When you realized what the word “college” represented, what was your reaction? Was it excitement about leaving home? Sadness because you were leaving your friends? 

What about fear? 

What they don’t tell you about going to college is the amount of pressure there is to find out who you really are in the next four years. I imagined myself immediately transitioning into college as the same bubbly, outgoing friend I was in high school. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t had a particularly hard time making friends, and yet…

I still feel like a fish out of water. 

Perhaps it’s a dramatic idiom, but simply put, I am unapologetically awkward. I laugh at the wrong time, I hate having nothing to contribute when someone asks for my opinion, and I have no idea how to engage in small talk without silently praying to be run over by the Port Authority bus. 

It’s like there’s a switch in my brain I unwittingly turn on to embarrass myself—as if my subconscious wants me to make a fool out of myself for others’ enjoyment. And of course, in the (frequent) instances where I do embarrass myself, I never let myself forget. 

A few weeks ago I was studying with some friends and we were engaging in a normal conversation—the occasional fake-mean, bitching back and forth, and roasting each other—or it would have been normal if I knew exactly who my audience was, but I only knew four out of the six people sitting with me. So, when I accidentally took our bantering a little too far by jokingly berating one of the two people I didn’t know, I was left with awkward, uncomfortable silence. Arguably, it was warranted, considering I had just aired out this guy who didn’t even know my name (and I hate to say it but I didn't even know his). I admit that I got carried away with the joke, but I had just committed what felt like social suicide. Obviously, I left immediately and went home to scream into my pillow, but why?! What was it all for?!

 It’s as if something hiding in my head takes over and chooses to embarrass me in ways unimaginable compared to how I used to embarrass myself in high school. Even better, I just asked a friend of mine if she wanted to hear the beginning of this article and her response was, “I feel like you’re just gonna read it to me anyway.” GOD, WHY am I asking to be embarrassed? It’s like the Grim Reaper is looming over me, but instead of dealing out death, he deals out humiliation and uncomfortable silence.

Now, you may think, “Oh Will, this is probably all in your head,” and that could be true; but I would be lying to myself. For years, I’ve been an incredibly awkward person. It all started with stage fright as a young child and the consequence of the spotlight hitting my face as I sang my first solo. As I write this, I am cringing at the face I must have been making as a nine-year-old.

Obviously, I haven’t gotten over it. 

Coming to college, I didn’t expect my awkwardness to take center stage, but that’s where my realization lies. Maybe this is who I really am, awkward and embarrassing mixed with bubbly and outgoing. Coming to this conclusion took a lot of self-reflection, (which was my backup plan after a New Yorker article wouldn’t reveal why I’m so socially inept). I’m even beginning to embrace that part of myself and not wallow in the embarrassment—although it’s easier said than done. It’s especially infuriating to be fed the lie that awkwardness is just self-failure, or that you have to put yourself out there more or act in a certain way to get attention. 

With that comes the ability to stop listening to what people think about you and I promise, I’m trying to listen to my own advice. Screw the things left unsaid at the library table or the Irish exit where everyone clearly saw me walk out without saying goodbye. Awkwardness is just part of who I am. I appreciate it for leading me onto a path of self-discovery and not for pushing me to close off that part of myself to others. I am proud to be awkward! Okay, I’m never saying that again, that was embarrassing.

Written by Will Beddick

Edited by Priyanka Iyer and Kate Castello