Written by Riley Maddox, a Notre Dame graduate and a member of the McConnell Scholar Class of 2027
As a kid, one of my family’s favorite summer pastimes was going to the pool. We kept our pool bag stocked with dry towels and sunscreen, ready to jump in the car at a second’s notice if my siblings suddenly got the urge for the cool water. I, for one, never liked the way that the cold pool water felt on my skin. I would watch my brother effortlessly dive right into the deep end, while I would do the walk of shame to the shallow stairs, barely getting the courage to dip my big toe in. My friends would call out to me from the deep, laughing and playing with their hair sopping wet and their skin pruney, while I was still getting adjusted to the cold temperature.
My method for safely entering the pool was simple. I would close my eyes, count to ten, and take one step down the stairs. The cold water was always a shock to my skin, but I longed to get in and play with the rest of the kids so that I would endure the pain. After thirty seconds of being inches in the water, I would repeat this process, closing my eyes tight and counting to ten, then bravely taking another step into the cold. Over and over again, inch by inch, I would take small but significant steps, until I was fully submerged. Finally, after a long and uncomfortable process, the chilly water would no longer sting my skin, and I would be ready to join my friends and siblings.
Going to college felt a lot like getting in the cold pool. I stood on the pool deck at the end of the shallow, watching everyone I knew jump right in, knowing I didn’t have the courage to. Knowing that it would take a long time before I could join them. I started entering the pool my first week, barely dipping my toes in before I took them right back out. Watching people I grew up with, the people I loved, jump right into the pool. Why was the water so cold for me, but seemingly temperate for them? Why couldn’t I jump right in? Wanting, wishing, and hoping I could be like that.
That first weekend, I recall sitting in a dimly lit restaurant with other McConnell Scholars, my eyes burning, trying not to cry. I just wanted my mom. I just wanted to get home. But that didn’t exist anymore. This was my home. This was my life. It all came so fast. Everything I had ever known was now taken from me, and being replaced with unfamiliar faces and places. I drove home early that night, while all the other scholars went for ice cream. I stared at the pictures that they had taken, their faces bright and happy, and I cried. I cried harder than I had ever cried in my life. I wanted to be happy, just like them. I wanted my face to glow with excitement, as cold ice cream dripped onto my hand. I wanted to jump in the pool. But it was just too cold.
Week two got a little better. I was starting to understand how college worked. What time to wake up, and what time to shower so my roommates wouldn’t be mad. How my classes worked, who my professors were, and how much time I had to eat lunch. I was developing a routine. But I still wasn’t happy. My dad suggested that I start going to the gym. He claimed the dopamine release would be good for my body. I reluctantly tried, but that proved not helpful. My mom told me I just needed to give it time. But that didn’t seem like a viable option. Every night I would lay in my bed and stare at the keys to my car, hanging on my bulletin board. I would think about how I could leave right now. I could go home and sleep in my own bed. I could shower without shoes. I could hug my mom. I would stare at those keys until I fell asleep. Wondering how long it would take me to actually act on my impulses.
At the end of my second week, I was talking to Camryn McPherson, a junior scholar. I was expressing my feelings about college. I told her that I just didn’t love it yet. The first couple of weeks had been really difficult, and I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the next 4 years. She gave me some very valuable advice. She said “Riley, I’m going to be honest with you. I didn’t start liking college until after Labor Day. And I didn’t start loving college until after Fall Break. It’s the second week. It’s not going to be good right now.”
Hearing those words from someone I look up to meant the world to me. It made me feel validated and safe. It let me know that even though it may seem like it, not everyone is jumping directly into the cold pool and having fun right away. Some people are also taking their time. Other people jump right into the cold pool and pretend like they are having fun, but in reality are freezing and miserable.
Camryn was right. I went home for Labor Day weekend, and returned to campus refreshed and ready to take on college. I felt a renewed sense of purpose and self-confidence. I could do this. I continued to push forward and step outside of my comfort zone. I tried talking to one new person every day. I still didn’t love college yet, but I definitely didn’t hate it.
Time kept passing, and the weeks flew by. Before I knew it, fall break had come. And I thought back to what Camryn had told me. I looked around me and saw a firmly established friend group, with whom I was attending football games and going to dinner. I saw a roommate who I loved spending time with, and classes that were challenging but manageable. I felt, finally, like I could say I loved college, and it was the whole truth.
Within these first 12 weeks, I have been challenged and tested in ways I would have never expected. I have grown academically, personally, spiritually, and mentally. I feel more confident in myself and my decisions. I have become someone that my senior self would not fully recognize. I still have the same passion in my chest, same hair on my head, and the same love of learning. But now I’m fully submerged in the pool. I have joined my friends in the deep end. I can finally feel the cool water enveloping my body. I feel my wet hair down my back and my pruney fingers. And I am happy.