I remember the first days of school as a kid when we stood in line outside our classroom door on foggy September mornings.
The sun would barely greet us, rising slowly from behind the clouds to wash the remnants of the dark away and let us enjoy a cool morning before heat seeped into the day later on.
The early bird’s chirp joined the clunking of tetherballs and the shuffling of feet on concrete as children rushed to secure a pole to play with.
Clink, shuffle, chirp, shuffle riddled our ears, reminding us summer was over, and we had a long year ahead of us.
The first day of school usually unfolded differently than the rest of the year since none of us were placed into our classes yet. Some of us knew each other from years prior, so we found familiar faces and updated our close friends on our summers. If we saw an unfamiliar face, we asked for a name. We didn’t care about what people thought of us, nor did we think too hard about what to say — we just wanted to know who the person next to us was.
The first bell pierced through the metallic cacophony of clinks and chirps at 8:30 a.m. to signal the beginning of another year. The noises shifted to squeals of chatter and movement as everyone tried to get through the door to be the first to pick a cubby hole or find their seat.
Chatter erupted in the classroom as teachers prepared their notes for the day, to welcome us to our new grade and to begin acquainting one another. The sun would eventually take centre stage beyond the clouds, watching us through the windows.
Beginnings were so structured once.
They felt meaningful because we trusted those who structured it to make it enjoyable while feeling comfortable talking and being with familiar faces. But as we grew up, greater trust was placed on us to make our own choices in unfamiliar places even before the school year began.
The summer before my first year, I chose what schedule I wanted to have at university. I knew absolutely nothing about anything and almost no one I could catch up with in or out of my classes. All I had was a backpack full of school supplies I wasn’t sure I needed and a mind full of anticipation and anxiety.
I would beat the sun in the mornings to make my commute to school. As I sat on the SkyTrain, I’d watch it pierce through the murky, blue night, gliding to its place in the sky.
The rhythmic melody of the train carts on the tracks and the occasional chatter of people or phones would play like elevator music. Although I had my earbuds in, it was difficult not to be immersed in the noises of the world — the screech of the train on the tracks, the ding at every stop, the silent movement of people making their way out and onto the bus felt as muted as it was alive. Once the long commute was over, I’d walk from the bus loop to my class amid a sea of coats and backpacks shuffling away of their own accord.
On my first day at UBC, when I reached my class, I found a spot after thinking too hard about where to sit. My heart beat from the walk I wasn’t used to while the fear of not knowing what to expect sat like an unwanted visitor in my chest.
At the crescendo of voices in the hallway, people trickled in and found seats with others, either erupting into familiar conversation or silently setting up their notes as they waited — like I did — for class to begin.
Someone sat next to me. My desire to strike up a conversation was overshadowed by my tendency to obsessively go over what to say in my head, terrified of the prospect of talking. As class began and introductions ensued, I spent my time dividing my attention between the professor and my mind, running through all these conversation prompts until I eventually left class having spoken to no one and with a conflicting sense of dread and hope for my next class.
And that’s how I spent every first week of every semester during my time at UBC: tired, overstimulated and afraid.
Yet, when I think of the easier and more familiar days of elementary school, I don’t wish to go back. In unfamiliarity, I can learn and grow in ways that comfort and familiarity can't allow. I can learn how to meet people, ease my anxiety and be present in the sea of unknown faces I pass every day during my commute.
I’m thankful I came across people whose energy was as comforting as it was exciting, and to the experiences that helped me feel more confident in myself to initiate that first conversation.
Now, I have a network that functions differently from those in childhood. They encourage me to adapt to a newer and more dedicated system because, unlike going to school as a kid, I don’t see my friends every day.
And even though this disconnected system of connection is unfamiliar, I’m ready to learn more about how to sustain and be comfortable in it.
First days are a challenge I will always welcome because there will come a day when I’ll get used to them.
This piece was published under The Ubyssey's Creative Non-Fiction Corner. Want to submit a personal essay, short story or poem? Subscribe to our features newsletter for monthly writing prompts under this column.
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