Change
Understanding Change
Sometimes I think the word change is too small for what it really is. One night I looked it up because I kept feeling this weird heaviness in my chest whenever people talked about how much college would change me. The word comes from the Old French word changier, which means to alter or to exchange. When I read that, I remembered thinking it sounded way too gentle. It reminded me of switching seats with someone in class or trading shirts with a roommate. But change has never felt like that in my life. It has felt sharp and cold like stepping outside on the first freezing morning of winter without realizing the temperature dropped overnight.
College made me look back at who I used to be, and now I can see little shifts that were happening long before I ever noticed them. I used to imagine change as one big dramatic moment. Like something that would make a loud noise or force me to cry or make me realize something huge all at once. But that is not how it works. Most change begins quietly. It sneaks in like the way the sun sets without anyone really noticing until the sky is already dark. It almost feels secret, which makes it feel even more powerful.
I guess part of why the word feels too small is because change feels like it takes up space inside you. It stretches you. It shakes things loose. It leaves fingerprints on your life. Maybe that is why I wanted to understand it so badly. I wanted to know if the version of myself I kept meeting every day was still me or someone else entirely.
Adjusting to Campus Life
The first time I walked across campus, I acted like I knew what I was doing. I remember clutching my backpack, trying to look calm even though my phone was buzzing in my pocket with Apple Maps telling me I had already taken the wrong turn. My stomach felt tight, and I could feel sweat on my palms even though it was barely warm outside. I thought college would feel glamorous or at least exciting. I thought I would show up and instantly feel older and smarter. Instead, it felt like I was stumbling into a story everyone else had already been living for years.
People walked confidently in every direction, and I felt like a visitor instead of a student. I wanted to belong so badly that it almost hurt. I wanted to walk past someone and have them look at me and somehow know that I was supposed to be here, too.
When I think about that girl now, the one who kept pretending she knew where she was going, I feel something soft toward her. She was scared out of her mind, but she kept walking anyway. She learned the campus little by little. She figured out where the best dining hall on campus was and which path to take when she was running late. She memorized the sound of people laughing through thin walls at night. She survived the hardest part without even realizing she was doing something brave.
I did not know it at the time, but I was already changing. My fear was loud but something inside me was learning to breathe through it. I was becoming someone without announcing it to anyone, not even myself.
Seasonal Shifts
Fall explains me better than any other season. As soon as the air shifts and the mornings feel crisp, something in me wakes up. The campus fills with people again, and it feels like someone turned the brightness all the way up. The stadium gets loud. Students walk in groups again instead of the slow scattered pace of summer. I love hearing conversations drift out of open dorm windows and seeing people sitting on the grass even when it is a little too cold for it.
Fall feels like a beginning even though it technically marks the end of the year. I always feel more social in the fall. I want to join every club. I want to take cute notes in class and spend hours at the library and sit outside with friends until the sun sets. It feels like a reset for my energy, like I finally remember what I am capable of.
But fall also reminds me that nothing stays the same. One week the leaves glow bright yellow and red. The next week they pile up on the sidewalks like forgotten letters, the kind you mean to open but never do. The trees look completely different almost overnight. There is something honest about that. It shows how quickly things shift even when you are not ready.
In ancient times fall was the season for preparing, gathering, and saving. People harvested crops, repaired their homes, and got ready for colder months. I like thinking about that. It makes change feel less like chaos and more like something natural. Something expected. Something you can trust even when it surprises you.
Winter Reflections
Winter slows everything down. When it first snowed this year, I stopped walking and just watched it fall onto my sleeves. It made the world feel quiet in a way that almost scared me at first. The campus usually felt loud even when nothing was happening, but during that first snow it felt like everyone was holding their breath at the same time.
The snow made everything look softer. The trees looked like pencil sketches. The sky looked like a faded painting. I kept thinking about how winter forces you inward. People stay inside more. Days get shorter. Time feels smaller. But in a strange way, it makes me pay attention more than any other season.
One night I walked back to my dorm after the sun had already gone down. The sky was a pale pink behind the buildings, and the streetlights made the snow sparkle like tiny stars on the ground. I felt like the world had paused for a second just so I could look around. It was such a quiet moment, but it made me realize something: change does not always come with big lights or dramatic moments. Sometimes it comes in the shape of silence. Sometimes it is a slow breath. Sometimes it is the way you notice a view you used to walk right past. Winter makes everything feel intentional. Every sound, every step, every breath turns into something worth noticing.
