Why College was the Worst 4 Years of My Life

First Semester: Let's start at the beginning...

August

It’s late summer of 2010. I am 19 years old, sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s white van as we drive toward UNC-Chapel Hill for move-in day. The van is so full that I’m practically wedged between stacks of Target bins, bags of clothes, and the matching blue-and-yellow dorm décor my roommate and I carefully picked out. Just looking at it all makes my stomach churn.

Before we leave, my mom asks if I am excited. But I am not. I am sad. I am scared. I am not ready to leave home. The thought of leaving my friends and family behind feels unbearable. I desperately wish for one more year of high school—to stay in my comfortable bubble just a little longer.

Scrolling through Instagram doesn’t help. My best friends are already posting pictures of their dorms, their roommates, their new lives. They look like they are thriving, laughing in groups that seem effortlessly formed. I miss them so much it physically hurts.

As we drive, I stick my hand out the window, letting the warm, humid air brush against my fingers. I stare at the blur of pine trees, trying to hold onto the familiar. My dad, sensing my silence, glances over at me.

“Hey, tiger,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “Everyone feels the same way you do. Anyone who says they aren’t nervous is faking it. You’ll be fine, I promise. Once you get there, you’ll make friends, and you’ll never want to come home.”

I want to believe him. But all I feel is a lump in my throat that grows larger as we near campus. Time seems to speed up, dragging me toward something I am not ready for.

When we finally pull into the dorm parking lot, I think I might be sick. The chaotic scene—students unloading cars, parents barking directions, RAs trying to maintain order—feels overwhelming. Dad and I make trip after trip up the stairs, each box feeling heavier than the last.

Once everything is in my room, I try to focus on unpacking. But when I glance out the window and see my dad driving away, the tears come fast. I lock myself in the communal dorm bathroom, muffling my sobs with a brand-new towel, feeling more alone than I ever have before.

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September

Rush is starting soon, and I have no idea what to expect. All I know is that I need the perfect outfits to make a good impression. My roommate reassures me that first impressions are everything, and I believe her.

My wardrobe isn’t great, but I manage to pull together a few passable outfits. The real crisis is my shoes. I don’t have anything that feels polished or “on trend.” At 19, this feels catastrophic.

My roommate and I go to Monkee’s, a boutique near campus filled with racks of dresses and shoes I can’t really afford. I spend $140 on a pair of Jack Rogers sandals because everyone seems to have them. They are stiff, uncomfortable, and pinch my toes, but I tell myself they are worth it. Over the next few days, I walk miles in those sandals, earning a painful collection of blisters that make every step feel like punishment.

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It is the last night of rush, also known as “pref night,” the night we rank our top three sororities. I sit in the rush office, staring at the form in front of me, feeling torn. Everyone assumes I will choose the same sorority both my older sisters joined. But my gut is telling me to go in a different direction.

I bond with the girls in another house. They are warm and funny, and being around them feels natural—easy. But when I call my sisters for advice, they urge me to stick with tradition. The other sorority, they warn, has a “wild reputation” and might not reflect well on me.

Their opinions weigh heavily on me. I want to make them proud, but the knot in my stomach tells me I am not making the right choice. Against my instincts, I write down the name of my sisters’ sorority. As I turn in my form, I feel a pang of regret so sharp it makes my chest ache.

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October

It is a Friday night, and my new friends and I are standing outside Fraternity Court, waiting to get into a party. The line snakes down the sidewalk, buzzing with the hum of tipsy laughter. We are freezing in our high wedges and tiny dresses, but no one dares suggest wearing a jacket.

Two fraternity guys stand at the door, red Solo cups in hand, deciding who gets in. I watch as they turn away a group of girls a few spots ahead of us. They are heavier than the rest of us, and I hate how obvious it is that this is why they are denied. My stomach twists with guilt and nerves.

When it is our turn, the guys in matching Patagonia jackets give us a once-over before nodding us in. The relief I feel is immediate, but the shame lingers. Inside, the house is packed wall to wall, the air thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat. We drink PJ, or “party juice,” scooped from a communal trash can. We pretend the cheap vodka doesn’t taste like nail polish remover and ignore the burning sensation in our throats. I laugh and dance as if I am having the best night of my life.

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November

Finals are approaching, and the pressure is suffocating. I am pre-med, taking Bio 101—a class notorious for weeding out students like me—and I am terrified of not doing well on the final exam.

I walk through the crowded quad, clutching my textbook, and find a seat at one of the massive wooden tables in the Undergrad Library, or “the UL.” I open my book to begin studying, but the words blur on the page.

Out of nowhere, a sharp pain shoots through my chest. My breath feels shallow, like I can’t get enough air. Fear grips me and I start to feel dizzy: What if I don’t do well? What if I don’t make an A?

I am panicking, and I have no idea how to stop. I immediately leave the library and rush back to my dorm on South Campus, feeling desperate for something to ground me. Even though I am not hungry, I order a pizza for delivery. When it arrives, I binge the entire thing in one sitting, trying to fill the emptiness that feels too big to name.

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December

I am back home, recovering from ACL surgery. My mom sets up a mattress in the TV room so I can rest. The familiarity of home feels like a warm hug after the chaos of my first semester.

But I can’t stop thinking about what I have lost. I tear my ACL during a club soccer game, ending my season and sidelining me from the one thing that makes me feel confident. Soccer is my thing—the thing that makes me feel special.

Now, without it, I feel adrift. UNC is full of people who are smarter, wealthier, more athletic, and more beautiful than me. I can’t see where I fit into the mix.

A few days before break ends, as my parents sit on the couch nearby, I tell them I don’t want to go back to school. I want to stay home. They smile softly, reassuring me that it will get easier.

I nod, but deep down, I know I am at a crossroads. Something has to change—I just don’t know what that is yet. All I know is that the version of me I’ve been trying to be isn’t working anymore.

I don’t tell them that I feel like I am slipping further away from myself. Or that I am scared of what’s ahead.

But I am scared.

And even though none of us know it yet, things will only get harder from here.

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