There is an unspoken campus hierarchy that every college student internalizes within their first 24 hours on campus. Freshmen move in tight, slightly anxious clusters, clutching their phones with a PDF of a campus map. Sophomores walk with the brisk confidence of people who finally know which shortcut across the lawn is the fastest. Juniors carry an aura of perpetual exhaustion. And seniors? Seniors are supposed to be the campus elders — wise, grounded, and possessing an almost mythical clarity about the future. At least, that’s what I assumed when I was eighteen.
At the beginning of this semester, standing in the middle of campus, a wide-eyed freshman cautiously approached me. She asked for directions to a classroom. I pointed her down the right walkway, offered an encouraging smile, and gave a helpful tip about avoiding the crowd. She looked at me like I was an oracle.
I realized that the transition from “confused underclassman” to “respected mentor” happens with alarming speed. It feels like just yesterday I was the one walking through MPK trying to figure out which building was Morton, which was Pierce, and which was Kiddie, wondering if everyone else had been issued an invisible guidebook I never received. Now, through no deliberate effort of my own, I am suddenly viewed as an established guidepost.
The reality hit full force last week when Greek life traditions rolled around. Between welcoming my Little in Theta Phi and already having two wonderful Littles in APO, my collegiate family tree suddenly feels wonderfully full. Handing down letters, planning reveals, and passing along traditions to three different Littles is genuinely heartwarming. It’s one of the brightest parts of upperclassman life.
Yet, there is an undeniably comedic dissonance to the whole thing. Here are these incredible, motivated underclassmen asking for advice on balancing schedules, navigating course registration, handling leadership roles, and planning for life after graduation. And on the surface, I deliver thoughtful, measured guidance about time management, building study habits, and leaning into campus involvement. Beneath the surface? I’m looking at my own impending graduation date with the wide-eyed apprehension of a freshman on move-in day.
Yet again, that is the quiet irony of senioritis. You spend three years assuming that senior year comes with an automatic upgrade — that when you reach the top of the campus food chain, you will naturally feel “grown up.” Instead, you discover that being a senior simply means getting better at improvising while maintaining a calm poker face. You don’t have all the answers; you’ve just learned how to handle not having them without falling apart.
When my Littles look to me for reassurance, or when a lost freshman treats me like a personal campus guide, I realize that wisdom in college isn’t about perfection. It’s just about having tripped over every single crack in the sidewalk so many times that you can finally warn someone else to step over them. We might still be figuring out our next steps, scrambling to finish assignments, and wondering where the four years went. But, if we can light the path for the people walking behind us, even while running on sheer improvisation, maybe we’re doing alright after all.
