As summer faded out, my excitement to get back to campus came rushing in. Going into my sophomore year, I couldn’t wait to see all the friends I’d made during the past year and fall back into my routine. I was especially excited for that first week and weekend on campus.
With classes not starting until the very last day of August, I had plenty of time to scroll through TikToks of college girls doing GRWM’s for their first day back, all talking about Syllabus Week. This is the time where you ease into your schedule, meet your professors, and coast through ice breakers and syllabus reviews. Super easy. Super chill. Every day I wasn’t on campus, I wanted to be back more and more.
I wish I could go back in time and warn that once‑excited girl.
After making it through just a week and a half of classes, I’m already ready to go home. It’s not the dining hall food or the communal bathrooms pushing me to the edge, it’s my classes. Going into my third semester, I already knew a few of my professors and exactly how early I needed to arrive to get the seat I wanted. I walked into my first day confident and hopeful. By noon, that confidence was shattered and my anxiety was through the roof.
I had only been to one class and already had a quiz, received a syllabus of doom, and a warning about how much time and effort it would take to succeed. That part wasn’t shocking because I’m used to heavy workloads and spending hours in the library, but hearing all of that on day one felt insane.
The rest of the day was exactly what I expected: icebreakers and syllabus reviews. It was relieving to have a few classes go according to plan. However, the next day, when I went to my Tuesday/Thursday classes, the weight landed on my chest all over again.
What classes did I sign myself up for?
I thought I’d built a balanced schedule with two challenging courses and the rest easy courses to fulfil my electives. What I didn’t realize was that I chose wrong. With each professor reading through their syllabus, my anxiety climbed higher. I had no clue how I was supposed to manage this workload on top of extracurriculars and searching for a job.
The first few days were filled with dramatic complaints to my friends, hoping for sympathy and watching their faces twist in shock as I told them what my classes required. My first assignment was due one week after receiving it. I had until the next class to read thirteen chapters. Yes, thirteen.
This might not sound like that much, but I might be the world’s slowest reader. Not only did I have to finish the reading, but I had to understand it deeply enough to take a quiz on it. In the stress of studying, completing first assignments, and scanning every syllabus for hidden tricks or extra credit opportunities, I felt ambushed. All of my excitement turned into dread, and I spent a solid twelve hours studying during my very first weekend back on campus.
To no surprise, I made it through that first week. I wasn’t prepared for the mental battle and wave of anxiety that came with the nostalgia of stepping back on campus. It took a few tears, multiple texts to my sister, and complaining every five minutes, but I made it. I remind myself every day that things will slow down, that I’ll get a grasp on the workload, and that I’ll be okay. A bad week doesn’t mean it’s going to be a bad year. I love being on campus. I love everything about college. I have to keep reminding myself of that love and how everything will be okay in the end.