Content Warning: This article contains references to body image and disordered eating.
I treated myself to coffee and arrived early at the Math and Science Center for Ben Pius Mock Trial practice on Jan. 20. I turned on the news coverage of U.S. President Donald Trump’s inauguration and watched billionaires file behind the incoming president. Thankfully, the clock struck 11 a.m., and it was time to get to work. I had better things to do — namely, playing pretend courtroom. I did not bother watching the inauguration in its entirety because, as my mother would say, it represented the beginning of the end of the world.
I have survived the end of the world once before: I came to college believing that these years would be the best years of my life. I thought I was destined to find friendship, discover communal harmony and sing “Kumbaya” on the Emory University Quadrangle, accompanied by my diverse compatriots of scholarship. I did not find that. Instead, I found confusion. Presently, as a second-semester first-year student, I feel as if I am back in my sophomore year of high school, when my friend group abandoned me for my failure to dedicate my life to pursuing others’ validation.
“Who cares that I have no friends?” I thought at 15 years old. “You care,” I respond now.
At Emory, too, I thought I had no community or friends. The media and pop culture promised me that the desire for friendship would be a unifying factor in making connections in college. I hoped that I would arrive at Emory and be surrounded by admirers and lovers of all kinds while also learning to love myself. Instead, I was met with body image struggles, academic pressure and personal setbacks. I felt alone.
But tiny moments on campus showed me otherwise. Despite the challenges of collegiate life, college can still be a place for finding a community, self-discovery and growth even in adverse times.
Earlier this semester, because of an uncommon series of snow days, the Dobbs Common Table (DCT) closed at 8 p.m. When snow trapped students on campus, they flooded the dining hall, which promptly ran out of most food. Sometimes, I do not feel worthy or skinny enough to stand in line for fries, meaning vegetables were my only option those days. So, my dinners consisted of cucumbers dressed with red wine vinaigrette for the taste. Emory students pay $83,715 per year for tuition without financial aid, and I ate cucumbers for dinner in our state-of-the-art dining hall. I longed for my mother’s home-cooked meals — wild concoctions of ingredients and spices she finds in the cabinet that turn out delicious. But in those fleeting moments, I’m reminded that I am connected with the people around me as they long for home too. We are all navigating the same struggles, forming connections even over something as simple as a shared plate of fries or a cucumber salad.
When I sit among my peers in the dining hall, I am not alone.
Days before the snowstorms, my friends and I had fought for a table in the cafeteria to discuss our day. I rambled about my extracurriculars as one praised his girlfriend and the other complained that her calves were sore from petit allegro, tiny ballet jumps. These two people are my community: They hold me up when I cannot stand (literally and figuratively), serve me food when I forget to eat it myself and care about me when I have bad days. These small, yet significant, moments of connection show how conversations with my friends can evolve from the mundane to the deeply personal, revealing just how intertwined our lives and experiences have become.
When I lean on these friends and get lost in conversations together, I am not alone.
My friend told me in a coffee shop line in November 2024 that she was getting an intrauterine device (IUD) as a safeguard in case Trump restricts access to birth control. I could not stop thinking about this — I had recently transitioned from my previous birth control injection to the pill, which I was awful at taking. Inspired by my friend, I got an IUD as well in the first week of January. During the insertion, I screamed the first part of an obscenity for the entire OB-GYN office to hear. I am thankful for my friend and for her pessimistic outlook on the future of birth control. She is just like me: She has bad hair days, cringes when the professor cold calls her in class and later revels in the words that come out of her mouth. I am thankful to have met her in that dingy basement classroom. She is my friend. My friend reminds me that even amid uncertainty and challenges, college has provided me with the people and moments that help me navigate these tough times and, in turn, help me discover new parts of myself.
With her by my side, I am not alone.
Despite my friend’s support, other struggles crept into my psyche. I was trying to fit a version of myself into a world that did not seem to care if I was comfortable. A week after it snowed in Atlanta, I lived for three days without potable water. The water was running, but the University advised us not to use it. I confess: I still did. I brushed my teeth and washed my body, as I did not think they could be sullied more than they already had been. I have had not one bad day, but several bad days. I sat in uncomfortable and ill-fitting clothing on the couches and chairs of sorority houses pretending to be who I thought others wanted me to be. I desperately tried to wash my imperfections away with dirty water and be born a new, cool girl worthy enough of Zeta Alpha Zeta.
While I was in the bathroom during sorority rush, someone was using the dorm shower stall next to me. A fellow rushee stepped into the shower and seemed to register the chunks of hair on the ground that others refused to pick up after their showers. She followed suit in their dismissal. She turned on the water — first, it was too cold, then too hot, and then just right. She deployed her routine of scrubbing and rinsing to start again for tomorrow. She is like me. Though repetitive and sometimes uncomfortable, these seemingly insignificant moments are part of the growth and self-discovery process that college affords, even during the most challenging times.
In quiet moments of connection, I am not alone.
In the final week of January, I called my mother, crying that none of my jeans fit. It was official: I had gained the freshman 15. It might as well have ruined my life. I needed to stop eating or go on Ozempic, which, of course, were my only two solutions. My mother’s response was more reasonable: She ordered me three new pairs of jeans. A week later, they arrived in the mail, and I picked them up with joy and sadness. By getting me these jeans, I know she loves me more than anyone ever will.
With my mother’s support, I will never be alone.
Through all these struggles — cucumbers for dinner, self-doubt and unmet college expectations — I have learned that community is not what the world promises, but what we find through real, imperfect moments with others. My friends have shown me that true connection comes from sharing struggles and supporting each other. While college has not been what I expected, I am starting to realize that belonging is not about being perfect. It is about finding people who accept you, mess and all, and learning to accept yourself. That, in the end, is enough.
If you or someone you know is struggling with body image or disordered eating, you can reach Emory’s Counseling and Psychological Services at (404) 727-7450 or https://counseling.emory.edu/. You can reach the National Eating Disorders Association helpline at (800) 931-2237 or https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/.
Contact MC Powell at mcpowe6@emory.edu
Martha Caroline (MC) Powell (she/her) (28C) is an Emory student aspiring to major in something important, but she hasn’t quite figured it out. She’s hoping it comes to her in a dream. Until then, she keeps herself busy with Ben Pius Mock Trial, SAPA, and The Emory Wheel. Any free time is spent reading, pining over Michelle Zauner, journaling and trying her best to be gluten free.
