It’s funny how adventures start in novels. The Chosen One (or whatever you want to call it nowadays) is given a task, and readily sets off to go to untold lands with only the clothes on their back and their new best friend and whatever magical object they have been given to speed them on their way. No tears, no fears, just pick up your sword and make your place in the world!
I think people assumed that those stories were preparing them for the real world a little too, and expected to be A-Okay with leaving their homes and starting the new chapter of their lives. Except in our case, we have no new best friend, and our magical object was our new student IDs. And they weren’t really magical, they just let us get food (well…that’s kind of magical). So with our not-so-magical piece of plastic, the suitcases we had brought, and many, many expectations, we were sent off to be freshmen in a land of discovery.
And I for one was not happy with it.
Adventure in stories sounds exciting. Adventure in real life is much less so. It’s daunting. It hangs over your head like an omen of failure. I remember driving down The Avenue less than thrilled about starting college. For starters, my parents were still at home. I didn’t have the luxury of bringing them with me for orientation. They both had to work, so I had boarded the plane alone and was now going down The Avenue for the first time with other relatives, and brooding about the misery that was my life.
Sure, being an adult was exciting. Saint Mary’s College, where they promised you discovery: of yourself, the universe, and your place in it (I had read the t-shirt). But I was convinced that I was going to hate it, that I was going to fail, and that I was going to somehow completely ruin my life because of this one decision. I was not going to be one of those cliché girls with painted mason jars lining their desks, or with cavasses of bold colors with inspirational quotes hanging over their beds, or color coordinating rugs and comforters, or who took pictures of their class rings in front of Le Mans or their water bottles or anything with the SMC logo attached to it. The Avenue was not going to be my home, and that was that.
I know, it’s pretty dramatic for an eighteen year old, but I was frustrated and missing my family. In general, I’m a pretty perky person. Usually, I have the most stellar outlook on life, and drag my friends along in my mission to power a small sun with the force of my optimism. But face me with an adventure, and I become a cynic. My whole freshman year had become a downward spiral. Why did everyone wear North Face jackets? And black leggings? And how many girls in the world could possibly own Vera Bradley backpacks? Or Hunter Boots (which still confuse me)? I had never seen so many blonde girls in one place in my life. I was confused, very very confused, and I was sure that The Avenue was never going to be my home.
Fast forward to this past summer, two years later. I spent the summer working two jobs, and once again, I was not happy with my life. About halfway through the summer, I straight up begged my mother to just send me back to Saint Mary’s. I missed it. I missed classes. I missed my friends. I missed the library and my dorm and Mass at Notre Dame. I missed The Avenue in autumn, when the leaves go from emerald green to the fiercest of reds. I missed the ladies at the dining hall, for crying out loud, who told me to have a nice day after every meal.
I wanted to go back. Desperately.
So what changed? I gave it two years. And in those two years, I learned that even though I go to a college that’s nearly two hundred years old, I still had a lot to learn. I learned that even if there are no mountains, the scenery in South Bend isn’t quite as bad as I made it out to be. I learned that holing myself up in my room wasn’t helping anyone, and I had to interact with people to realize that they were basically in the same place that I was. We all missed our families. We all wanted to go home a lot of the time. And we were all stressed and needed movie nights with lots and lots of ice cream and back massages.
The Avenue may not be the magical place some alums told me it would be. It’s just another road. But it does lead somewhere special. And while it took me a good two years to accept that place as home, there’s no other place I would rather be to learn about life than right here, at the end of the Avenue.