Lately, I’ve had a lot of those mornings that when I wake up, time just stretches, and I feel gelatinous. Like Jell-O. I’ve had more of them than I can count. I greet these viscous mornings with a groggy head and eyes that won’t open beyond halfway. A blindingly bright alarm clock mocks me. It’s quiet in my small dorm room. Only soft chirps float through the window left cracked open from the night before. I’m drowning in my foggy state, but I swing my legs out of bed anyways. In the hallway, I’m met with a familiar face, sluggish like mine. We exchange lopsided smiles. A bit of the heavy fog lifts.
I arrived at school 28 days ago, though it feels like an eternity. I remind myself that it’s still early. Early on in my semester, early on in my life. Yet, despite these daily mantras and small acts of occasional self-care, I still manage to bury myself in anxiety, hopelessly overwhelmed.
Just 28 days in, everything feels warped beyond recognition. Friendships have shifted, relationships have changed, classes have picked up, and I’m swamped to my knees in stress. Maybe this is the junior year slump we’ve all been warned about. The feelings that summer calmed for just a little while—the low, but constant hum of worries about anything and everything —all come rushing back. But school has started and I push on. I show up to class, I do assignments with the stomach flu, and I go to the meetings I don’t want to go to. Because eventually, the fog will thin and things will start to settle down. The semester will roll on. I’ll see a little more clearly.
The jump from a summer mainly spent alone to constant socialization feels jarring. But, when I’m in my room, about to wallow up and cry, I hear bells just outside my door—the laughter of my three roommates, stomping into my room and singing. Their wild, unhinged choreography drags me out of my hole, forcing me to climb out of bed and join them.
My girlfriends are like no other. They’re kind, and they’re caring, and they’ve done nothing but look out for me and love me. And over the years that we’ve known each other, we’ve conjured up ways to give ourselves a little break from the constant seriousness of school and clubs and relationships. From prank wars, to slipping love letters under each others’ doors, to covering our walls in weird stickers, to competitive Bananagrams, to salsa dancing, they get me. Our dorm hums with chaotic but loving energy.
Despite how easily moments with them uplift me, there’s this constant undercurrent of anxiety that never fully leaves. It’s a lingering feeling: not overwhelming, but oscillating in and out, growing dull at times, but never quiet. I cling to my routines when I’m alone, the little things that bring me happiness. Making coffee in the morning. Sending funny pictures to my brothers. Curling my hair. Busywork. Constant motions. Runs, pilates, walks, calling my friends and my family—I’m desperate to fill every minute with noise and music and activity. But even in these moments, no loud volume can drown out the sound of that ever persistent hum of dread.
Perhaps it’s the transition. New faces, new schedules, new habits, new surroundings—we expect ourselves to adapt immediately and face these changes like champs. There’s an unspoken rush to figure it all out and fasten our heads on our shoulders. But in reality, I don’t think it’s that easy. Sometimes, things still feel a bit upside down.
When I’m with people I don’t know well, I find myself worrying constantly that I’m talking too loud or I’m mumbling, that I’m being too boisterous or annoyingly dull. I rewind to each interaction, flipping and flopping words in my head, replaying each look.
Maybe the people I surround myself with—who I put energy and effort into, who do the same to me in return—matter much more than I thought they did. In college, where time is a scarce commodity, it matters who you share it with.
I’m lucky to have friends I can always count on. Sharing a space with them has only made our friendship stronger.
In the moments I feel most disconnected, the smallest gestures pull me back. Like the way my roommates knock on my door when they’re bored, play music in the common room, and send me funny pictures when they know I’m home. Or how they know my class schedule and remember when my assignments are due. And how they leave the door open: an unspoken invitation just to walk in. No knock necessary.
More and more, I’ve been cherishing this comfort of a shared space, of shared lives. Living with my best friends forges moments of togetherness, whether I’m ready for them or not. We struggle in our own ways, but at least we’re doing it together. Experiencing this time in our lives as a team makes it all bearable. When every other thing in my life feels like too much, it’s comforting to know I’m not alone.
More often than not, we’re grabbing meals on the go or rushing out for class with only a quick goodbye. Yet, most nights after 11 p.m., we’re all at home, sprawled on our giant bean bags with so many stories to tell and so much advice to dole out. I’m lucky to experience these sweet moments where everything feels easy. Time doesn’t feel like Jell-O. It feels weightless, suspended, like we’re floating above our daily lives, just for a little while.
I’m learning to tackle the unease, the insecurities, the doubt. Instead of trying to make it all perfect or figuring it all out completely, I focus on the small moments—of connection, joy, and laughter—that remind me how to stay present and feel secure. The friends I get to surround myself with remind me of my value and worth every single day. They do so through the smallest things—laughing over nothing, talking late at night, pocketing inside jokes for later. Sticking by me even when I’m at my lowest.
I know there will always be days when I wake up and time feels like it’s slipping through my fingers, where everything moves too fast or not fast enough. But, I also know there are days when it all slows down, just enough for the fog to clear. Days I can breathe a little easier.
In these moments, I remember that I’m not just living with friends—I’m building something with them. Something lifelong, cherished, and untouchable. Something that makes this Jell-O-time a little less sticky. Something that makes it all worth it.
