A few years back, when I was a student in NYU's Wilf Family Department of Politics, my classmates and I would spend hours studying and comparing notes at Bobst Library. Given the difficulty of our classes, especially our quantitative methodology course, it was imperative that we band together for these little sessions. Often times, after we were done going over our regression models, we'd shoot the breeze, commenting on everything from our favorite professors to our preferred pastimes in the West Village. On occasion, we'd grab coffee at the nearby Starbucks and get a bite to eat at the reasonably-priced Washington Square Diner, not far from the IFC theater.
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| Bobst Library |
While I was a commuter student at NYU and, thus, never experienced dorm life, I still had something of a college experience. It's often said that for NYU students, the Village is your campus. That's mostly true.
After college, though, I admittedly felt a bit listless. Like, "what now?" My MA thesis had been submitted, classes completed, and, alas, I no longer had to take the train to the 8 St-NYU stop.
Some of the friendships I made lasted for a while, but those soon fizzled out, too.
I was struck when I heard a similar - though more pronounced - account of this post-college loneliness in Business Insider.
Grace Reed, who used to share an on-campus apartment with her roommates in Syracuse, felt lost upon returning home after graduation. That apartment, she explains, was more than just a place to crash; it was a little community-hub:
Our apartment had been the home of weekly wine nights, tarot readings, and movie screenings. It was where our friends performed musical numbers and hosted themed parties. And a few houses down the street, there was always a game of Catan ready to be played.
After spending most of my college career working to shed the socially anxious persona I developed in high school, my senior year of college gifted me the life I always wanted.
Now, though, back at her childhood home and scrolling through job-listings, a mind-numbing and hopeless activity, she longed for her college life.
I often find myself scrolling on Instagram, looking back on old pictures, and trying to remember how it felt to be living in those moments. When I see posts of people hanging out with friends, I feel a pang of desire.
Again, I didn't have a college apartment, but I know this feeling well; it's the feeling of collapsing paradigms. When you're used to regular socialization, your mind and body become accustomed to it. Social connection, after all, is hardwired in us. Then, when that paradigm ends, it can feel like a sort of deracination.
Post-deracination, however, can be a time to build up from the bottom again. This requires a sort of inventiveness that college doesn't really prepare for. Because college is a highly-structured environment, regular socialization comes to you. Upon finishing school, however, you need to find it for yourself.
The search for third places can be arduous, but without these essential places of community, we fall ill, physically, mentally, and spiritually. The quest, therefore, is a necessity.
In the meantime, though, it isn't bad to practice solitude, the art of being content with being with yourself. This is exactly what Grace did:
Thanks to a spontaneous trip to the craft store and helpful YouTube tutorials, I've gotten into jewelry making. For the first time since graduating, I've found something to do for myself — a hobby that stops me from spiraling into memories and grounds me in the present.
I've also returned to old pastimes, like creative writing. My journals have seen more activity than they have in years, which has helped me appreciate this chapter.
Solitude mustn't be conflated with loneliness. I wrote about that for this blog
here.
The secret sauce, I think, is a balance between solitude and communitarian activity. Like all things, it takes work.