The Opinion Section created the column Argus Apps to humanize the college process. Common App essays only ever exist within the framework of college admissions, alongside a list of accomplishments, extracurriculars, and test scores. With Argus Apps, we’re revisiting old Common App essays written by Wesleyan students to think about where we’ve been and where we’re going. In this edition, we hear from Contributing Writer Eleanora Freeman ’27

When I walked onto the Wesleyan campus as a first-year, I felt like all the versions of myself at once—my second-grade self who was scared to talk to kids who were playing in the playground, eighth-grade me who was walking into the stage speaking my first lines as the lead role of a play, and the naive high school senior who wrote that Common App essay. As much as I wanted to move past that socially anxious part of myself and be settled in a persona of “confident New Yorker who is super outgoing,” it was impossible.

I remember writing my Common App essay and being so proud of it. It explained my confidence perfectly; how my awkwardness comes in waves and I must often remind myself that I can change the flow of things to break free from that cycle. I have also grown to realize that I shouldn’t put so much pressure on myself because my medications make it harder for me to feel my best on most days. ADHD makes me who I am, is woven into the fabric of my personality, and is why I act spontaneous, hyper, and humorous. This makes me great at conversation but not so great at focusing in class, which can be a problem because I could be missing out on important information while spaced out. 

I don’t think there’s a way I can explain the effects of Ritalin, the medication I take to mitigate my distraction tendencies, without saying that it makes me feel completely dull. The internal funny banter is muted, and I am tailored to focus. I take Ritalin everyday and it’s long-lasting, so I feel the effects even at unwanted times like lunch or after class. The reality is that when you aren’t feeling like yourself, it’s ten times harder to make friends because you feel disingenuous. I was talking to a friend yesterday about how we feel on Ritalin (we both have ADHD) and he agreed that he felt the exact same way; he didn’t feel like himself, he had trouble socializing, and he generally felt depressed. That opened my eyes to the notion that there were other reasons why I felt this way—explanations for what have felt like setbacks.

So while I’m trying to find the right balance with medication, an important thing I learned is that I am better at socializing than I think I am. For so long, I’ve been thinking I haven’t been able to connect with people when really I have managed to make a good amount of friends, despite the setbacks imposed by factors I can’t necessarily control. With time, I’ve become so much prouder of myself because I better understand my limits and know when it’s okay to push myself. Honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing about my essay; I still love it. However, it is interesting how many layers there can be to an issue so simple as feeling socially anxious, layers that took me years to realize. Calling yourself antisocial and leaving it at that feels easy, but it’s dangerous because it blocks you from going down a route of self-discovery. Failing to question what factors have made you act a certain way is how misconceptions like that happen. It prevents you from being able to change.

From Across the Stage to Across the Globe

Beee-ooo-wee-ooo

I heard my ringtone, the Pac Man intro, and fumbled for my phone. 

It was my parents on Facetime. We hadn’t spoken since they dropped me off for a three-week creative writing program at Bard College two days before. 

“Hi guys,” I said, desperately trying to cool down.

“What’ve you been up to?!” Their tone was curious, but familiarly nagging.

“Nothing much,” I said. “Just writing all day.”

Their faces flashed disappointment. We knew they were asking about the social scene. 

I liked my roommate, Jane, who shared pictures of her small hometown in Idaho and her beloved pickup truck, Baby, on the first day. But, she’d since branched out.

“Have you made any friends yet?” my mom asked, bluntly. 

“Honestly, I’m exhausted from talking to people all day.” 

“They’re probably just scared because you’re too cool,” my dad said. 

My face burned red. How could I explain how overwhelming it was that, by day two, people had already formed solid friend groups?

“When’s the next event?” my mom persisted. 

I told them about an ice cream social in fifteen minutes. Suddenly, I was rushed off the phone so I could attend. 

My reluctance wasn’t new. In second grade, while everyone climbed the monkey bars, I cried because nobody asked me to play. If I approached them, I thought they’d tell me to screw off and shoot side eyes. I was convinced they saw me as a boring shell of a person and not the quirky kid I knew I was. Bard put me right back at that classroom window staring at my peers. 

The ice cream social…wasn’t very social. Conversation swarmed around me, but I was reticent. The night was a failure, but I decided to persevere at Friend Bingo the next day.

Naturally, I lost my nerve on my way, but I made it. Walking in, I noticed that bingo attracted only six brave soldiers. Skeptical, I turned and saw a gaggle of girls surrounding a pool table, laughing and playing in a picturesque way. I, however, was a sweaty gargoyle. But, I was intrigued by the game’s precision—how each ball fit neatly into a corner pocket. 

“How do you play pool?” I called out. 

The group looked up, surprised. I explained I’d only played it in an app.

“Haha! I love that game,” Soa said.

“Pool’s not too hard,” Nico added. 

I played the next round and, although my cue seemed to dodge every ball, I was happy to be involved. When dinner rolled around, Lily asked me to sit with them.

Dropping my shoulder bag to the ground and placing my dish down, my fears of seeming mundane faded. The night wasn’t a total disaster.

I hadn’t always suppressed my inner extrovert. My awkwardness came in waves. But, in middle school, I grew reserved after struggles with “friends.” In eighth grade, discovering acting changed everything. As the lead in Hamletta, an unfortunate underground spinoff of Shakespeare’s original, I learned how to be vulnerable in public. On stage, I had to be open; otherwise, I’d hinder character development. I soon realized that anything I could do in rehearsal, I could do in my social life.

Letting people in didn’t come easily, though. At Bard, I regressed. So, I reminded myself that waiting around for invitations was pointless. I had to take initiative if I wanted to make friends—and get my parents off my back. Instead of looking out at the playground like I once did, I ran out and joined in.

I left the program not only knowing how to write sci-fi, but with a sprawling group of friends from all over the globe—England to Texas, Wisconsin to Canada. At a certain point, we annoyed the lunch ladies by maxing out the number of chairs at our table. Soon, the only pestering my parents did was begging me to call them back.

 

Eleanora Freeman can be reached at eafreeman@wesleyan.edu.