My Emotional Awareness
This year I started listening to my emotions instead of treating them like problems I needed to fix. I used to think anxiety meant I was doing everything wrong. I thought sadness meant I was weak. Even joy scared me sometimes because I was always waiting for the moment it disappeared. But something shifted. I started treating my emotions like messages instead of warnings. Anxiety shows I care. Sadness means something mattered to me. Joy means I am awake and paying attention. These feelings are not flaws. They are signs that I am alive.
I read a quote once where Aristotle said that knowing yourself is the beginning of wisdom. I used to roll my eyes at stuff like that because it sounded too perfect for real life. But now it makes sense in a way that feels personal. Knowing yourself is not about solving everything or having answers. It is about noticing. It is about being honest with what you feel even when it is uncomfortable.
A few weeks ago I walked through the Palmer Museum between classes. I was not planning to stay long, but I stopped in front of this painting that caught my attention. The colors blended together so smoothly that the edges almost disappeared. It looked like everything was in motion even though the canvas was completely still. It felt like a picture of what my life has been feeling like. Nothing stays separated. Emotions and experiences mix into each other. Everything overlaps. I stood there for a long time because the painting made me feel understood in a way that words could not. Art is strange like that. It shows truths you did not know you needed to see.
Sometimes when I think about how much I have changed this year, I think about Greta Gerwig and the way she tells stories about girlhood. In Barbie, she shows what it feels like to suddenly see the world differently, almost like waking up one morning and realizing you are not the same person you were the day before. There is this mix of fear and excitement in the movie– this idea that becoming someone new is messy and confusing but also necessary. I remember sitting in the theater and feeling weirdly emotional because it reminded me of how it feels to grow up when you are not totally ready. Gerwig has this way of making girlhood feel soft and complicated at the same time, and honestly it made me feel less alone in the changes I have been going through.
Symbolism of the River
Sometimes I think the best metaphor for change is a river. It is the one image that feels real to me. A river is always moving even when the top looks calm. It reshapes the edges around it. It carries pieces of land and drops them somewhere else without thinking twice. It never apologizes for shifting.
Rivers have meant transformation in so many cultures. In Greek mythology, the River Lethe was where souls forgot their old lives before starting new ones. In Hindu tradition, the Ganges is a symbol of cleansing and renewal. People have always gone to rivers when they needed to become someone new.
College has been my river. It has carried me through confusion, excitement, loneliness, pride, fear, and more moments than I can count where I questioned everything about myself. But it also pushed me forward when I was too tired to move. It shaped me in ways I did not expect. It made me softer in some places and stronger in others. Growing up, people always made adulthood sound like reaching a final destination, like stability was the prize. But now I think adulthood might actually be learning how to float without panicking. It might be learning how to move with the current instead of fighting it.
The Role of Stillness
I keep thinking about stillness. I always assumed change meant movement and activity and big choices. But change can also be the way your mind finally quiets down. It can be the moment you breathe without feeling guilty. It can be staying in one place long enough to feel grounded.
One night after a long study session, I walked back alone from the library. The campus was almost empty. My footsteps echoed in a way that made me feel like I was the only person awake. The snow clung to the branches above me, and the air was so cold it felt clean. I stopped under a streetlight because the snow looked magical in the glow and I just wanted to watch it for a second. For the first time in a long time, I felt calm. Not forced calm. Not fake calm. A real calm that settled into my shoulders and my breath and the center of my chest. I realized I had not felt that in months. Stillness is its own kind of change. It might even be the bravest kind.
Personal Evolution
When I look at the version of myself who arrived here during my first week and compare her to who I am now, the differences are not dramatic. They are small but real. I laugh easier. I let myself cry when I need to. I pay attention to sunlight on the sidewalks and the sound of people talking behind me and the way my breath looks in the cold. I feel things without assuming the feeling means something is wrong.
I do not know if I will ever fully understand myself. But maybe understanding is not the point. Maybe the point is curiosity. Movement. Stillness. The mix of those things. Maybe the point is letting the river reshape me and letting the seasons teach me things I did not know I needed to learn.
Change is always happening.
And for the first time in my life, I am not afraid of it.
Sara Greene is a sophomore at Penn State University in University Park, PA, pursuing a degree in Public Relations. She is passionate about the power of communication to shape perceptions and build connections. Beyond her major, she has a strong love for music, cooking, fitness, and spending time with her loved ones. When she is not studying or listening to music, she enjoys meaningful conversations that spark laughter and connection.
