It took me all of two weeks to know that my first year of college was going to suck. I was certainly anxious in high school, but I still felt solid and protected. I was always with family, friends and constant stimulation.

The city of Columbia took one look at me and decided that this was going to be a drudge of a year. On move-in day, a real Midwestern thunderstorm drowned the University of Missouri’s campus with rain. My Birkenstocks, open-toed, of course, were soaked. I hadn’t checked the weather that morning. I didn’t think I needed to.

A few weeks in, the gravity of the situation hadn’t hit me yet. I still had the false hope that I could have what I had back home in Denver. I was something there, and thus, I would be something here too.

Classes started, and I was annoyed. The muggy summer would not relent, the drinking water here tasted slimy and I somehow always struggled to find dinner. I wanted to cry every single day, and on most of them, I did. My classes were fine, almost exciting, but I still had no friends. I was at a historic low.

And then, I started to see ladybugs everywhere.

The first one landed on my shoulder when I was walking to class. The second one appeared on the bathroom mirror. Everywhere I looked, I could find them: in tattoos, on people’s desks, in classrooms. I couldn’t escape them.

In Germany, where I lived as a kid, ladybugs were a symbol of good luck. The nostalgia stirred something in me, something that scarily felt like hope.

That bug changed how I saw the world. More accurately, it made me stop burrowing into the ground and begin to look up. And what I saw astounded me.

There was beauty everywhere. The birds chirping created a romantic conversation I was hearing. The rainfall was a rhythm of slumber. My schoolwork wasn’t a test of my intellect but an opportunity to prove something to myself.

For the first time since I was 10, I began to write creatively again. Short stories began to spring from everywhere. Every person and place had the potential to be something. So did I.

I began to believe again. I know that I am a part of something greater than myself; that ladybugs are a sign, Jesse Hall’s dome looks at me like a friend, and that maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

I let the universe lift my head and give me a shove forward. The clean slate I was delivered for college became a stage for the most theatrical play to ever be shown. I began building a life that mattered to me, based on hope instead of fear.

It took a fragmented and long-forgotten memory to propel me toward a future; a future I am excited to shape.

Edited by Molly Levine | mlevine@themaneater.com
Edited by Natalie Kientzy | nkientzy@themaneater.com
Edited by Annie Goodykoontz | agoodykoontz@themaneater.com