Features
Senior Reflection: From freshman to freshman
By Phoebe Greenwald ’16
February 4, 2016
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The worst part about senior year is the impending doom of becoming a freshman again. But hold that thought. We’re about to take a journey—we’re going way back to prehistoric times: Spring, 2012.
Four years ago, I was a senior in high school. I was equipped with rudimentary study skills and a healthy dose of self-assurance. But when I arrived at Hamilton, every ounce of my confidence went under siege.
I was voted most athletic in my high school class; I played nearly every sport my school offered except volleyball. I was a state champion and captain of the soccer team. I identified primarily as a jock—and I basked in the assurance of my identity. But at Hamilton, I lost my identity before I’d even matriculated. I tried out for the varsity soccer team and, lo and behold, I didn’t make it.
Like I said, it was 2012. The Mayans predicted the end of the world, and in my first week at Hamilton it happened. I saw my world—a tangible, spherical object that looked strikingly like a soccer ball—go up in metaphorical flames. (Later that year, I would tear my ACL, MCL, PCL, and meniscus. And then my world combusted again.)
You might think this all sounds very dramatic. You’re not wrong; I had a phenomenal education to look forward to. I was in perfect health and had access to the best chocolate chip cookies in the world (thank you, Opus). Yet, I singlehandedly watered Hamilton’s campus with my tears. (Just kidding—we have an extremely dedicated physical plant and they deserve all the credit for our well kempt campus.)
Anyway, reeling from rejection, I did what any directionless, desperate freshman might do—I swaddled myself in textbooks, slipping into a profound workaholism. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, this contingency plan failed. Despite my best efforts, I nearly failed chemistry and dropped the course halfway through the semester. In that moment, I saw the last scrap of my high school identity flutter away. I wasn’t an athlete anymore, and I wasn’t much of a scholar either. I was undefined, totally lacking in substance, a blob.
No one had told me college would be easy, but I never expected Hamilton to challenge my identity the way it did. If I couldn’t succeed in the things I thought I was good at, what gave me value?
I couldn’t answer that question, but I invested myself in new activities. I started writing for on-campus publications. At my professor’s suggestion, I joined the community choir. I took up the guitar. In the spring, I campaigned and won an election to become a class representative.
If someone traveled through time and interrogated High School Phoebe about her (my) future, she would never have guessed that I’d end my freshman year on crutches, with an indefinite plan for the future and an even more indefinite identity: singing slightly off-key beside my English professor and campaigning for student government. But that’s what I did. Sure—I was a complete blob—but the second I embraced uncertainty was the moment I started to forgive myself for deviating from the plan.
Like I said, the worst part about senior year is the impending doom of becoming a freshman again.
As a high school senior, I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. Nothing about this predicament is original—nearly every freshman feels the earth shake and shift beneath his or her feet. We are all forced to draw outside the lines at some point. It’s profoundly uncomfortable—sometimes it seems like the end of the world. But even if you somehow manage to water an entire college campus with your tears, the world actually chugs onward. I did not immediately love college, but I love it now more deeply than I thought possible. I wouldn’t change a second of my experience, not even if I could avoid tearing three of my ligaments.
It’s my last semester of senior year, and I have somehow become fiercely proud of who I am and what I do at this school. I have a healthy dose of self-assurance. And here I am, dangling on the precipice of real life—I’m about to be a freshman all over again.
“Freshman” isn’t just a label that applies to first-years in high school and college—it’s a state of mind. We’re freshmen every time we embark on a new journey. I love challenge and adventure, so I would wager that I’m condemned to a lifetime of being a freshman. My future is brimming with uncertainty—there will be so many rejection letters, mediocre test scores, missed stop lights, and other opportunities to water the grass with my tears. But I’m okay with that—I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because I have a new life philosophy.
Here it is, some 22-year-old wisdom: identity actually isn’t something you lose—it’s something that expands and gains nuance. So what if I can’t explain my identity in two seconds? “I’m a jock” doesn’t cover it anymore; I’m so much more than that now. And the best part of senior year is recognizing how everything changed, and celebrating every moment that made you deviate from the plan.