The promise of winter break is sometimes the only thing carrying a campus full of exhausted, overly caffeinated Yalies through Reading Week and straight into finals. But it’s always better in theory, at least for me.
As a California native, going home entails two flights, one layover, and an hour long car drive. The first plane ride is usually for sleeping. Half the time, I don’t even remember being on a plane. The second plane ride—or more specifically, the last twenty minutes of the second plane ride after I’ve turned off my movie or closed my book—is reserved for thinking. During this particular 20-minute stretch, I thought about the past semester: the people who made life worth living, the random interactions that filled the gaps between classes, the grades I didn’t yet have, and the teachers who controlled them. I thought about the countless hours I spent in the library and how excited I was to finally escape the lingering anticipation of deadlines and the anxiety of an upcoming exam.
But then, as a senior, I thought about all the things I was “expected” to be doing over this so-called break. Things that would guarantee me success in the eyes of my peers and protect me from unemployment. I thought about my thesis and how little of it I’d accomplished. Then I thought about how much of it I still had left to do. I then thought about the jobs I had to apply to and the graduate programs I needed to beg to let me in. I was about to enter the real world. Was I ready? Was I capable?
Eventually, my thoughts were put on pause. The plane touched down. My parents picked me up. We ran through the standard list of questions that always accompany a return. We parked. I went inside my house and greeted my dog, who, at 17 years old, is a miracle to behold, cataracts and all. I then promptly made my way to my room and knocked out. It was the first time in months I let myself sleep without an alarm. I was happy, excited to be on break. That lasted all of 72 hours. At which point, the reality of home set in.
I was bored. Tragically so. Sure, I was going to the beach, walking my dog, seeing friends, drawing, and finally watching the shows I’d been waiting to binge. But I was so bored. Sitting in my childhood bedroom, I felt like I had reverted to an earlier version of myself. At Yale, there’s a productivity culture that kicks you into high gear. Having been steeped in such an environment for four years, I’ve become accustomed to constant stimulation—both intellectually and socially. A default setting of go-go-go that is suddenly interrupted when I change time zones.
At home, my neighbors are not my friends. They are instead a family of four who honestly scare me. At home, I can’t just walk into my common room and chat with whoever is lying on the couch. Instead, my social network is reduced to the handful of friendships that survived both my terrible texting habits and the upheaval of college. And while I love and cherish those friendships, there’s an important caveat to all of them. They never left California and have their own lives to attend to. Lives that have, rightly so, molded around my absence. And, without homework or exams to prepare for, I suddenly had too much free time—and I felt guilty for having it. It felt “unproductive.” I reminded myself I was on break, but nevertheless kept thinking of how much I could be doing and wasn’t.
The fears that plagued my mind for the last twenty minutes of the plane ride still existed, but the motivation to address them had dissipated. I wanted to be productive, but the familiarity of my environment lulled me into a state of complacency that I had never experienced at Yale. So even while sitting on the beach and laughing with friends, a sense of stress loomed about, following me like a shadow. Dramatic, I know. Welcome to being home on break.
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A logical person might have taken steps to ease the source of their anxiety. And normally, I would be that logical person. But at home, I just wanted to run from it (though in reality, it was more biking than running). It felt too scary to confront—too impossible to accomplish. So instead, I tried to hijack my brain into working again—hyper-fixating on reading and finishing four books in less than two weeks. Which, for me, is unheard of. The whole time, I was itching to return to Yale. Not necessarily the school, but rather the life I had created for myself.
It’s not that I hate home. I love going home. But four years at Yale have effectively transplanted my life. Now, when I go back home, it’s like pressing pause. An awkward in-between phase, filled with more anticipation than previous years. Perhaps it’s because the future is still so uncertain and stopping when nothing is settled feels like a game of hide-and-seek: you’re tucked into place, content to be there, but time stretches, and anxiety hums. Much like a plane ride, you’re suspended, sitting still with the knowledge that your reprieve is only temporary. The game ends. The plane lands. You graduate. Life begins.
