You’re Supposed to Have the Best Time at College…Right?

“You’re going to have the best time at college!”

“These four years will be the best years of your life!”

“You’ll meet your future bridesmaids there!”

“Some of the best memories of your life are waiting for you there!”

“These years will be full of firsts you’ll remember forever!”

People said these things with bright smiles and certainty, as though they were handing me a promise wrapped in a bow. But to me, they felt like prophecies I was destined to fail. These words didn’t comfort me, they echoed. They lingered. They became ghosts that crawled into my mind at night, whispering that if I wasn’t having the absolute time of my life, I was doing college wrong.

There’s a subtle but very real pressure surrounding the transition to college, especially for freshly graduated high school seniors. We’re told we should be ecstatic. We should be counting down the days. We should be craving independence, ready to meet new people, eager to shed our small-town identities and step into something bigger.

But for me, those expectations didn’t feel exciting; they felt suffocating. The things people said echoed in my mind like a quiet chorus of “shoulds,” each one making me feel like I was already failing at an experience I hadn’t even started.

When August of 2019 arrived, I sat frozen on the couch in my family’s living room, staring at the ceiling as anxiety wrapped itself around me like an uncomfortable blanket. Panic became my shadow. The mere thought of leaving home sent me spiraling. I cried constantly, terrified of stepping away from everything safe, everything familiar, everything that made me feel like me.

Whenever my mom went into the basement and came back up with the big blue IKEA bags for packing, I would have a visceral reaction, I’m talking full-blown panic attack, before fleeing the room as though I were being physically chased by my own future.

Leaving home didn’t feel like a milestone. It felt like a betrayal. Like I was being forced to abandon a version of myself I didn’t know how to live without.

I remember watching The Fox and the Hound, the scene where the older woman leaves the fox alone in the woods, confused and heartbroken. I watched it on repeat and sobbed hysterically, because that’s exactly how I felt: like I was being gently, but cruelly, placed somewhere I didn’t understand and left to fend for myself. (If you want to cry, you can watch it here: https://youtu.be/9UIc6o5Z8SU)

I would sob to my parents in the kitchen, accusing them of wanting to abandon me because that’s what it felt like. Even though I knew logically this was my next step, emotionally it felt like being torn away from the only safe place I’d ever known.

When my parents dropped me off at college, it didn’t feel like a normal goodbye; it felt like I had left my own body. I remember standing there, watching them walk away, and the only thought I could form was: “What do you mean you’re leaving me here? I’m just your 19-year-old daughter. I’m not ready to do this alone.” It felt surreal, like I was watching someone else’s life unfold while my own sense of safety drove away in the family car.

The transition hit me hard (no surprise there) but I tried my best to hide it. I curated a version of myself online: smiling in photos, laughing with new acquaintances, posting snapshots that “proved” I was thriving. I wanted to convince the world, and maybe even myself, that I was having the quintessential college experience.

But behind those images, the reality was nothing like what I posted.

No one saw the panic attacks that left me shaking on the floor of my dorm room, gasping for air through tears, begging my parents on the phone to come get me. No one knew how many excuses I made up to justify going home for the weekend, lies layered on lies, because saying “I’m scared and I don’t know how to be here yet” felt too vulnerable. No one heard me crying in the shower, because there, at least, the water on my face didn’t raise questions.

I was living two parallel lives: the one I broadcast to prove I was normal, and the one I quietly survived in private.

When the announcement came that spring break would be extended because of something called COVID, and then later, that we’d be finishing the semester online from home, I jumped up and down with relief. It felt like being handed an unexpected lifeline. A part of me exhaled for the first time in months.

It wasn’t that college was always miserable. It wasn’t constant dread. Over time, I had chapters of real joy, moments that reminded me why people called these “the best years.” I met my boyfriend and fell in love. I spent my senior year living by the beach. I went on late-night food runs, sat on dorm room floors talking about life until 2 a.m., and laughed with friends until my stomach hurt. I found small routines that made me happy, like morning walks, playing cards or watching the sunset at the beach after class. I danced at our local bar, surrounded by people who made me feel a little lighter at the time.

There was beauty there. There was growth. There were memories I’ll treasure forever.

This might sound crazy, but I don’t think I would change anything about my experience… well, maybe a few fewer hangovers. Beyond that, everything — every feeling, every awkward moment, every triumph and failure — shaped me. Every experience taught me something about who I am, who I can be and how I navigate the world.

Of course, there are regrets. I regret the grip anxiety had on me and the quiet but lasting toll it took on my friendships. I regret the times it won, when I retreated home instead of staying, missing moments that could have strengthened connections or opened doors I wasn’t ready to see. But even those regrets have their place — they’ve taught me resilience, self-awareness and the hard but necessary lessons of patience and compassion for myself.

In the end, it all became part of the person I am today — messy, anxious, flawed, but also capable of growth, love and joy in ways I never could have imagined.

I’ve reimagined those quotes I heard, to reflect what my experience actually felt like:

“You’re going to grow and learn in ways you never expected at college.”

“These four years will be some of the hardest of your life, but they will teach you more than you can imagine.”

“You will meet people who challenge you, inspire you and show you parts of yourself you didn’t know existed.”

“Some of the most unexpected, meaningful moments of your life are waiting for you there, sometimes in the quiet, sometimes in chaos.”

“These years will be full of firsts, some exhilarating, some terrifying, but all shaping the person you’re becoming.”

If I could speak to a college freshman feeling like I once did, I would wrap my words around them like a hug and say: it’s okay. You are not broken. You are not failing. The fear, the panic, the ache of leaving home, they are all normal. Everyone adjusts at their own pace, even if it looks like everyone else has it figured out. You are allowed to feel everything: the excitement, the loneliness, the terror and the wonder all at once. And through it all, you are not alone. You are seen. You are loved. And little by little, day by day, you will find your footing, your people and the part of yourself that grows braver with every step away from home.