From Toronto, With Love
You spend a solid four years planning to go somewhere, or at least, planning to make a plan. Then it hits you smack in the face. You're eighteen years old, walking to your first lecture and assuming that the nervous feelings in your stomach are those of ambition, not complete and utter mortification. And they're actually neither; they are actually just a pang fear for change. Change is scary and I think it's so prevalent when you waltz into university because you're not allowed to be a kid anymore. So there I was, standing outside a lecture room, waiting to walk in and wanting to go back to multiple snippets in time that had left my grasp. One being Frosh week, which I spent with some of the most incredible people. The semi-obnoxious school cheering, painting my face blue and gold, watching new friendships be born and just the experience of careless happiness seemed to be one that I missed. I got to know my school in that week, but now I felt like I knew nothing