On March 3rd, 2020, I submitted three transfer applications. In May of that year, I was accepted to all three universities.

A week before, two cops and a friendly woman stood outside the door to my freshman dorm room in Atherton, responding to a call they received from a trusted friend of mine at 2 in the morning. I hastily wiped the tears from my eyes, feigning a sleepy yawn while I welcomed them in. The three people standing outside my door, to my relief, accepted my false reassurances that I was okay and left me to deal with whatever I was experiencing alone.

Three days later, I sat in some woman’s office at CAPS, staring at the tacky beach-themed decorations pinned to the wall next to photos of her smiling young children with “Life is Better at the Beach” written on the picture frame. Just the other day, my mom was driving me to a Brownies Girl Scouts meeting and here I was contemplating every mother’s worst nightmare at a counseling center on campus.

She offered me some water and sat down in a chair in front of me. Without much hesitation, I recapped the last five months of being a freshman at Penn State: making and losing friends and friend groups, going through two roommates, and experiencing failure in my academics and embarrassing moments in my social life. I cried, I got angry, I felt frustrated. For months, all I desired was to be listened to, especially when it seemed like every other freshman was enjoying their time in Happy Valley more than I was.

Her advice? Withdraw for the semester. She had typed a lengthy email explaining the process on how to withdraw and request tuition reimbursement to my parents who had zero clue what was going on with their oldest daughter 90 minutes away. My parents accepted the decision, not because they supported it, but because they felt like they had no choice. I, on the other hand, knew I’d be worse off accepting the advice of a woman who would rather be on the beach than spend the day listening to eleven or twelve students all express how much they hated college. When I finally arrived at my dorm that night, I sent a text to my best friend: “I wish there was a way I could finish the rest of this semester at home.”

For me, the answer to my prayers was COVID. I got to go home, reevaluate what I wanted to study, dropped Pre-Med, and picked up new passions and hobbies without a barren social life at school weighing on my mind.

Although I felt extremely confident about my transfer applications, nothing was official until I told my parents and received an acceptance to the schools I toured a few months earlier. What held me back was feeling like I hadn’t given Penn State a fair shot. Truth is, three years ago, I made a deal with God: If I didn’t get accepted into PLA (which I didn’t think I’d be accepted into to begin with) and another program I applied to, I’d take it as a sign and accept the admission offer from one of three schools.

Last Thursday, I had breakfast with my best friend and roommate, did some work in my research lab in Steidle, shared jokes with Dean Mather, made plans for the gameday weekend, and went to AOII formal with a really great guy I met not too long ago.

Weirdly, it all worked out.