As I stand outside my daughter Emily’s college dorm, I fight back tears. My husband and I embrace her one last time, and she gives me a reassuring smile, saying, “I’ll be okay, Mom,” before walking off. My greatest concern, aside from the dangers that loom in college life, is that she might feel isolated. Emily is a bit shy and tends to hold back from initiating conversations with others.
During the ride home, I envision her alone in her cozy room, sitting cross-legged on her bed adorned with soft throw pillows, while her roommate Sarah is off socializing with friends. Earlier that day, as we unpacked her belongings, Sarah and her mother popped in to introduce themselves. After a few polite exchanges, we quietly organized the small space until there was a knock at the door. Two talkative girls entered, revealing themselves as Sarah’s friends from high school, both freshmen who live on campus. My husband and I exchanged disappointed glances.
Emily and Sarah had found each other through a roommate matching website and, surprisingly, clicked on almost every aspect: music tastes, personalities, a shared love for the show Dexter, and a preference for cooler rooms at night. I had hoped they would lean on each other as they navigated their first year away from home.
On move-in day, the parking lot teemed with campus volunteers, anxious parents, and students balancing mini-fridges. Yet when we returned from dinner, the dorm felt eerily quiet. There were no open doors, no laughter echoing in the halls, and not a single resident assistant in sight.
I had envisioned a warm welcome: the RA introducing herself, answering my questions, and inviting Emily to join the other girls for icebreakers in the common room. Instead, the only RA we encountered was a printed welcome note taped to Emily’s door, introducing herself as “Cat,” along with her cell number and a smiley face.
Initially, Emily spent time with Sarah and her friends, but after a month, she confided in me that she felt like an outsider. “It’s not that we don’t get along, Mom. But she doesn’t really talk to me. I mentioned a show we both like, and she ignored me. I think we’re just going to be roommates, which is fine,” she explained.
At that moment, my dislike for Sarah burgeoned. I recalled the times when Emily’s elementary school friends had ignored her on the bus during middle school. I felt devastated, yet Emily took it all in stride, never taking those moments personally. She viewed friendship dynamics as a natural ebb and flow, even if it hurt her.
“Why don’t you reach out to Mia?” I suggested a few weeks into her college experience. “You were close in high school and hung out at orientation. It’s strange you haven’t connected yet.”
“I don’t know. She’s on the other side of campus. We just haven’t,” Emily replied.
“Are you meeting anyone in your classes?” I probed.
“Yeah, but we don’t have much time to talk,” she said.
Nothing seemed to be working, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my daughter was lonely. I knew what a fulfilling college experience looked like, and Emily wasn’t engaging.
“You need to find a way to make that huge campus smaller,” I advised her and her father echoed my sentiments. “Join a club—anything: animals, graphic design, the environment—just pick something.”
Emily promised she would, but I could sense she was saying what I wanted to hear rather than being genuine. I felt a sense of disgust at myself for nagging her but felt compelled to intervene to ensure her happiness.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “You both should be glad I’m not going to that off-campus bar like Sarah does. Even if she doesn’t drink, there are tons of underage kids who do. That party scene isn’t for me.”
Now, after more than a semester, she assures me she’s not lonely. She sees her high school friends and talks to classmates. While she may not be overflowing with confidence, she appears comfortable in her own skin and content in solitude. She reassures me she’s eating well, sleeping regularly, and exercising. Her grades are excellent.
“Just let her be,” my friends advise. “She’ll figure it out. If you keep asking about her social life, you might make her feel like something’s wrong.” And they were right.
So, when Emily comes home, I try to refrain from asking too many questions. Instead, I watch her as she shares experiences about her classes, the food, the campus gym, and her quiet roommate. Each time, I sense a growing maturity in her demeanor.
Emily is far more grounded than I ever was at her age, which makes me worry about her missing out on the college experience. But she possesses a self-awareness that I didn’t discover until later in life. She knows who she is and understands she doesn’t need a large circle of friends to feel fulfilled.
During the Christmas break, my husband asked how she was doing. “I’m fine, Dad, but it’s a process,” she replied. Immediately, I questioned whether “process” was a euphemism for “unhappy,” a thought she likely shared with him instead of me.
Emily trusts herself in ways I never did at her age, recognizing that as life presents new challenges, she doesn’t need to worry excessively. She’ll ultimately find her path, albeit at her own pace and in her own style.
Now, as she returns home, I listen closely to her stories. She’s not lonely or miserable; she simply prefers to navigate her social world on her own terms, which has always been the right approach for her.
Update
Emily is now a sophomore. She has formed strong friendships with her roommates and another girl on campus, showcasing a remarkable boost in confidence. What a difference a year—and learning to trust my child—can make.
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Summary
The article chronicles a mother’s anxieties about her introverted daughter, Emily, navigating college life. Initially worried about loneliness and social isolation, the mother learns to trust her daughter’s resilience and unique approach to friendships, which ultimately leads to Emily’s growth and confidence.