“You kids are gonna do just fine,” said our hipster Uber driver, Thomas. He turned down The Rolling Stones for a second just to make sure we heard that.
 
Me and my friend Sami were coming back from a painting viewing assignment we had to do at The Art Institute downtown.
 
It was not the fantasy college life I’d imagined it to be. I was stuck inside with stacks of books and papers all the time. Exam dates and paper deadlines seemed to loom over my head like a permanent heavy storm cloud, even on holidays at home when I was supposed to be enjoying. I wished for summer constantly and prayed for a day brighter than the dim light that lit my shoebox dorm.
 
“What do you kids think about Cane’s?” he asked. Cane’s was the chicken place in front of our dorm. I’d never been since I was a vegetarian, but my friend said it was finger lickin good.
 
Before, there were visions before of fleeing to a life much better than the one I had. In the small town that I lived in, I always felt like there was something else out there — something bigger, something better than the same olds that were here. Before, I felt bored and ansty with the comfort and familiarity my town gave me. Chicago was better, I’d always think, and drown myself in dreams of city lights, spontaneous adventures downtown, and groovy hipster friends who dressed like vintage models.
 
The first year of college passed by, and I still hadn’t made any good friends or become accustomed to this new place I was supposed to call home. Studies were droning, the dining hall food sucked, and it was always way too cold. I missed being bored and being comfortable. I missed driving through the sunny countrysides, grocery shopping at Walmart, and making dinner with my family. The newness and appeal of college finally wore off, and I was left with the truth of what it really was. Classes were hard, life felt tough, and the people were so different. Kids smoked after doing homework and drank a shot before they went to sleep. I wasn’t used to this. I didn’t feel mature yet. I felt like I was still sixteen. Life here revolved around difficult studies, adult work, and a sort of escapism from both. I was confused by this balance and the sense of detachment it infected into everybody.
 
“You guys should’ve seen the kids I dropped off at your dorm last night. They went to a bar with their shiny new fake IDs and some silly party after. When they came back they were totally out of it. Total opposites of you guys…” he honked at the fat bus in front of us.
 
I was disappointed in myself because I wasn’t staying faithful to my dreams. I felt scared looking the real Chicago in the eye.
 
“You can’t always get what you waaant,” he sang.
 
I would dress fashionably and be nice like all the other Chicago kids, but I felt like a phony. I tried my hand at events here and there, but felt like I was just going to look for a best friend. Chasing people felt like the only way to make this place less frightening. Worst of all, I felt embarrassed of who I really was. I was a quiet person, a homebody, and a bookworm.
 
It didn’t occur to me until later that I kept on trying to run away from the real me. Earlier that semester, I tried so hard to fit in the group of my Indian peers. I watched Indian movies with them, listened to more Bollywood music, and stayed up super late gossiping. They were nice, but this sudden shift made me feel weird. Growing up as one of the only minorities in a mostly white Catholic school isolated me from my culture. A couple of my new friends teased that I wasn’t Indian enough or I didn’t look Indian. I wondered if I couldn’t be a sufficient person of my culture, who the hell was I then?
 
It wasn’t until one night two weeks later that I felt completely overwhelmed by everything. I couldn’t hide it anymore and called my parents to tell them how I really felt.
 
“Everything is going to be okay,” they said. With their love and support, I was able to slowly let go of the disappointment I felt and the false expectations I held for college. My parents helped pave the way for me to trust myself and make peace with who I really was.
“Do you like living in Colorado or Chicago better?” I asked Thomas. He had went to college in Boulder.
 
“I guess I like both equally. The open air is better in Rado, but I get a better chance to do anything here. Couldn’t find any people to drive around there. I guess one place’s for comfort and one’s for opportunity,” he said.
 
Thomas was the embodiment of adulthood. He whistled and sang and had fun all while working. He didn’t take anything too seriously, and just let the wheels roll as they wished. When cars honked at him, he smiled, when an old man flipped him off, he smiled, and when the road was smooth, he smiled. He accepted all situations, and most of all, he felt comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t depend on the cars next to him or the road or traffic lights to make him satisfied. He continuously felt happiness inside of himself. Thomas was the embodiment of independence.
 
Looking at Thomas made me wonder how I could ever reach that point, but looking at him also reassured me that I will eventually get there too.
 
I realized going to college and transforming into an independent adult doesn’t mean going out to parties, or having wine and cheese nights, or working towards getting a job and making money. Becoming a true adult means being able to accept yourself and facing life as it is, the good and the bad. I realized I didn’t have to chase friends or things or escapism to be content with my new phase of life, I just had to let go and accept myself.