Manifestation of Misery: Why I Hated Berkeley as a Transfer Student

Words by Hayden Oldham (@haydenoldh4m)

In the midst of to-do lists and attempts to reorganize my brain for the new school year, I was reminded of my desperate attempts to do the same exact thing this time last year. 

As a transfer student, coming to Berkeley felt like a lamb being thrown to the wolves. I had no idea how to navigate the rigor of academics and was doubtful of my abilities to live up to the prestige of the school. My nerves for entering this new chapter of my life boiled up long before I arrived. Classes hadn’t started yet, and I already felt behind. My experience of leaving home felt delayed; everything I was about to experience, students my age had already gone through two years prior. 

Every fear of mine circulated in a constant loop of self-deprecating thoughts as I prepared to leave home. And even though the academic fear was a concern of mine, I couldn’t shake my anxiety about what going to Berkeley actually meant—inevitable loneliness.

On the drive up, somewhere between the stretch of highway where all you see is a valley and all you smell is cow manure, I made a vow to myself that I would fully take advantage of this relocation—that I would put myself out there and stay busy enough to avoid feeling homesick or depressed. 

I knew that finding a community at Berkeley would take time; I just didn’t realize how much. Although Sproul was animalistic during the first few weeks of school—crossroads of students, blurred voices overlapping, outstretched hands grasping consulting flyers—what these clubs failed to tell me is that I would essentially have to endure the hell of college applications all over again. This time though, it wasn't the Berkeley admissions office reviewing my essays—it was a 19-year-old with 500+ LinkedIn connections, which somehow felt far worse. Before experiencing this, I thought getting into Berkeley would be the hardest part. I hadn’t considered that it could become even more selective once I arrived.

That said, I didn’t even bother joining—or trying to join—any clubs. As someone who already struggled with change, I assumed my energy during the first semester would be consumed entirely by academics and building a routine. And that was true, but only for the first month. By October, the novelty of a new environment had worn off, and I was desperate to leave.

I existed in a constant state of balancing grace with pressure—trying to give myself leeway while also pushing myself forward. Although I shared an apartment with two other junior transfers, both from my same community college, I still felt no one truly understood the severity of what I was saying when I admitted it out loud: I don’t belong here.

I wasn’t learning anything. My classes were demanding, that is if I were to complete all the readings, but when you’re given one hour to “dissect” a text before moving on to the next novel, the work is trivial. Though, I did try. I actually blame this partly on my GSI, who told our section at the beginning of the semester that you aren’t expected to read everything—that a part of college is learning what to analyze closely and what to skim. After that, everything became a skim.

So maybe it was my fault that I wasn’t learning. I guess that’s another part of college too: holding yourself accountable. They must assume that because you’re an adult now, no one needs to tell you to care about the material. I mean, I’m paying for this. And yet, that’s how I got stuck in this thought loop—a kind of mental carousel I couldn’t step off of.

 I wasn’t learning anything, so why was I paying so much money to not learn anything? Why was I paying so much to live in this apartment, to go to this school, that I was paying so much for, to not learn anything? 

Eventually, the loop collapsed inward, followed by guilt: feeling ungrateful, useless, and like a failure—the most familiar shatter of composure I endured throughout the fall.

Although my roommates and I talked about these feelings, it still seemed like no one was as lost as I was. I didn’t feel deserving of being here. So many people dreamed of coming to Cal, yet here I was wishing I was anywhere else.

Before coming to Berkeley, during one of my final therapy appointments, I expressed these worries: not making friends, not connecting with people, not doing well in school. As I went on, listing what felt like an endless stream of anxieties, she pointed out that I was describing these possibilities as if they were facts—inevitable events already set in motion. She framed it in a way that made immediate sense and, for some reason, calmed me almost completely.

“You are trying to write a story that hasn’t even started.”

It was such a simple observation, but somehow exactly what I needed to hear. I left feeling more confident about my move north. Still, I think there are some lessons you can only learn by enduring them yourself. Even knowing that I was visualizing Berkeley with pessimism, I couldn’t avoid the way those thoughts manifested. That said, my first semester at Berkeley was the result of a cynical narrative I drafted long before I arrived. Living it didn’t disprove that narrative it only reworked it.

In hindsight, I won’t discredit myself and say that I didn’t try to rework my mindset, but I ended my first semester at Berkeley feeling a sense of emptiness. It felt bittersweet, though not in the youthful, optimistic way the phrase is usually used. I was bitter because I knew I hadn’t honored my pre-Berkeley commitment to myself. And I guess the "sweet" part came from the fact that the semester was finally over. 

I made it my mission going into spring semester to circle back to my original promise, this time making it an oath. I went to every infosession and coffee chat I could, and in the midst of environmental clubs and pre-law fraternities, I went to a mixer for Garb. It was the first time where I felt like I was talking to people who saw me as equals—no one was attempting to secretly mention their résumé of internships and experiences into a casual conversation. At a time where I thought it was impossible to find people I could connect with, the group of people I met that night proved that I couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Garb helped me see Berkeley from a different perspective. I can clearly recall running into Amelia, who is now one of my best friends, the day after the mixer while walking past the Glade. It was only our second time seeing each other, but the second we recognized one another, we dropped our bags and started waving our arms around, excited to be meeting again. It was almost ridiculous how quickly we had gone from strangers to acting like we had known each other the whole year.

My biggest concern with coming to Berkeley was that I wouldn’t find anyone who compared to my best friends at home. I wouldn’t say I’m a shy person, but I’m definitely more reserved when I first meet people. Somehow, though, that hesitation disappeared when I met my now best friends, a wonderful group of other junior transfers.. I felt like I had known them forever, and it was hard to imagine how I had gone through school without them.

Joining Garb gave me the confidence and opportunity to find people I actually related to: other transfer students, other creative minds, and other people who also felt a little absurd about somehow ending up at Berkeley. Meeting them made Berkeley feel less like this intimidating place that I had to figure out on my own and more like a place that I could enjoy. 

As I write this now, at the beginning of my senior fall semester, I can see that my fears of moving weren’t simply anxieties. They did manifest into reality, but that didn’t mean they were permanent. I find myself continuing to have realizations about the serendipitous moments that have brought me to where I am now. 

I found that once I stopped trying to fit myself into the box of what I thought was the epitome of a Berkeley student, I began to actually enjoy my time here. I don’t need to have a packed Google Calendar, a résumé equivalent to 20+ years of experience, or a return offer to J.P. Morgan once I graduate to deem my time here as successful. 

All that said, on the occasions that I still inevitably get caught up in the competitiveness that pollutes the Berkeley air, I think back to how, this time last year, I wanted nothing more than to escape the smog. But now, I’m dreading the day that I’ll have to leave it.