We are quick to label certain phases of our lives as formative, as if they are stepping stones laid out in order, leading us towards some final, polished version of adulthood. College is one of those phases. Those four or five years you spend studying are supposed to be some of “the best years of your life.” However, I find myself questioning the validity of that statement and hoping that it might not be true.
The college experience is one that can begin nobly. Bright, bashful eyes are eager to taste their newfound freedom away from parents. House parties and drunken conversations that spill across communal corridors seem just like the carefully crafted scenes of community in university prospectuses. Friendships formed through clubs and societies give rise to a sense of belonging, with their mottos engraved into the hearts of each new member. All of it feels like the perfect transition from the rudimentary routine of secondary school (which now seems so juvenile) to the independent “adults” you now find yourself surrounded by.
But for some people, this utopian state doesn’t last as long as we imagined. Behind the joyful exterior and quickly formed relationships, the stress of exams and deadlines begins to creep in, seeping through the cracks until it infiltrates the serenity of what, for a few weeks, felt like uninhibited youth. You realise that with this newfound freedom also comes the reality that no one is coming to hold your hand. University can start to feel like a never-ending conveyor belt: assignments, readings, lectures, repeat. The quiet longing for home turns into a pounding ache, and you begin to realise that thriving in university is not as effortless as you once assumed. You start to question yourself. I know I did. Perhaps the once technicoloured report card filled with A’s has dimmed into something more muted. And as a young adult, that shift can feel almost suffocating.
At the same time, you’re trying to find yourself. Who are you? What do you stand for? Who do you hope to become? These aren’t throwaway questions to be solved like multiple-choice problems. They demand contemplation, time you rarely feel you have when you’re already balancing the instability of a new environment and the weight of your own expectations. Everyone is demanding to know your beliefs and your opinions, as if certainty were a requirement for entry into adulthood. The fact that you’re not loudly fighting for something often gets mistaken for indifference, and a silent verdict has been made on your behalf before you’ve even had the chance to consider what you actually think.
Along with that identity crisis can come an innate desire to withdraw. Retreating into the safer confines of your mind feels easier than navigating a world that suddenly feels unpredictable. In this moment, your community dissolves and you realise the first few friends you made were in fact just placeholders ready to move on when the bridging period between secondary and third-level education ended. You watch groups congregate, loud and gregarious, and you watch silently, like a lonesome cat lingering along the edges of the big city. You see people drinking coffee through café windows while your diary becomes your closest companion. I’ve found that the solitude at university can become a comfortable box to live in, one that you don’t recall building but somehow decorated and settled into. Months or years go by and you realise there are so many faces you’ve never seen and names you’ve never heard. That’s when it hits you: you’ve been living in a self-made glass box. And it is terrifying to feel like “the best years of your life” are slipping by while you’re trapped inside, pressing your hands against invisible walls.
Sometimes, I think we as university students like to believe we’re uniquely misunderstood, but I promise you, we’re not. There are so many others in the exact same boat. Feeling lost may be one of the most universal experiences of young adulthood. But I can tell you, that dark fog passes. The clouds will clear. The air will seem less heavy and fresher. It did for me.
You’ll weather the storm, and the other side will be much brighter. The exams won’t get easier, but you’ll be more prepared now. You’ll have gained tenacity, grit, and the kind of quiet courage that only comes from walking through a long tunnel alone. You’ll start to realise that forming your identity isn’t a performance or grand declaration. It’s about having real conviction in what you believe and being open to learning more. In time, you’ll meet people who make it easy to choose being vulnerable over having to hide. People whose kindness lives in small check-ins and meandering campus walks with no destination. The path to that place is different for everyone. Some have it easier, and if you are one of them, I applaud you. Being able to thrive in the college environment is admirable and I envy your skills. But for others, it’s a messy climb. Yet somehow, we’ll all make it through.
So, can I say that college will be the best years of my life? I’m not sure. I have about eighteen months left out of five years (so perhaps the feeling is premature), but something tells me the answer is no. So far, these years have given me the foundations of adulthood, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. I hope I remember every detail: every joke that landed, and the ones that didn’t; every heartbreak; every awkward silence when I had no idea what to say. But I hate the thought that my life has peaked here. That would be a pretty sad way to end things, considering how much I hope there is left to learn and become. These years may not have been the best moments of my life, but I suspect they will be some of the most memorable. So, if one day I can no longer recall the facts or the figures, I hope I at least remember that there was a time when I got through a chapter that felt uncertain and came out a lot steadier on the other side.