By Jordyn Forte
To say that my four years of college have been anything but traditional would be an understatement.
In 2018, unlike many of you reading this, I didn’t move my life into a dorm room here in Easton; instead, my family and I packed up our car and made the nearly 400-mile journey to Loyola University Maryland.
Once in Baltimore, it quickly became apparent to me that my new life was not the one I had imagined – my roommate was antagonistic, leaving me couch-surfing at one of my acquaintance’s apartments, I knew no one, I had no support system within a reasonable distance, and found myself crying on the daily. Even now, it is difficult to recall how much of a low I hit while at Loyola.
As I filled out transfer applications in December 2018 from my twin-xl bed, I didn’t have a plan. I simply knew that Loyola was not and never would be home. In fact, applying to Stonehill was a last-minute decision – one that I made on the day the transfer application was due. It was the last application that I sent out, and it was the one I was least certain about. Even upon accepting my spot as a commuter at Stonehill one month later, I felt unsure, focused only on the fact that I would now be the odd-man-out and that I would likely struggle to make friends – everyone else had already found their people while I would be starting anew.
I showed up to my first class in May Hall in January 2019 sick to my stomach, certain I wouldn’t be able to make it through the first hour-and-fifteen minutes of my Stonehill career. This fear of mine was only reinforced when I realized that I was one of two freshmen in a 300-level creative writing course. Eventually, though, my walls slowly began to crumble, and I started to enjoy going to my creative writing class, where I eagerly talked to my freshman-aged classmate, who was also a new transfer student. In her, I found comfort, as being new to Stonehill, she understood what others simply could not. By the end of the semester, I was even eager for the fall – for my first real year at Stonehill.
But, in the same week that classes were set to start for the Fall 2019 semester, my world as I knew it was upended when, while out to lunch with my brother and healthy, then-45-year-old mother, my mother suffered from a massive stroke.
Though I again felt more alone than ever, this time, those at Stonehill assured me that I was not.
When I showed up to my classes two weeks later than everyone else, I was met with compassion, patience, and warmth from both my peers and my professors. In fact, professors I had never even had in class before inquired about my mother’s wellbeing, checked in regarding my mental health, and offered their open office doors to me when I needed it the most.
Since then, Stonehill has been home. In this home, I’ve experienced more growth than I ever could have imagined; in just three-and-a-half years, I’ve become more comfortable in my own skin, more confident in my academic abilities, bolder, and more assertive. I’ve discovered where my passion lies, I’ve started freelance writing for my local newspaper, I’ve made important personal and professional connections, and I’ve secured a post-graduate opportunity.
I want to hug my freshman year self – the girl who worried about her seemingly murky future – and show her a glimpse of my life now; and without Stonehill, none of that would have ever been possible.