I purchased my first ever Spring Weekend ticket while on the treadmill. I was #1998 in the virtual queue and the little figure on the screen walked atop the progress bar from left to right, imitating my leisurely pace, dragging itself to the finish line. Every day felt like that at the time. Between subpar performance on exams, homesickness that created an ever-turning pit in my stomach, and a body I no longer recognized as my own, I needed something to look forward to. So, I held on tight to the relief I felt the moment I got those tickets, for they were a promise of an unforgettable celebration and a Brown tradition I simply could not miss. But that anxiety could not be disguised as excitement no matter how hard I tried. Despite spending days curating hypothetical outfits and listening to the artists that would grace the Main Green stage, my underlying dread could not be confused for eagerness. 

All the signs were there. And yet when that Saturday afternoon finally came, I was genuinely shocked that I could not muster up the motivation to go. I went through the motions of it all: I got dressed, undressed, dressed again, did my makeup, took it off, reapplied it, practiced my smile in the mirror once or twice, maybe a third time. But my head and my heart were disjointed, and my limbs stiffened at the thought of making that walk. I sat there, frustrated at my paralysis, embarrassed at my inability to cut my spiraling thoughts off at their source. I felt obligated to do some social damage control—my friends were expecting me, after all. So, I texted the group chat that I’d meet up with them there, turned off my location, and rehearsed my excuse for being late: Oh I just got a migraine! It’s no biggie, really. It must’ve taken an hour for me to regain my composure but I managed to make that trek, getting in line right as the remaining tinges of pink and orange in the sky gave way to darkness.

While my friends enjoyed the Undertow Brass Band and Amaarae, I waited patiently on the corner of George St and Thayer St to enter the venue. My then-acquaintance, now-boyfriend—bless his heart—guided me through the massive crowd to where my friends were standing. I sang along to Flo Milli and Smino, just as I had practiced, and for two hours it felt like my night was going according to plan. Like my inertia wasn’t overcome by the incessant shoving of the sea of bodies that enveloped me. Like my jaw wasn’t tense and my appetite wasn’t nonexistent and being alone with my thoughts wasn’t agonizing. Like I was a normal 19 year-old doing normal college things with my well adjusted college friends. Like everything was going to get better if I just did this one thing.

I did not go to the performances on Sunday. Well, I did not stay for them. Before the show, I swapped out the infuriating song and dance of self deprecation and loathing for a renewed sense of indifference. I rid my mind of any expectations, accepting whatever plans the universe, the Brown Concert Agency, and my psyche had in store. As I watched the beginning of Ari Lennox’s set I, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, developed a migraine. I couldn’t help but laugh as I walked back to my dorm. Instead of fixating on my tendency to self-sabotage, I lay on my bed with a sense of contentment, the comforter shielding my eyes from the overhead lighting. Looking back on it now, relinquishing control—of my emotions, decisions, and expectations— felt radical. 

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy Spring Weekend; day 2 of SW 2023 remains one of the days I’ll treasure most throughout my time at Brown. It just took missing out on most of it for me to realize that I had a penchant for setting myself up for disappointment. Holding myself to unrealistic and self-imposed expectations is what caused the spring of my freshman year to be such a dark time in my mental health trajectory. Almost from thin air, I fabricated expectations of how I was meant to act, think, look, and feel. I attached so much weight to each memory—treating every fleeting moment like it was meant to be perfect and cherished for years to come—that it’s no wonder I was sinking beneath it all. 

As my last Spring Weekend approaches, I’m glad I allowed myself to spiral on that gloomy April weekend three years ago. While it may not be my fondest memory, it laid the foundation for many wonderful memories in the years that followed. Most of all, I’m incredibly grateful to experience every passing day, inching closer and closer—akin to the little guy atop the progress bar in the virtual queue—towards a better understanding of who I am on a path devoid of expectations.