Sophomore summer has solidified for me that this is the Dartmouth I chose. The Dartmouth where my professors remember my name after the first day, where friends of friends flitz me to their house parties and where everyone I know happens to be at Late Night at the same time.
With so few people on campus this summer, I’ve started to believe that Dartmouth really belongs to me: not in a selfish way, but in the sense of feeling rooted. A sense of ownership I never quite grasped before.
Living in my sorority this term has helped me realize how much has changed since last year. Before this summer, I remember being terrified to step into the house. The upperclassmen intimidated me — they seemed to belong in a space in which I was merely a guest. I didn’t understand the layout. I had no clue people actually used the kitchen.
Now, with just ’27s living in the house, it feels like we own a part of it. We plan meetings, look after each other on on-nights and host Love Island watch parties after days at the river. Our sorority’s social calendar is packed with events each week. While many of these shared moments are Dartmouth traditions we’ve inherited, we’re also taking the initiative to create this community ourselves. And while we love and admire the rising seniors, it’s reassuring to know that this house, and campus, can exist with just us.
This sense of ownership for me has also extended far beyond my sorority. I walk around campus and feel a familiarity that goes deeper than just knowing where things are. I feel like I belong not only because I go to classes and have a student ID, but also in the real, daily, “I know where to sit and who to text” kind of way.
There’s no Collis special line, no packed Novack between classes and no stress about running into someone I feel as though I need to impress to get into a group or club. Instead, I see familiar faces everywhere — even if we only met once during O-week. It reminds me of when we were wide-eyed, optimistic students without set-in-stone friend groups or solidified routines. There’s a kind of freedom in that: a refreshing lack of structure. I don’t feel pressured to be anywhere or to do anything in particular. Some days I’m locked in at a Novack high table, on others I’m swimming, driving to the Farmers’ Market or sitting on a porch for hours. I don’t feel as though I need to constantly choose between five conflicting events or wonder what I should be doing. Nowadays, whatever I choose feels like the right choice.
With fewer students, the social landscape feels different, too. Friend groups seem to blur more easily; people I only sort-of knew before summer are now regular lunch buddies. Everyone is more approachable, and no person or space feels off-limits. It feels as though the social hierarchy that can creep into regular terms is gone.
Even on-nights feel more relaxed: knowing someone on door duty or waiting in line outside a frat doesn’t really exist anymore. I joke about “summoning” people — mentioning someone in conversation and then seeing them in front of me two seconds later — but it really does happen. Campus is just small enough for that kind of magic.
Academically, I also feel more engaged. Because my classes are smaller, I speak more. I ask questions. I linger after class. When someone doesn’t show up, their absence is noticed by all of us.
Without the usual commotion, I’ve seen myself grow. I’ve stepped into leadership positions when planning activities, driving groups around, reaching out to people first and taking initiative in ways that once made me nervous. There’s space here to try things and to mess up. I’m not waiting for someone else to shape my Dartmouth experience — I’m doing it myself.
This slower version of Dartmouth has reminded me that college isn’t really about classes — sorry, parents. It’s about the people you’re going through life with: the late-night Woccom conversations and the person you met freshman fall who’s now trying out for your summer dance team. The joy of explaining a weird Dartmouth tradition to a visiting friend and watching them giggle while still confused. The intense in-house Masters tournaments or planning three consecutive Montréal trips or waiting 30 minutes for a grilled cheese at the Norwich Farmers’ Market. These are the things that make this place feel like home.
Of course, it’s not perfect. I miss the energy on the Green with music, spikeball games and constant movement. I miss the upperclassmen, and yes, the high school programs here can really throw off the vibe. There are moments I crave more of the full-campus chaos.
Yet what I’ve gained this summer outweighs what’s missing. I feel calm, grounded and present. I’ve realized that Hanover isn’t just where I go to college: it’s where I live.
And I know that when fall comes, it’s going to feel strange. Campus will be full again, and Collis will be packed. I’ll have to hunt for a 3FB table. The pace will pick up. But I’ll be different. This summer clicked something into place. When everyone returns, I won’t feel like just another face in the crowd. I’ll feel like someone who belongs.
