“I tried to do everything right.”
I choked those words out between sobs, shaking with the weight of another breakdown, curling my body on my unmade bed.
I thought I’d done everything I was supposed to. I’d worked tirelessly in high school, earned my place at Hopkins, joined a handful of student organizations, said “yes” to every orientation event that came my way. I texted my mom, FaceTimed my long-distance boyfriend and put in the effort to stay connected.
At first, it seemed like things were falling into place.
I was friendly with the people around me. I understood my lectures. My boyfriend and I, while desperately aching from the distance, reassured each other with compassion and endearment regularly. I laughed, I smiled and I did my best to make this new life feel like home.
But, despite how hard I tried to deny it, cracks were forming within me.
I sat alone in lectures filled with hundreds. I floated through conversations, feeling my energy drain from forcing connections. I spent endless hours drowning in assignments, hunched over a desk in Brody from 12 until 5 p.m. with only a pathetic to-go box with a slice of pepperoni pizza and two french fries. The hum of other students around me, only amplified my solitude. Friendship and optimism, once effortless, felt elusive and foreign. My fresh start morphed into a dull and heavy weight.
Nighttimes transitioned from rose masks and diffusers into feeling as though my walls were closing in. I regularly fought with my mom about my silence — an ostensible indicator of my supposedly prioritizing others over her — or about drifting from religious values as I wore dresses deemed too short. My high school friends, the ones I had danced with throughout senior year, began to question my love for them as our calls grew infrequent and messages went unread. Even my boyfriend and I, who had once shared sweet “I love you”s and longing stares, spiraled into exhausting arguments about our relationship, our priorities and our future. Our relationship, once inseperable in heart and mind, led to nights ending in tearful whispers, and mornings beginning with these same emotions, only in the shape of swollen eyes and racing hearts.
Kindness did find me through my suitemates’ leaving me with flowers, chocolates and laughter; my boyfriend supporting my nerves and desire for company; and a special pigeon, my little Pidgey friend with prominent pink claws, greeting me on my walks to Hodson Hall at 8:57 a.m. (if, by some miracle, you can read and comprehend this: Pidgey, I miss you). But none of it changed the truth: I hated Hopkins. I hated waking up. I hated that damned hill I climbed every morning to start a lonely day full of work I resented, all to go back home and fight and argue and just lose myself.
I lost my passion for reading, for writing, for learning — my very love for life that had once defined me. College had become my worst nightmare. After a disastrous Calculus III final ending my fall semester, I sat silently on the train, numb. Tears welled and fell, as if mourning the version of myself I had once carried so proudly into Hopkins.
This story, like most, doesn’t have the neat, happy ending I wish I could give it. I didn’t magically heal after a restful break. I didn’t transform into some radiant, flourishing version of myself, the spring flower I dreamed of.
But I am picking up the pieces of my younger self.
I realized I needed to take classes that aligned with my interests, so I pivoted. I’ve been taking Islamic history classes, fascinated by modern Islamist political movements and enchanted by Ottoman architecture. I’ve started studying for Organic Chemistry II with a friend, swapping notes, laughing at the absurdity of reagents like TBDMSCl and TBAF and pausing for many sweet treat breaks.
My boyfriend and I still argued and disagreed — like all couples do — but, now, we approached our differences with patience and understanding, choosing to value the love and trust that anchored us. I began reconnecting with my high school friends through small check-ins — little hellos, brief updates, tiny reminders that our bond still holds. My weekends have grown rich with laughter. My afternoons, soothed by the warmth of tea. And my meals, no longer taken alone.
And most importantly, I started smiling more again.
Life still overwhelms me, threatening to tip me off my balance. Some days, I still feel like I’m drifting, unsure of my place at Hopkins, even in this world. The doubts often creep in: Am I truly capable of finishing this degree? Of being with the people I am fond of? Of making something of myself?
But amidst it all, I am happier. Maybe not completely. Maybe not always. But relatively happier. I am finding my way through early adulthood, navigating the chaos of lectures, midterms and friendships. I planted seeds, and, now — finally — small sprouts are breaking through the soil.
The version of me that arrived at Hopkins may never return. But maybe she was meant to be broken. Maybe this is how I grow.
I am learning, and I am rebuilding.
Myra Saeed is a freshman from Great Neck, N.Y., majoring in Biophysics and History.
