Freshman year isn’t just the start of college — it’s the start of a new cycle of learning and growing. As I head into my second year at UC Santa Barbara, it already feels like a turning point.
Going into freshman year, I was confident and unassuming, and I figured it was finally time to have fun. That fun would come in unexpected ways — in quiet bike rides through Isla Vista, in listening to the ocean say things I couldn’t quite understand. Even then, something in me was craving silence, though I didn’t know it yet.
Coming from San Diego, the idea of nobody knowing me in my new town thrilled me. With no expectations to live up to, I could be anyone, and I wanted to be outgoing. But that act became difficult while juggling an old life.
I started college with a long-distance boyfriend — my first real relationship. Part of me wanted to be single in college, yet despite plans to remake myself, I clung to the comfort of being known by someone while being in a place where no one else knew me. We’d always lived different lives, gone to different schools. I could easily make time for him back home, but once we were cities apart, the drift began.
I thought I was independent. I’d handled everything alone — school, sports, scholarships, college applications. But I still had growing to do. I held tight to the comfort of ending each day with someone to tell it to. That kind of intimacy felt safe; it was all I knew.
By mid-October, we ended things. We were barely talking, and it felt forced. I was heartbroken — and for the first time, I couldn’t fix it.
I felt truly alone. I had roommates, but I barely knew them. It was three weeks into school, and I couldn’t stop and say, “Hey! I’m currently spiraling and my emotional safety nets are gone. So, dinner at 7?”
So most days, I biked. I had a regular route along Del Playa Drive and ended up at Sands Beach, where I’d sit in the quiet and watch the waves crash. The ocean — ever present and ever changing — became the first thing that grounded me.
I didn’t expect nature to help like it did. I’d grown up in a beach town, but Isla Vista was different. It breathed. And slowly, I started syncing with its rhythm. The bluffs, the golden sunsets, the open sky — they gave me space to fall apart and comfort to begin again.
I sat. I cried. I let every thought crash over me like the waves. Turns out, when you actually let yourself feel something — instead of pushing it away — you heal faster. Who knew?
I quickly realized that I had been denying myself the pleasure of being new in such an open place like Santa Barbara. The comfort of talking to someone familiar over new connections slipped away, and I saw how foolish my hesitation to branch out had been. I slowly rebuilt my sense of self, and I started with those connections I had earlier strayed from.
Post-breakup at UCSB didn’t feel like a gentle nudge into the “college experience” — it was more like being thrown headfirst into a whirlpool of people, clubs, beach bonfires and midnight Freebirds burrito runs. Everything felt loud, fast and alive. But within that chaos, there was this effortless accessibility to connection. I met people from every corner of campus — through club meetings, rec center classes and late-night conversations in San Miguel Residence Hall. Being alone was never a necessity; it was a choice. Community was always right there — if I took the time to look.
The density, the spontaneity, the way people overflowed onto sidewalks, lawns and beaches made loneliness harder to cling to. I went on three hikes with the Excursion Club and somehow walked away with 20 new friends. That kind of casual connection never happened to me in high school. The idea of being new, having your whole life to talk about, not worrying about what they had heard about me, thrilled me.
I went out. I partied. I talked to everyone. I wasn’t afraid that someone on the other line was getting jealous while I desperately tried to act like everything was cool. By Halloween, I had 50 new friends on Instagram and was added to three new group chats.
Sometimes I pass people I was close with during the first week, and we barely make eye contact. It’s wild how quickly intense connections can form — and just as quickly fade. One friend I hung out with for a week straight now rarely says, “Hi.” Another crossed a line I’m still trying to get over. It’s messy, but it’s part of figuring out who you are and who your people are. It’s learning not to force friendships and to distance yourself productively. Friendships shift — just like everything else here, a constant wave that’s growing, morphing, changing. And that’s OK.
Then, out of nowhere, you meet people who stick — people who embrace your weirdness after one hangout, people who make it easy, no performance, no pressure. The two women I lived across from my entire freshman year didn’t talk until we saw each other at a party. This summer, we’ve played Dress to Impress online every day and are planning our future hangouts. That kind of closeness — the unplanned, random kind — ended up mattering most.
As sophomore year begins, I’m learning to stop forcing things — friendships, identity, even clarity. I’m just trying to stay close to people and things that feel good, that feel real.
To anyone just starting out: Accept who you are right now, even if that version feels uncertain. Things — and people — will shift. You’ll lose some and gain others. Don’t chase stability; let change shape you because it will regardless.
Corinna Kelley is beginning her second year at UC Santa Barbara, pursuing a double major in English and film and media studies. She is a staff writer for “The Bottom Line UCSB,” focusing on music and film. Passionate about storytelling, Corinna is eager to explore the Santa Barbara arts and music scene, both on campus and beyond.