I wait outside of Remsen 101 at 9:49 a.m. Once the clock reads 9:50 a.m., the students from the room flush out, some munching on their breakfast, sipping their coffee, talking to friends, some waving at those waiting in the hallway. I patiently wait until I can trickle inside, then I find my seat and set up my laptop and tablet.
There’s a particular kind of quiet in these few minutes before the next class begins. It isn’t silence exactly; there are distant footsteps in the hall, the chatter of conversation, the shuffle of papers. But it feels like the perfect pause. I notice the faded color of the seats’ cushions, the smell of chalkboard mixed with the faint scents of other students. Even amidst the motion of college life, there is space to breathe and simply exist without expectation.
I like the slow rhythm of my own pace. And I don’t mean slow in the sense of lazy, but slow in the sense of noticing. Walking across Keyser Quad, I notice the shapes of the buildings, the curve of the bricks beneath my feet, the way the trees’ leaves rustle in the wind and cicadas singing their hearts out. I notice other students as they pass by in small groups or head to their next class. There’s a satisfaction in noticing life without having to participate in every moment. Some days, I bring a small notebook and write down little observations: the sweet taste of the iced matcha latte from the cafe at Brody Learning Commons, the sunlight hitting a bench, students playing spikeball. Other days, I just walk. Both feel necessary.
I’ve spent mornings curled up with books I’ve been meaning to read for no reason other than the joy of reading. I bring a snack I love, particularly a fruit like an orange, sip my favorite warm rooibos tea, and let myself take as long as I need to finish a chapter. Sometimes, I watch everyone around me rushing, discussing plans, clubs and meet-ups. I wonder if I’m supposed to be worrying and doing all of that as well.
But then I remind myself: I enjoy these moments to myself. These quiet pockets are where I understand myself the most. They remind me of what I enjoy for myself, and why certain things like reading slowly, savoring a sweet treat, walking without a destination, matter.
Time alone isn’t about avoiding people. In fact, I enjoy meeting new friends, participating in classes, becoming a new member in clubs and exploring communities. But there’s a difference between social connection and losing sight of yourself in the process. Over my first month at Hopkins, I’ve realized the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Alone time strengthens the way I engage with others. When I’ve had a quiet morning with a tea and a book, I can enter a conversation more attentively and more myself. These moments remind me of what I value because they feel right to me.
I find joy in noticing small changes: the first buds of fall on a tree, the lesser presence of spotted lantern flies, the way the clouds move across the sky.
What I’ve learned so far in my first month here is that college is a place where you can learn to be with yourself. There is freedom in having time alone, spending time with friends, a space to think, to notice what you love and what sustains you. Life isn’t only meaningful when full of activity or interaction. Nor is it meaningful when you stay isolated in your comfort zone and even let fear dictate your choices, which you might regret later on.
But there is meaning in ordinary, personal acts that often are overlooked.
I have always liked being busy, chasing plans and commitments. But this first month has shown me that what’s important is what you do with yourself when no one else is watching. There is no rush, no expectation, no need to prove anything.
Just this ordinary time to myself is enough.
Kathryn Jung is a freshman from Silver Spring, Md. majoring in Biomedical Engineering.
