There was this I would get as a kid whenever I went on class field trips. At King Street Station, I remember staring in awe as the golden noon light fell across the long rows of seats. The local public library felt like an endless sea of whatever I wanted it to be. The University of Washington looked like the largest place on earth—somewhere I’d grow fond of over time.
I always believed certain places hold futures inside them. Like if you stood there long enough, you could almost see your life waiting slightly ahead of you, just out of reach. Everything felt bigger when you were young because you weren’t living inside it yet, but inside your imagination. Everything seemed brighter, more colorful.
College became the place where everything would begin. Not just classes or independence, but a different version of living. I pictured mornings where I would wake up early to the gorgeous view of the Seattle skyline, walking across campus with a purpose I didn’t have to question. I imagined conversations lasting until two in the morning, friends who understood me immediately, even the great romance I would inevitably pursue. I imagined a confidence that would appear naturally, as if it were promised with the enrollment deposit and student ID.
The summer before I started at UW, I kept finding reasons to go near campus. I walked the Ave slowly, as if it were already a second home. Storefront windows glowed at night, buzzing with life, and every café looked like a place I would eventually frequent. Students moved in groups I assumed were inseparable, laughing loudly and talking about classes I didn’t yet understand. I would sit nearby and listen, immersing myself in their world even though I wasn’t part of it.
I made stories for strangers; I found comfort in people-watching. The girl studying alone by the window was dedicated and admired by her professors. The group crowded around a small table were friends who had met fall quarter of freshman year, now seniors planning their final hurrah. Even the people rushing to catch the bus looked purposeful, as if everyone was always on their way to something life-changing. The campus itself felt staged—brick paths, tall trees, late-afternoon sunlight reflecting across Red Square. I thought if I entered it properly, life would start to feel arranged too.
I pictured the first day of class often. It always looked like this: I would step onto campus, and something subtle but permanent would happen. I wouldn’t notice it immediately, but I would feel different. More certain. Like everything would begin to figure itself out. Like I had crossed into the part of my life I had always been waiting for.
When fall finally came, I went through rush, moved in, unpacked, and went to sleep early so I wouldn’t miss it. Eventually, the first quarter began. I woke up and walked to class.
The sky looked the same as it always had.
There were new faces, but somehow everyone still felt familiar. People walked past me with the same expressions they carried everywhere else—tired, distracted, late. I followed a stream of students into Kane Lecture Hall, sat down, and waited for the feeling to arrive. I kept expecting a precise moment when I would recognize myself as someone new, someone who fit naturally into the life I had imagined for so long. Anything I could point to, I would have held onto.
But the day continued normally. I checked the time. I worried about where to sit. I left class and ate lunch alone. I crossed the Ave not as a visitor, but as someone trying to get somewhere.
Nothing announced itself. Nothing dramatically changed.
The campus, still large, was no longer infinite. The cafés became places to run in and out of. The groups I once watched so carefully were just people who had simply met earlier than I had. The life I imagined wasn’t waiting for me—it was already happening around me, and I had quietly walked into the middle of it without a beginning.
I had been waiting for a clear dividing line—a moment when I could say my life had finally begun. When it didn’t come, I started paying attention to smaller things instead. I began sitting next to people instead of choosing empty rows in lecture halls, staying a little longer after conversations instead of letting them end, returning to the same places until they no longer felt new. None of it felt important while it was happening, but over time the campus became familiar in a way I hadn’t expected. The change I was waiting to feel all at once was happening slowly, noticeable only after I stopped waiting for it.
Entering college is terrifying. Walking into a new space without knowing where you’re going only adds to it. But at least for me, college wasn’t a restart. When I got there, I realized I hadn’t stepped into a new life.
I had simply brought my old one with me.