In April, when the famed fat packet of acceptance from Amherst somehow landed in my mailbox, I did a dance of joy in the living room. I visited during Accepted Students Weekend and promptly fell in love with the place, proceeding to buy every item of Amherst gear: a sweatshirt with big purple letters, a tee shirt, shorts and, of course, the essential car decals-one for my car and one for the family car. I beamed when asked about college; I fielded every question with pride and accuracy, firing off statistics like an admissions officer. I spent the summer explaining to relatives and friends that yes, my college was a real school and no, I was not going to UMass. I spent hours poring over shower caddies at Linens 'n Things. I compared the texture and softness of every towel in Bed, Bath & Beyond. I bought magnetic dry erase boards, shampoo and laundry detergent with sheer glee.

When the end of August approached, I dragged my "dorm stuff" from my bedroom to the family room and watched it accumulate. Storage bins, shower shoes, sheets-I bought everything I could imagine, and even some things that I simply wanted, always under the pretense that "I might need it for college." Everything was crammed into its proper bin, then left alone to wait. 

Suddenly, it was Aug. 28. The night before I left, I lay awake in bed, trying to grasp what was actually happening: I was going to college. College! Though my friends and I had discussed the subject at every get-together, we couldn't have known what life would be like on the other side of high school. It was a world that we'd heard about from older siblings and friends, perhaps parents-a world we were desperate to live in-but the idea was still foreign to us. I'd talked and thought about Amherst throughout the summer, and yet the fact that I was a college student still hadn't hit me.

By the time we were in the car and barreling down the Mass Pike, I finally was able to picture myself as a college student. My family and I were quiet as we drove along, but I felt we were all wondering the same thing: what would change? Would we be the same people after a month, a semester, a year apart?

We pulled off the highway, drove down Route 9, and slowly followed the swarm of cars heading toward Converse Hall. I tried to stay as cool and calm as possible as I navigated the freshmen-filled hall and got my room key from an orientation worker. My heart was pounding in my chest as my mother and I trudged up the grassy hill to my dorm, but I kept reminding myself that everyone was just as nervous as I am. Of course, I didn't fully believe it.

After that, everything became a blur.

I met my roommate and gave her a nervous hug. I proceeded to rearrange furniture and nearly broke my back while de-lofting the bed. I ran to the car, carried bins up to room, ran back to the car and carried more bins. And bins ... and bins ... It seemed never ending.

When the dust had settled, it was just my spotless room, my roommate and me. Plus, a week's worth of orientation events that seemed to come right on top of each other. After a week, in spite of-or perhaps because of-our overload of assemblies, Amherst was beginning to feel more and more like home.

And then, on Sept. 2, the upperclassmen arrived, and I couldn't have felt more out of place. Eating lunch at Valentine became more than a meal: It was a rite of passage, and my friends and I struggled to conquer it with the same confidence as the sophomores, juniors and seniors.

There were six steps that went along with this ordeal. Step One: choose utensils (but what if you don't know what you're going to need yet?). Step Two: choose your line (but I can't see the whiteboard ... what are they serving on this line?). Step Three: the soup and salad line (but which side has the Caesar dressing again?). Step Four: get something to drink (but where can I just get water?). Step Five: find your friends-or stand in the middle of the dining hall to wait for them, and try to avoid looks from other, more self-assured students. Step Six: find a table (perhaps the most daunting task).

As my friends and I sat down cautiously at an empty table and found people that we had met from a nearby dorm, I glanced at the intense portrait of a pool player that graced the wall-Valentine himself, maybe?-and noted how alone he was, how deep in thought. Looking around the dining hall, I realized that I was far from being alone: I was surrounded by hundreds of people, future friends, future classmates, future teammates. People with all different beliefs and thoughts and feelings and hairstyles were eating together in that one room, and that made me smile. College was just beginning, but I already sensed it: Amherst is exactly where I want to be.