By Donna Kirschner, PhD.
“Don’t even stop the car. There’s no way I hell I’m applying here!”
“Can’t we just…take a look?”
“Mom, this town is a postage stamp in the middle of nowhere. I would wither and die in a place like this.”
As my 17 year old daughter steered our minivan around the bucolic campus, I put down my knitting and took in the diverse array of undergraduates milling around. They were clad in clothing that ranged from relaxed to stylish. It was too early in the spring to see them sprawled across the expansive lawns between the academic buildings. No doubt, they would emerge soon enough, lazing in the sun, ruminating over politics, philosophy, and the latest trends in particle physics.
These were my kid’s people.
And yet, they wouldn’t be.
My teenage self would have killed to have attended a place like this. Smart, interesting people isolating from the outside world to think and grow, hopefully emerging as the bright, capable citizens. I had earned a full scholarship to a small, prestigious women’s college in New York City and never shopped around for schools. Although I loved my college years, they lacked the picturesque “college experience” so vaulted in our culture.
But as I looked over at my daughter, happily steering onto the road that led into the small college town, I realized, once again, that this is her experience: her preferences come first.
Although we live in a suburb, she has spent her teenage years navigating through cities. I can appreciate that she would feel trapped on a small college campus, no matter how amazing the physical plant, the peers and the professors.
The day before, we visited what would become my daughter’s dream school: an Ivy League college in a mid-sized city. As I strolled along the campus walkway and past staid academic buildings, I found myself in a time tunnel.
Moving among these buildings felt so familiar. The sounds of the surrounding streets, the feel of the libraries, the lighting and stillness in the hallways when we stopped in to use the restroom.
Thankfully, the all-gender bathrooms reflected an attitude of enlightenment and inclusion that many of us could have only dreamed of in the early 1990s.
This environment felt so familiar, even the buildings harkened back to my own Ivy-league college years. At one point, when I caught sight of my daughter walking next to me, I almost blurted out “Who are you?” Then, “Why aren’t you still in my sling carrier?” And finally, “Oh, yeah, we are here for my kid to find her place.”
When I pondered my reactions, I realized that college visits are a pivotal stage of parenting (at least for some lucky parents). I wasn’t living vicariously through my kid, as I had initially worried. Instead, like many parents, I was trying to connect the familiar with the unknown. This was one more stage in a long procession of my daughter’s transition to the wider world that began when she took her first breaths. As a parent, that new stage carries with it a range of challenges and opportunities.
Like other privileged young people around the world, she will fall in love with a school, she will find new purpose in what often feels like a pointless high school experience, she will continue to work her ass off. She will spend a good part of this summer and fall figuring out more about herself: her preferences, the beginnings of her mission, and a sense of how she might grow and contribute to different environments. Hopefully she will develop an orientation that “the competition” are really kids like her, also trying to find their best fit with different school environment. Hopefully, these kids will all realize that they can do their best to get as much internal clarity and then send as clear a message about who they are. The rest is up the the schools.
Developing this perspective and moving through the work that it requires is an important, if nerve-wracking, rite of passage for many teens and their families.
I’ve witness that process for nearly two decades.
As a college essay coach, I’ve ushering young people as they discover which aspects of themselves that they want to share with colleges. I guide and inspire them to tell a story of who they are, what they think they can contribute, how their vision of themselves meshes with what a particular school offers. I love the work of calming these anxious clients and helping them to find their stories in an effective way. I offer them a sense of peace that they have done “all they can do” and help them understand the extent to which their efforts fit into a context not entirely within their control.
In that role, I have also reassured countless parents that their child will not only get through this process, but may get some clarity as they work through it. I’ve talked more than my fair share of parents off the ledge. “Look, you may have it in your heart that your child needs to go to a particular school to validate your version of success. Or that they need to become a doctor, lawyer, or chief in order to be happy or contribute to society. Just don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”
Now that we are in the midst of the process, I understand the anxiety: I don’t ride my kid to study for her standardized tests, do her best schoolwork, or do anything else academic related because I want her to get into the perfect school or have a perfect life. BUT, she has worked her butt off in high school and I want her to honor that effort by doing her best to embrace and engage this admission process so that she can create her best opportunities.
As we turned onto the main street of the tiny town, I mustered a smile. “Ok. We learned something. Let’s cross ‘liberal arts colleges in small towns’ off the list and get some lunch.”
My daughter is a good scout: she had already looked up vegan restaurants in the area before we left for our trip. As we sat in the small Asian bistro and looked over the tea menu, I planted my feet firmly on the floor, took a few deep, delicious breaths and committed to being a fully present, genuine ally with my child for this unfolding experience.
I wish you and your family the same!
