Rachel Chipner

Here’s to the first ring on the tree trunk, onto the next three; and to freshman year — may sophomore, junior and senior year be each better than the last.

With the advent of college and amid the stomach-dropping realization that I was suddenly “on my own,” I had come to the realization that I needed to make a new community.

The academic expectations I had put on myself during A Levels were so intense that I developed a nasty streak of perfectionism. So much that, at times, it became brutal to my self-worth.

However, I want to care about my appearance, even though I am a college student. It’s a form of control that I can be as meticulous as I would like.

I had forgotten my love of the beach, of being enveloped in the sweltering heat, the smell of saltwater in my hair.

While it was strenuous, it sometimes felt like playing a part in a play; it wasn’t miserable, but more so a challenge of trying to stay in character.

But here, it seems the scent in the air is of hyperprofessionalism where any trace of genuine passion gets lost in the wind.

It wasn’t like I was afraid I would be a total recluse in Berkeley, but I think putting myself out there was an important step toward reidentifying with me being American.

It’s a strange, liminal space very few kids acknowledge. This new identity, which I have quickly tried on and am still learning to adjust to, is trying and incredibly difficult to fit into sometimes, as if there’s a script and my delivery is always just a little off.

Despite the shortcomings of Valentine’s Day I had, and still do have, the inevitable longing for something more.