This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Notre Dame chapter.
Every Notre Dame student understands the tiny obstacles that hinder daily life on campus. Putting up with Grab N’Go for the twenty-fifth lunch in a row, printers running out of toner ten minutes before your 9:30 class, the relentless trudge from Jordan to the Rock on an icy, windy day. These are small problems, ignorable. But all too often, students sideline not-so-small problems, such as social anxiety and low self-esteem. I faced such issues too, and they weren’t ignorable. Rather, they hindered my daily life, set me apart from my well-adjusted peers.
It’s just the newness of college, you’ll get over it. And for the first few months, I believed that. A sheltered, dewy freshman away from home for the first time will undoubtedly feel out of place. I told myself, give it some time. Make friends, join clubs, excel in your classes, it’ll only get better.
Of course, it didn’t. I went to the first meetings of half a dozen clubs only to flee in fright and never show up again. I studied diligently but faced mediocrity on Sakai after each exam. I made friends but shied away from weekend outings and new experiences. I stayed in my room, endlessly scrolling through Facebook, wistful for the happiness others had. All the while, a constant, poisonous thought– I don’t belong.
You made it to Notre Dame! Isn’t that good enough? Is it really? We as students made it to Notre Dame because ‘good enough’ wasn’t an answer. In high school I befriended students who calculated their own class rank because the school wouldn’t provide one. I gritted my teeth over missed questions in a Scholastic Bowl match, over lost points in an essay. And as a member of the Fighting Irish, surrounded by achievers, ‘good enough’ meant ‘not enough’.
Still, this yo-yo state of frustration and despair wasn’t enough to trigger action. It took the words of friends and family, anxious over my constant meltdowns and salty cheeks. It took three small words– “you need help”. Naturally I resisted. I wasn’t mentally ill, I didn’t need a counselor. But I went anyway, angry with myself for dumping on those around me. I took a diagnostic test and sat for a consultation, a curious grad student scribbling my flaws on a legal pad. After winter break I was set for weekly sessions.
Two months later, I can say now that I have never missed a session, never stood wondering if I was able to bear my heart to the stranger in the opposite armchair. I enjoy each session, I emerge enriched and full of life, eager to make a change, seeing in myself the competent, capable student others saw in me. I learned to accept invitations, attend club meetings, voice my opinions, manage my time. And I continue to attend, because sometimes it takes talking to someone, anyone, to realize that there isn’t an end to learning about yourself. I urge everyone struggling with depression, personal demons, anything that is stopping you from juicing the most of your college experience, to get to know the kind faces at the UCC. You may be surprised by the impact it has, on yourself and those that care about you.
Granted, there are still obstacles, such as the three flights of stairs to the UCC every week. But that’s when I take the elevator.