My roommates helped my dad fold my bed sheets as I curled on my dorm’s hardwood floor, crying, trying to breathe. Unable to see me in pain, my dad frantically stuffed my belongings into a 40-gallon trash bag he found in the dining hall. In just minutes, the room I had spent a week decorating was empty.
My dad and I sat in silence as the Uber drove us away from campus, trash bags between us. I had just hugged my roommates goodbye, apologizing for the awkwardness. They looked nervous and confused. Why was I being forced to leave campus the night before classes started? I didn’t know what to tell them because I also didn’t understand. We stayed at a local motel plastered with pictures of Yale’s campus.
Two weeks earlier, I was on FOOT, Yale’s pre-orientation hiking trip. Each day, for six days, I and seven other freshmen, led by two juniors, trekked ten miles in the White Mountains. Each night, we huddled around a flashlight and told “hometowns”: a deep-rooted Yale tradition of sharing your life story. I let myself be vulnerable, confiding in them about my brushes with bullying and depression. We inspired each other, and before we knew it we had become close friends. On the last day, our leader pranked us with a pack of Walmart cupcakes — I forgot I just turned 18. It had been a decade since I last celebrated a birthday with friends. As I blew out my candle, I wished for more friends like them.
My dad flew into New Haven to help me move into Timothy Dwight, my residential dorm and home for the next four years. Taped to my door were four cards, hand-painted by my freshman counselor. One had my name. With my roommates, I decorated our dorm. I joined the origami club and registered for Architecture of Urbanism, my first-year seminar. “I’m proud of you,” my dad hugged me goodbye. Those words felt foreign to me.
