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By Thomas Hulse
The transition from a relatively controlled life in high school to an independent one in college has already been expressed in every manner possible. There’s hardly anything unique to say about it which won’t feel trite. This blog won’t be any different. But perhaps there’s still something to be said so that my own understanding can grasp the personal change, even if everyone else already knows the same worn-out lines:
College is very much a sink-or-swim situation. However, if being dropped into the deep end of the pool is intense, the jump into university life is more like being thrown off the stern of an ocean liner into frigid water. Now, I was lucky to land rather softly when I hit the water, because the transition just happened to not be particularly jarring for me. However, I know some who struggled to the surface after that initial plunge in the first week of classes, and it was by some kind grace that nobody sank too dangerously deep. In any case, we’re all bobbing in some vast, black sea now.
And looking forward, behind, all around, I can’t see that ocean liner anymore. The safeties of its deck and warmth are long forgotten—in its place is the penetrating bite of glacial water and the struggle of treading feet to keep a small head above water. Waves ceaselessly, terrifyingly come over my head and then recede just when I think it might be too difficult. Seminars, classes, sleepless nights, homework, all the piled-up responsibilities nearly drown me.
Then, in a moment of composure, I catch my breath. I lean forward and kick, my arms making one stroke and then another. Towards what delightful sandy shore I swim, I don’t know, but I pick a direction and I swim. I hope that the currents deliver me to my rightful place, wherever that may be. With the hopeless thoughts of the abyss below edged out of my mind, I trudge forward through the high waves. I keep the dangerous thoughts of misery at bay, and in its place, I find reward in every stroke made, every additional meter swum. Even though I see no shore in sight, with each wave I push through, I pride myself on the small success before forgetting it and bracing for one even taller than the last.
I’m not sure anybody really truly knows where towards they’re headed, and on the surface, that’s quite bleak. What’s the point of being dragged along endlessly in something you have no say in and of pushing towards some unknown, perhaps impossible, mystery supposedly just beyond the horizon? There probably isn’t one. But the only other choice is to languish, go under, and be claimed by the expansive emptiness of the seabed. So clear your head—and swim.
Thomas Hulse is a McConnell Scholar in the Class of 2023. He is studying physics and political science at the University of Louisville.
The transition from a relatively controlled life in high school to an independent one in college has already been expressed in every manner possible. There’s hardly anything unique to say about it which won’t feel trite. This blog won’t be any different. But perhaps there’s still something to be said so that my own understanding can grasp the personal change, even if everyone else already knows the same worn-out lines:
College is very much a sink-or-swim situation. However, if being dropped into the deep end of the pool is intense, the jump into university life is more like being thrown off the stern of an ocean liner into frigid water. Now, I was lucky to land rather softly when I hit the water, because the transition just happened to not be particularly jarring for me. However, I know some who struggled to the surface after that initial plunge in the first week of classes, and it was by some kind grace that nobody sank too dangerously deep. In any case, we’re all bobbing in some vast, black sea now.
And looking forward, behind, all around, I can’t see that ocean liner anymore. The safeties of its deck and warmth are long forgotten—in its place is the penetrating bite of glacial water and the struggle of treading feet to keep a small head above water. Waves ceaselessly, terrifyingly come over my head and then recede just when I think it might be too difficult. Seminars, classes, sleepless nights, homework, all the piled-up responsibilities nearly drown me.
Then, in a moment of composure, I catch my breath. I lean forward and kick, my arms making one stroke and then another. Towards what delightful sandy shore I swim, I don’t know, but I pick a direction and I swim. I hope that the currents deliver me to my rightful place, wherever that may be. With the hopeless thoughts of the abyss below edged out of my mind, I trudge forward through the high waves. I keep the dangerous thoughts of misery at bay, and in its place, I find reward in every stroke made, every additional meter swum. Even though I see no shore in sight, with each wave I push through, I pride myself on the small success before forgetting it and bracing for one even taller than the last.
I’m not sure anybody really truly knows where towards they’re headed, and on the surface, that’s quite bleak. What’s the point of being dragged along endlessly in something you have no say in and of pushing towards some unknown, perhaps impossible, mystery supposedly just beyond the horizon? There probably isn’t one. But the only other choice is to languish, go under, and be claimed by the expansive emptiness of the seabed. So clear your head—and swim.
Thomas Hulse is a McConnell Scholar in the Class of 2023. He is studying physics and political science at the University of Louisville.