Realizing upperclassmen were watching you the whole time.
REALIZING UPPERCLASSMEN WERE WATCHING YOU THE WHOLE TIME.
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Remember that blur of orientation? The endless icebreakers, the mandatory cheers, the awkward attempts to find your people? We all arrived, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to soak it all in. We were navigating bewildering campus maps, figuring out laundry, and trying desperately to look cool while secretly fearing we'd chosen the wrong dining hall. Every first-year tradition felt like a gauntlet, from the bizarre chants we mumbled to the forced spirited events where enthusiasm felt utterly alien.
What we didn't fully grasp then, cocooned in our freshman naivety, was that every stumble, every overly eager question, every perfectly curated outfit was under silent, often amused, observation. The upperclassmen weren't just passing by; they were watching. They were evaluating our participation in those rituals, judging our fledgling attempts at belonging, and maybe, just maybe, recognizing a bit of their past selves in our hopeful, sometimes terrified, faces. That realization, whether it hit you in the moment or much later, was a profound shift. It transformed awkward traditions into a subtle rite of passage, a collective audition for a club you’d already been accepted into, but still had to prove yourself worthy of. It was both a slight humiliation and a deep understanding of continuity, of the invisible thread connecting generations within these unique institutions.