In typical unfortunate October fashion, I’m inundated with due dates and midterms and fighting to keep my head above water. Recently, I washed up on the third floor of List after midnight, sleepily typing out an email to my professor—the studio door was locked, dashing hopes of meeting yet another deadline. With mild dread for the next day, I was ready to leave when another student, a fellow stranger also on a late-night cramming mission, came up to me with a request that would leave me glad to have been stuck helpless at List that night.
* * *
As we dive further into fall semester, I’m sure many of you find yourselves settling into a steady routine. Perhaps you’re still diligently waking up for your 9 a.m., or rather, utilizing Lecture Capture to prioritize sleep (both respectable in my eyes). Maybe you faithfully trek up to Andrews from south campus each weekend for a hearty burrito bowl, no matter how long the line may be when you arrive. Or, possibly, you hunker down most nights in your library of choice for a much needed lock-in session.
Whatever your campus routine, I’m sure it also comes with its own catalog of familiar faces—your closest friends, acquaintances, smile-and-waves, the opp or two (or more!). It’s my senior year at Brown, and, as is par for the course, I’ve been reminiscing about that incomparable feeling of being a first-year, staring down the countless possibilities awaiting me. This is not to say I’ve discovered everything there is to find at Brown—far from it. But no matter your year, falling into a routine can also mean falling out of that college life honeymoon phase. My first year here, I remember impulsively accepting lunch invites with strangers, taking my first sip of vodka (its harsh burn has never grown kinder), hopping on the train for a weekend getaway, stretching myself thin with classes and commitments, and feeling the rush of novelty every single day. But in the years since, I’ve felt a shift, where first encounters have become rare and weekend adventures are fewer and farther in between. There is much comfort and security to be found in a weekly regimen, but I’ve forgotten what it feels like to regularly engage with the unknown. The ringing of the hourly University Hall bells remind me of where I should go next but also of all the places I could otherwise be. There was an era when I’d jump at an opportunity to go outside my comfort zone, with a carefree “Why not?” Now I ask myself, “Why did I stop?”
* * *
“Can you help me get this lock open?” My late-night List companion—let’s call him Ami—pointed to a padlocked cabinet, his project tucked away inside. What are the odds that both of us would find ourselves on this same floor, at the same time, with the same problem? Apparently, not that unlikely, according to a VISA-concentrator friend of mine. As we took turns futilely rattling the lock, the tried and tired first rounds of conversation began: “What year are you?” “What’s your concentration?” We’ve all been there.
Finally, the lock relented, and Ami held his poster in his hands. There. Mission complete. I’m relieved of duty and free to walk away with a superficial “Nice meeting you!”
Right?
It would have been smarter to leave, to spend the dwindling hours before my alarm blared sleeping or catching up on work. But something held my feet in that studio and compelled me to pull up a seat as Ami prepped his poster paper. Within moments, guarded conversation melted away to an unexpected heart-to-heart under the cover of night and stark studio lights. We bonded over the complexities and existential pressures of being low-income students at an Ivy League school and the struggle of reconciliation with cultural and ancestral pain. We even talked about our grandmothers.
An image comes to my mind of friends chatting beneath a blanket tent at a sleepover, their huddled silhouettes lit up by lamplight. There’s nothing like a nighttime exchange with a stranger to remind you that you’re never alone. The night’s backdrop allows us to open up to each other more easily and share the intimate facets of ourselves that we keep hidden from the daylight—, the things that, arguably, most shape who we are. It feels unfair that I sometimes hesitate to bloom unabashedly, to brandish my bruises or to beget brutal vulnerability in front of friends, yet am so willing to do so with a stranger. Another of routine’s curses—that the ever-enchanting should gray into the mere everyday.
My chance meeting with Ami ended not uncommonly, with an exchange of socials and a promise to meet again, one on which I hold conviction to make good. On my walk alone down the spotlit streets, I was awash with feelings and memories that I’d steadily forgotten: that quick prick of hyper-awareness when you may have overshared with someone you just met, that steady swell of adventurous spirit when going to an as-yet-undiscovered locale, that all-consuming spark when you may have found a new friend for life. I enjoy my current routine, but I sometimes yearn for those old feelings.
Routine is something I still depend on a lot. To have a steady support system, loved ones you can always go to for a laugh or rant, and that feeling that you’ve grown into a new setting, like breaking in a pair of shoes, is a wonderful thing. Still, those old feelings remind me that there is so much left to find, relish, regret, and learn outside of the regularly scheduled bubble I keep myself in. Pop it! Be brave, step outside of yourself every once in a while. When you return to the warm embrace of routine, let your eyes refresh to behold the beauty that’s before you in those steadfast friends, those familiar faces, and those usual pathways. There is always so much life to find, and I’ll do my best to always keep searching, both inside and outside my bubble. I hope you do the same.
