As I stand outside my daughter’s college dorm, I fight back tears while my husband and I embrace Mia for the final time. She looks so small, yet her voice remains calm and reassuring as she says, “I’ll be fine, Mom,” flashes a smile, and walks away.
Beyond the typical anxieties—safety concerns and the dangers of college life—my greatest fear is that Mia will feel isolated. She’s a bit reserved and tends to keep to herself, making it hard for her to reach out to others.
On the drive home, I can’t shake the image of her sitting alone in her dimly lit room, cross-legged on her bed adorned with vibrant throw pillows, while her new roommate Kira is off socializing with friends. Earlier that day, while unpacking, Kira and her mother had come by to introduce themselves. Our polite exchanges quickly faded into an uncomfortable silence. Just then, two lively girls entered, claiming to be Kira’s high school pals, both freshmen living on campus. My husband and I exchanged glances of disappointment.
Mia and Kira connected through a roommate matching site and seemed compatible on many levels—shared interests in music, personality traits, and even late-night habits. I thought they might cling to each other during this transitional year, but things didn’t pan out that way.
Move-in day was chaotic, filled with campus volunteers and nervous families hauling mini-fridges on dollies. Yet when we returned from dinner, the dorm was eerily quiet. No open doors, no laughter, not a single resident assistant to be found.
I had envisioned a warm welcome—an RA introducing herself, smiling at us, answering our questions, and then inviting Mia to the common area for some awkward icebreakers. Instead, we were met with a typed note on Kira’s door: “Hi, I’m Cat. Here are my hours. I love dogs, coffee, and too many fries. If you need me, here’s my number.” A smiley face was the only sign of life.
In the first few weeks, Mia spent time with Kira and her friends, but soon she confided in me that she felt like a third wheel. “It’s not that we don’t get along, Mom. But she doesn’t really talk to me. The other day I mentioned a show we both like, and she just ignored me. I guess we’re just roommates, and that’s okay.”
At that moment, my dislike for Kira grew. I recalled how Mia’s elementary school friends had abandoned her on the bus during middle school. She was hurt but never let it affect her too deeply. “It’s fine, Mom,” she’d say. “We stopped being friends ages ago.”
“Why don’t you reach out to Lisa?” I suggested a few weeks into her college journey. “You were good friends in high school.”
“I don’t know. She’s across campus, we just haven’t connected,” Mia replied.
“Are you meeting people in class?” I pressed. “Yeah, but it’s not like we have time to talk,” she said, making me worry even more about her loneliness.
“You need to make that huge campus feel smaller,” I urged. “Join a club. Any club! Animals, graphic design, the environment—pick one!”
Mia promised she’d consider it, but I sensed she was just appeasing me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I didn’t guide her, she would suffer socially.
“I’m fine,” she reassured me. “You should be happy I’m not partying at that 18-and-up bar like Kira does. I’m not into that scene.”
Now, more than a semester later, Mia insists she’s doing well. She meets up with her high school friends and chats with classmates. While she may not be overflowing with confidence, she appears more at ease with herself. She assures me she’s eating well, sleeping enough, and exercising regularly. Her grades are impressive, too.
“Leave her alone,” my friends advise. “She’ll find her way. If you keep asking about her social life, she might think something’s wrong with her.” And of course, they’re right.
So, when Mia visits home, I do my best to resist the urge to inquire about her friends. Instead, I focus on the changes in her demeanor as she shares stories about her classes, the campus gym, and her silent roommate. Each conversation reveals a little more of her growth and maturity.
Mia is far more self-assured than I was at her age, which explains my incessant worries. At 18, I was riddled with anxiety and apprehensive about new experiences. I certainly didn’t enter college with the self-confidence she now possesses.
Occasionally, I worry that my daughter is missing out on the full college experience, but then I remember that Mia understands herself in ways I didn’t until much later. She knows who she is and doesn’t need to surround herself with friends to feel validated.
During the Christmas break, my husband asked how she was faring. “I’m fine, Dad. But it’s a process,” she responded, and immediately I wondered if “process” was code for “unhappy.” That’s probably why she shares her feelings with him instead of me.
Mia trusts herself in ways I never could. She understands that as life evolves, she will navigate it on her terms. Now, when she comes home, I listen closely, realizing she’s not lonely or miserable; she simply prefers to engage with the world at her own pace.
Update
Mia is now a sophomore. She’s formed genuine friendships with her roommates and another girl on campus. Her confidence has blossomed significantly. What a difference a year—and a little trust—can make.
Further Reading
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Summary
Mia’s transition to college has been a journey filled with concerns from her parents, especially about her social life. Initially feeling lonely and disconnected from her roommate, she gradually started finding her footing. Through encouragement to engage with her environment, Mia has become more confident and self-assured, showing remarkable growth in just a year.
Keyphrase: college social life
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