The thing about college is that everyone tells you it’s supposed to feel full. Full of people, full of moments, full of connection. Every spot on the quad huddled with friend groups, every group chat never stops buzzing, and still sometimes it still feels impossibly quiet inside your own head. You can live in a house where laughter slips through the walls and still feel like you don’t belong.
That’s a strange kind of loneliness, being surrounded and unseen at the same time. You show up, smile, ask how everyone’s doing, and laugh in all the right places. But when the noise fades and the door closes, you realize how heavy that silence can actually be.
The middle of the semester makes that feeling sharper somehow. The air gets colder, nights stretch longer, and campus shifts into this calm, reflective rhythm. It’s the perfect backdrop for thinking too much, for noticing the distance between you and the people you wish you could connect with.
But maybe the truth is that connection isn’t about being constantly surrounded. Maybe it starts with being honest, not in a big, dramatic way, but in the quiet courage it takes to admit “I’m not okay right now.” Because that small kind of honesty? It’s all you need to do. It draws people in. It reminds them they’re not the only ones faking having it together.
You start to realize that everyone’s carrying their own versions of this loneliness. The friend who always hosts movie nights because they can’t stand silence. The classmate who overcommits to clubs just to fill time. The person who posts their social life like proof. We all have ways of hiding the ache of wanting to belong.
Maybe October, with all its in between stillness, is an invitation, not to fix the loneliness, but to sit with it. To understand it. To find beauty in the idea that feeling disconnected means you care, you want more depth, more realness, more warmth.
So if you’re in a full house and still feel alone, don’t shame yourself for it. Just know that somewhere, someone else is lying awake in the next room, feeling the exact same way. And maybe that’s where connection begins, in knowing we’re lonely together.
Because even in the quietest moments, there’s something happening beneath the surface. We’re all slowly making space, for new friendships, new versions of ourselves, new ways of being seen. Maybe this is what October really teaches us: that loneliness doesn’t mean emptiness. Sometimes, it’s just the action of growing.
And if you’re trying to connect on campus, start small. Sit next to someone new in class. Ask a question that isn’t just about the homework. Compliment someone’s sweater, or stay a few minutes longer after a club meeting. Real connection rarely comes from grand gestures, it comes from the quiet, consistent moments of showing up. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to turn a full house into a home.