College has started, and with it comes the never-ending cycle of assignments, quizzes and events that tug at me from every direction. On paper, this is what I wanted: a new chapter, a place to grow and a chance to shape my future. But when the noise of the day quiets down, when I finally return to my room at night, I am reminded of the people who aren’t here:
The cherished ones who had to leave this life.
The friends who drifted away.
The love I thought would last forever but didn’t.
Being here at Hopkins means starting again, which is both exciting and terrifying. Every day I see new faces, learn new names and hear stories from people who, just months ago, were complete strangers. And while I know this is how community begins, it still feels distant, like I’m an imposter walking into a room where everyone else already belongs. Maybe it’s homesickness. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s just the ache of missing what was familiar.
Before college, I was surrounded by people who had shaped my everyday life: family, friends, neighbors and teachers. I knew the rhythms of my days, the shortcuts to school and the way the afternoon light hit my bedroom walls. Now those familiar rhythms are gone. Some of us came to college eager to reinvent ourselves, to leave behind old chapters. I wanted that too, in part. But I also wanted to carry my old life with me, to still feel connected to the people and places that built me.
So, this is my open letter to them.
To my mom, thank you for believing in me more than I believed in myself. You are the voice in my head when I feel like I can’t keep going, the steady reminder that I am capable.
To my dad and my brother, you are my anchors. Even from far away, you remind me not to get lost in the chaos of work and grades.
To my closest friends, Emily and Chelsea. Our group chats and phone calls mean more than you know. You remind me that true connection doesn’t disappear with distance; it simply adapts.
To my grandparents, especially my grandma, who I hope can see me from heaven. I carry your love with me. Every time I push through a challenge here, I hope I am making you proud.
And to the friends I’ve lost, whether through time, distance or heartbreak, thank you for teaching me what it means to care, risk and trust. Even though you aren’t here in this new chapter, you shaped the person who arrived on this campus.
Missing home doesn’t mean I can’t create a new one. In fact, I think that’s what college is teaching me: that home is not a single place or a single group of people. It’s something we build, piece by piece, wherever we go. Hopkins is slowly becoming a home too, even in its unfamiliarity. Late nights in the library, laughter in the dining hall, moments of recognition when I see a classmate across campus— these are the beginnings of something new.
But a new home doesn’t erase the old one. Instead, it layers on top of it. My memories of childhood dinners, family traditions and high school hallways will always live in me, even as I walk these brick paths in Baltimore.
I think the hardest part of growing up is realizing that love doesn’t stay in one place. It stretches. It transforms. It asks us to carry it forward into unfamiliar territory. And that’s what I’m trying to do here: carry all of it — the love, the loss, the gratitude and the grief — into this new version of myself.
College, at its core, is not just about academics. It’s about learning who we are when everything familiar is stripped away. It’s about writing letters in our heads to the people who shaped us, reminding ourselves that we don’t walk alone, even when it feels that way.
So here’s to my past, to my loved ones near and far and to the new family I’m building here. Hopkins, I may not know you fully yet, but I can’t wait to see what you have prepared for me.
Alexandra Garcia Herrera is a freshman from Laurel, Md. majoring in Chemistry. Her column, “Letter from a Freshman,” explores her reflections on what happens outside the syllabus: friendships, identity, grief and growth.
