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Who are you? Who am I? | Week 13

April | College Years and Friendship | Week 13 | 4/2/2023
Talk about freshman year of college 

It's easy to achieve inconspicuity inside the entropy of a major university. The inhabitants of dorm common areas and lecture halls could at any time number in the dozens. Each person arrives on Day 1, containing a mixture of ambition and trepidation, and the institution itself becomes a competitive arena more than a cooperative of endeavors. Every individual hurriedly scrambles to find their place in a group, to carve out some niche in which they too can achieve belonging and maybe success - attempting to tip internal scales towards ambition and away from trepidation. We're social creatures and our greatest fear is isolation. Believe me, one can be isolated, if not physically, psychologically all the same. My freshman year was the beginning of a long and arduous journey, in which the relics of my past grounded me with slightly too heavy weights, but ultimately culminated in a destination by my own making. Dreams are intangible at 18 years old and tactile at 22, a change of epic proportions in such a short duration. Those 4 years are the time in which the enthalpy of the individual is harnessed, controlling and overcoming the entropy of the system - a beautiful transition of dreams from nascence to maturation. 

I arrived to my freshman year with a girlfriend, which imbued me with some purpose in that new place, something I do not take for granted. She was the one constant in the face of infinite paths, unknowable futures, and an ungraspable decision tree - where the quantity of variables and question marks outnumber the quantity of concretized ideas. In retrospect, I probably over indexed on the relationship (what I knew) and not enough on my environment (what I didn't know), but I feel no regret for the immersion into a love I've not known since. We dove into each other's psyche's and created a home inside that 200 sq. foot room in the Lakeside dormitory on Lake Alice. It's incredible in what little space we're capable of creating a domicile, a lesson I later substantiated on a gondola over the slums of Medellin. But I digress. When I look back on that time, it's very clear to me that the main focus of my existence was on her. She was just as much of an ambition of mine as were my career, hobbies, friends, and family. But this is true in life, the partner you choose to spend the rest of your life with is arguably equivalent to all those aforementioned aspects combined. And for all the pain it would cause me, I sit here 10 years later, satiated with my life and proud of my decisions back then. I pursued what was meaningful. 

Freshman year was naturally the year of experimentation inside the relationship, with fraternities, with friends, with ideas like the National Guard and Medical School. If nothing else, that was the year I hacked my way through the thicket surrounding the decision tree, to be primed for important decisions the following year. At the time, it felt like that year was transitory, a holding pattern for something else, something bigger, but I realize now that you must clear the ground before you can build. 

As long as I live, I'll never forget those nights I spent watching Lost on the laptop with Sam in that twin bed. The window open bringing in cold air and the sounds of intramural sports from the field behind us. I'll never forget the days spent in Library West, the pop-in's to Connor's apartment with Seth, the hamburgers at Mother's, Sundays at Waffle House with Ms. Sue, night games at the Swamp, the parties at ATO and the racquetball matches with Kenny. I'll never forget Stella shifting ever so slightly in my frocket as I walked around the apartment.

More importantly than the long days spent on campus figuring out my new life, there is a visceral, ingrained memory I have, one I will never be able to accurately describe nor accurately express my gratitude for. I'll never forget the silver lining she offered to me and the deep, life-giving love I received from the warmth of her body as I returned from bathroom floor, night after night, month after month. Wiping the tears from my eyes and dabbing away the cold sweat from my brow, I'd climb back into bed. She'd turn ever so slightly and reach for my hand under the covers, whispering "hey Q, you okay?" I'd pause, searching for her face in the dark room, to smile at her still-closed eyes, and I'd lie: "yeah, I'm fine." That to me was Freshman year.  



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