Many expectations about college embedded into our consciences at a young age are far from realistic. The movies make it seem like your future lifelong group of friends will be standing outside your dorm room with open arms, waiting to embrace you and embark on a plethora of adventures before classes even begin. “Finding your people” is falsely advertised as something that will happen very quickly and very easily, and with thousands of people around you every day, overly-effervescent voices seem to echo in the back of your mind, like a ghostly chant from the mouth of your ego: How could you ever be alone here?
I’ve only been in college for a little over a month, and I’ve found myself alone a lot. At first I was angry at myself because my college experience wasn’t unfolding the way I thought it was supposed to. I’d convinced myself that I needed to establish enduring friendships with everybody around me, have someone to go to the dining hall with for every meal, and artificially reconstruct myself as someone who was extroverted, carefree and overly-friendly (all things that naturally, I am not). Despite my efforts, nothing seemed to be working. I even spent a night researching transfer criteria for other schools because I thought that maybe a different environment would miraculously dissolve my frustrations. Feeling upset, I found myself talking on the phone to a hometown friend in between classes one day. He had also just started college a few states away, and our conversation helped me put things into perspective. “You’re not the only one who feels like this,” he assured me. “Give it a chance, and don’t work so hard to change yourself.”
It was a hesitant acceptance, but I eventually asked myself if being social constantly and surrounded by peers night and day was something I actually wanted, or just something that I thought was standard. I had to reflect back on who I was last year in high school, and remembered how I so confidently and comfortably spent the majority of my time in my own company. Except for work and school, environments where I enjoyed short-lived socialization, I did a lot of things independently. It was rude of me to ask myself to so drastically alter my lifestyle just because my surroundings changed.
Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself that my reflective, secluded and cautious tendencies were not things that I could eliminate or replace. I really valued solitude, art, journaling, heartfelt movies, long walks, and overall: a simple life. This was not going to change; I was not going to suddenly sacrifice those things in order to cultivate a more “lively,” “fulfilled,” or jam-packed existence. A “life full of meaning” is going to require a different interpretation from everybody, and does not need to be synonymous with a “life full of big parties, extravagant restaurants, and constant travel.” The poet in me found that the gentle acceptance of this truth is best encapsulated by one of my favorite Lana Del Rey lyrics: “It turns out everywhere you go, you take yourself.”
Of course, this is not to say that you shouldn’t strive to seek out people who share your interests. It might be a slow process and these friends might be few and far between, but refusing to forfeit your sense of self will help you attract the best quality confidantes. Eventually, you will find the perfect balance between socialization and alone time according to your own needs. First, though, it’s important to develop a good handle on what you want to prioritize, and then refuse to compromise.