I arrived at the University of Virginia, a place for those who didn’t make it into Georgetown—I was one of them. My college years were a blur, challenging yet marked by a sense of anonymity in the large student body, which I appreciated. I often attended classes in sweats, lacking enthusiasm. I joined clubs to make friends and left them to avoid people.
I spent time with students from the art and music departments, where I felt a sense of belonging. We were unique and authentic together. This contrasted with my experiences in the journalism department, where some students seemed more focused on sensationalism than truth. Over time, I realized a general lack of interest in truth among those I interacted with. I saw behind the curtain: some classmates, despite modest writing abilities, secured prestigious internships in Washington D.C. and New York City through connections. Networking felt like pretending to like people you secretly resented. I started writing op-eds under a pseudonym, questioning the perceived hypocrisy on campus among students, professors, and department heads.
In my senior year, everything was about the future. “What are your post-grad plans?” “To vanish mysteriously and be discovered decades later through my journals,” I joked. I finished my senior thesis: an ironic essay on online authenticity. I was an average student without notable distinction. As I walked across the stage, I thought: I came. I saw. I wrote weird little things no one read. Somehow, that was enough—until it wasn’t. Faced with student loans and uncertainty, I returned to Stonehaven.
