There is a preconceived notion about transfer students that we’re outsiders; inadvertently crashing into a family reunion that isn’t ours. Everyone is hugging and laughing and talking about last semester like it was Woodstock, and meanwhile, you’re standing there thinking, “Well, at least I’m not in Ohio watching the corn grow.”
Moving from Ohio to Tennessee wasn’t just a change in scenery; I was stepping into a new world where the sweet tea flows like water and going to Walmart ( or “Wally World”) is a legitimate social activity.
But instead of dwelling on the cultural shock and awkwardness—and trust me, this is coming from a serial overthinker—you start to see the opportunity. Maybe being the “new guy” hasn’t been entirely catastrophic. Meeting new people, finding my rhythm—it’s just as liberating as it is terrifying. Take, for instance, the six-hour drive it took me here when my windshield cracked, a spiderweb of stress spreading across the glass. I could’ve turned back, but instead, I squinted through the fractured view, and I made it to campus. Illegal yes, but I did it.
Academically, it was being handed a copy of The Odyssey halfway through and told to analyze the character arcs of suitors (spoiler alert: they all die). My immediate reaction was, “Great, I don’t even know who Odysseus is, but now I have to write an essay on how wise and happy he is?” But then it occurred to me that, even 300 miles from home, there was an Odyssey of my own to be gleaned from—one that involved fewer mythical creatures, yet with its own set of challenges.
As a transfer student, I often find myself laughing—maybe not always intentionally—at how drastically my life has changed in the last year. Like the time during my second week at school when I slammed my knee against the shower door. After belting out a scream like a banshee, my roommate—whom I’d barely spoken to—was knocking frantically, asking if I was okay while I groaned miserably. It was embarrassing, yes, but it was also the first genuine connection I made on campus. Sometimes, pain is a great icebreaker.
Between those moments of sheer bewilderment and some occasional existential dread, Milligan started to feel like home. Not exactly the home I envisioned (that one had less social interaction and more takeout), but one that had quickly evolved in ways I couldn’t have scripted, like when I decided to pull an all-nighter in the chapel to study for a Humanities exam. I had passed out face-first in a textbook, and drenched my notes in drool. The next thing I knew, a security guard was shaking me back to consciousness. I realized then, that sleep might actually be more beneficial than an extra hour of studying—if only someone had told me.
Change, I’ve realized, is the one constant in life, and while it’s inherently unsettling—I cling to routine like a blanket—it’s also an integral part of personal growth. Embracing new experiences, despite my initial resistance, has led to profound developments.
I’ve found it amusing how the things I feared ended up shaping me the most. The friendships I’ve formed weren’t built on a shared past but a shared present, which is less complicated and more genuine. I found this to be true when I decided to go line dancing. I didn’t go on a whim after suddenly developing rhythm, but because I realized that stumbling over my own feet is okay. Academically, it has been less about having answers—which is fortunate, because I rarely do—and more about engaging with curiosity. Who cares if you’re only halfway through The Odyssey? The best adventures are the ones that are stumbled into without a map. And maybe staying up all night wasn’t the best study strategy, but it was a rite of passage in its own way.
Change isn’t something to be afraid of, but should be embraced. It challenges and nudges one out of their comfort zone (for me, a very tightly defined area), and encourages growth in ways you aren’t anticipated. Navigating these shifts will allow one to discover a stronger, more connected version of self—one that’s less apprehensive about whatever comes next (like fixing a cracked windshield).
Odysseus never had a map. Neither do I. Maybe there’s a reason for that—maybe it isn’t about reaching Ithaca. It’s about the detours, the chaos, the unexpected turns that are learned along the way. God rendered my map useless, but there’s comfort in knowing that I’ll end up exactly where he wants me. Whether that’s Milligan, Ithaca, or someplace else, I’ll get there. Probably late (and more-than-likely injured), but with a story to tell.
written by Chris Cox
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