapter would bring safety, happiness, and adventures I couldn’t yet imagine . In that moment, I sensed that I was stepping into a world that would challenge me, surprise me, and introduce me to people unlike anyone I had ever met before.
But what has truly stayed with me since that day is something a professor mentioned in our welcome session. He had said, among other things, that, with freedom comes responsibility. To me, at that moment, nothing had ever made more sense. More often than not, it is said that what scares you the most is perhaps the most appropriate choice for you. I held onto that every time the thought of separating or leaving my old life behind felt nerve-racking.
That being said, a zoomed-out view of my first semester could be seen as freedom placed in untrained hands — still learning how to wield it.. From the first all-nighter for no given reason to more Thursday night outs which turned into groggy Friday mornings extending into lethargic weekends spent at the MPH, these moments felt like guilty pleasures — and sometimes even invitations to minor existential crises. In reality, I had never felt more alive. Going out constantly, meeting new people, and somehow still acing tests at the same time — what could possibly be better than this? I love college.
However, the true texture of life at Ashoka lay beneath this shiny exterior — something I didn’t fully grasp until my second semester.. Besides, the constant oscillation between home and campus created sharply defined versions of who I was expected to be in each space. At home, it was simple. I always had a clear idea of who I was and what I was supposed to do. At Ashoka, however, the world felt boundless, brimming with possibility. Every stereotype about college seemed true. It did in fact feel like these could be the best four years of my life — the most transformative ones, too. The world did seem like my oyster. The reality of this place soon crept up to me — slowly, steadily — like the unraveling of something far bigger and more important than I had imagined.
As the second semester at college began, the excitement died down and was replaced soon enough by the stress that comes from not getting the professors you’d want, spending more time studying in your room than you would like, and watching interactions with those amazing people from the first week, die down. Thursday night outings became fewer, replaced by long evenings spent contemplating what life here was supposed to look like. There seemed to be fewer so-called “adventures” and more of spending quiet galentines with just two of your closest friends. And yet, in those quiet moments of ‘adulting’ — when I changed my sheets or folded my laundry — it would suddenly hit me: the beauty of it all, and the slow, steady act of falling in love with my campus and my college life.
I had been falling in love with Ashoka since the day I entered. This time, however, it wasn’t because it let me stay up till 4:00 a.m, but because it taught me to appreciate the mundane just as deeply. That was when the journey of calling Ashoka “home” truly began.
Back then, life at Ashoka was something I interpreted as a constant process of being evaluated — of always being assessed. Whether that assessment was by your teaching fellow grading you on your paper, or how you handled all the complex social situations that high school did not train you for, everything seemed to carry just a tinge of judgement. I didn’t realise it at first, but I was stuck in this constant loop of performing and that felt like a summary of my life at Ashoka.
Entering my Sophomore year somehow also highlighted how ensconced I had become in the space that I had carved out for myself here. Home is where my family is, but Ashoka is also home to my family, just a different kind at that. I found myself attempting to break this loop of having to constantly perform and deliver. Ashoka began feeling like the place where I was allowed to exist quietly — I could enjoy the mundane and the peace, and show up everyday despite everything that was striving to put me down. It was no longer about performing and getting the results but about taking care of myself when there was no one to remind me.
Moreover, everything I do here — good or bad, wrong or right — every decision I make, is mine. Every small, seemingly insignificant act — changing my bedsheets, doing my laundry, attending office hours, spending nine hours in the library, showing up to club meetings, moving in and moving out — contributes to what I now call my life at Ashoka.
Ashoka is no longer the place where I show up everyday just to meet expectations— it is home because it teaches me to value both the ordinary and the extraordinary. Instead of it being a series of outcomes, my life here is a work in progress — a journey to my ideal self. As I gradually reach the halfway mark, all I have to say is that I love the person that Ashoka is turning me into. Because she is fierce, strong, more resilient, and takes risks. Most importantly, the past few months at Ashoka taught me to give myself permission to fail — and to try again until I get it right.
For a long time, I believed growth required abandoning comfort — that it wasn’t real unless it hurt. But college has shown me something different: sometimes growth makes your old comfort zones feel unfamiliar. Ashoka is uncomfortable in the most comforting ways. And perhaps that is what home truly is — a place where reality sharpens you, steadies you, and teaches you who you are becoming.