When I was in elementary school, I spurned the athletic kids who played handball, taking my blasé attitude to the school basement where I knit ponchos with the other rejects. I had a few friends, true, but I much preferred to read. I only wore Abercrombie Kids knee-length brown shorts and yellow and blue Adidas track suits, ignoring the advice from my mother to change up my look.

While I did eventually take her advice, I never felt fully comfortable at school.

Knowing this, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve had a tough time with college. In the four years since I graduated high school, I’ve attended four different colleges: an elite private school, a community college, a small liberal-arts school and, of course, a large public research institution. In the following weeks, I will explore my time at each of these schools and give you the low-down on what each one is really like. I’m no expert, clearly. I am, however, armed with a bevy of experience for your reading pleasure.

In the meantime, let’s start at the beginning.

In high school, I was told to prepare for the best four years of my life. I would be free from the tyranny of parents and high school administrators, they said. I would make friends for life, they said. I would have fun, they said.

So I listened to them, applied to the best school I thought I could get into, and, with the help of my early decision status, I got into Northwestern University. I spent the six-month interim from acceptance to attendance working on a food truck and spending lazy LA afternoons in the pool with a Lime-A-Rita in hand. It was true, ignorant bliss.

I lasted four months at Northwestern. Instead of feeling free, I felt lost. And cold. And lonely. I lived in an all-female, all-freshman floor of the party dorm which was known as the Virgin Vault. My classes each had scores of students in them, and I felt lost among peers I was sure were more intelligent than me. All of my advisors either scared me or encouraged me to go into their given fields. Administrators were no better. I had an RA write me up for having more than three people in my room. If that was liberty, you could give me death.

My next semester-long stint was at Pierce College, a community college in the San Fernando Valley. Community college was supposed to be a placeholder, a way to fill my time while I applied to another four-year school. In truth, I probably learned the most at that school. I thrived in the slower-paced classes, in the hot valley sun, and in the utter lack of a social scene on campus.

Attempt number three was at Claremont McKenna College. It’s a liberal arts college in the Inland Empire known for economics and political science, two subjects I have a vague but tepid interest in. I spent the year there suffering from anxiety, wondering why I couldn’t just enjoy myself. It didn’t help that CMC was named “Happiest College” in the nation. Nine months of studying without any direction or goal led me to believe I wasn’t cut out for college.

I decided to take an indefinite break. I got a job at a radio station in Chicago but was forced to move back home after losing precious shifts and my wonderfully cheap apartment.

Finally, after strangely being accepted to UC Berkeley but rejected from nearly every other California school I applied to, I decided to give college one last chance. Learning from my prior mistakes, I decided to move to San Francisco instead of the East Bay. I never did fit in on a campus, and this time I wasn’t going to force it.

Like clockwork, I printed out my first week’s worth of reading, saw the sheer volume, and decided I was absolutely going to quit again. How could I possibly subject myself to this yet again? Who knew if Berkeley would accept my credits? What if my life is actually just the play “No Exit” and I’m stuck in a sick, closed-circuit collegiate loop? I began perusing the Craigslist jobs sections, wondering if I could fake it til I made it in the tech world.

Looking back, the answer is obviously no.

After a good cry and an even better reality check, I told myself I was going to finish at UC Berkeley no matter what. I reminded myself how privileged I am to have been able to attend all these schools. Now, I’m two semesters away from my December graduation date (hello summer school, my old friend).

Am I happy that I stuck it out? Did I learn anything? I don’t know! Come along, dear reader, and we’ll figure it out together.

Samantha writes the Friday column on undergraduate myths. Contact her at [email protected].