Two weeks before the start of sophomore year, I purchased a pair of white Nike Air Maxes. They match with everything — from my patched jeans to my green miniskirt. I know that they will be my most dependable and faithful shoes. They are pristine, with long laces that can be double-knotted or even triple-knotted to prepare for adventure.

Winter break presents the perfect opportunity to test them out. I fly to Palo Alto, California, to visit Merrell, my best friend and older sister. I will sleep in her dorm, wander around San Francisco, and pretend to be in college.

The moment we arrive at Stanford, Merrell takes me on a walk around the campus. We pass Lake Logg, which is perpetually empty except for the bout of unprecedented rainfall during her freshman year. We sneak onto the golf course and throw stray balls down the fairway of the first tee. She leads me through the “circle of death:” a chaotic roundabout infamous for biker and pedestrian collisions. I love the little details that create campus life. Walking through the setting of her illusive anecdotes leaves me awestruck. Late night stories once whispered into cellphone speakers come to life. I am surrounded by tentative first day hellos, awkward encounters in the bathroom, and 3 a.m. bowls of cereal. Hearing about it was one thing, but being here is something else entirely.

We eat at the famed Arrillaga Family Dining Commons for dinner. My heart skips a beat as Merrell swipes her meal card, granting me access to a new, exclusive world. I catch a glimpse of the shiny, red waffle maker in the glare from the overhead lighting, calling to me through a siren song. Interrupting the lure of the waffle maker, my mother’s voice echoes in my mind: “Waffles aren’t for dinner.” A third voice interjects, and, as if reading my thoughts, Merrell says, “It’s college. If you want waffles, go for it!” And so, I do. The waffle is imprinted with the Stanford logo: a capital S and a pine tree. I smother the tree in butter and drown the S in syrup. Each crunchy, golden bite gives way to a fluffy, sweet interior. I breathe in maple, crisp California air, pine trees, and cardinal red — a sensory delight that can only be described as freedom.

Every time we leave the dorm, my Nike Air Maxes touch Stanford’s sacred ground. You know the ground on which you walk is holy when even the people who walk on it every day take special care. I watch as students float over the concrete sidewalks on their quest for knowledge and pursuit of high learning. I force myself to fall in sync with the rhythm of my sister’s stride. I let my long laces drag on the ground, soaking up the magic that fills every crevice of this place.

Upon returning home, Stanford becomes my sun. I am dragged into its orbit by a gravitational pull. Like the Earth, I circle my sun 365 days a year. I twist and turn, but never break free of the endless loop. A need for academic perfection motivates me to rise every morning. I sleep out of necessity so that I can wake up the next day and do it all over again. Gone is the space for second chances, small mistakes, and “I will try harder next times.” I must try my hardest all the time.

As the school year progresses, my Nike Air Maxes become — to kindly put it — off white. I have worn them six out of seven days for the past 18 weeks. The math test I studied hours for, fumbled passes in during field hockey practice, and the English essay I rewrote so many times — including once in Spanish — appear as gray spots or scuff marks. The Air Maxes are stained from “mental health” walks through Rock Creek Park and spilled ketchup on the cafeteria floor. I have tried cleaning them. But can you really scrub off the residue left behind by anxiety and disappointment?

The quiet moments of my days are filled with loud, intrusive thoughts of Stanford. The lyrics of my favorite song transform into a steady chant of “Stanford University.” When I close my eyes, I see the spires of Memorial Church and taste sugary waffle batter. I remind myself that my current state of overwhelming emotion and stress is only temporary. In two years, I will greet my new roommate with my own nervous hello and eat my own bowl of 3 a.m. cereal. In two years, my shoulders will not ache under the burden of pressure. In two years, I will rest.

The end of sophomore year goes by in a haze of sleepless nights plagued by a high-strung brain that obsesses over the day’s misinterpreted comments and the potential topic of my future dissertation. I am haunted by the ghosts of academic shortcomings. When I sit down to watch TV, my mind swirls with the thousands of other more productive things I could be doing: searching for summer internships, learning how to start a nonprofit, building my life-changing app. My incessant foot tapping spreads throughout my body and before I know it, I can’t even bear to sit. I must stand. I spent the spring of sophomore year standing. And by the time summer comes, my legs are tired, and my feet are sore.

I don’t even notice as the soles begin to tear. Strips of rubber peel off, revealing the striped, orange socks within. The gravel on the sidewalk stabs the bottom of my feet. Holes form near both toes. I carefully patch my shoes with black duct tape, but eventually it unravels, and I am left with a pair of thoroughly worn-out Nike Air Maxes.

Surprisingly, summer is what breaks me. School ends and suddenly, I am drowning in free time. Meticulously planned schedules had dictated my life for months. Those schedules told me how long to shower, what order to do my homework in, and when to breathe. Without the incessant buzz of my alarm at 6:30 a.m., I have no reason to wake up. There are no chemistry flashcards to make or textbook pages to read. The path to success, to Stanford, is no longer linear. I don’t know what goals to set or what accolades to pursue if I am not at school. I cannot measure achievement in glowing As and the undeniable greatness of a 98 percent. This time for rest and relaxation morphs into a period of dizzying confusion. In simple terms, I am stressed about not having to be stressed. My single-mindedness and focus on Stanford motivated me throughout the school year. However, now, my lofty dream leaves me floundering. In a better headspace, I could have formed a new plan and spent the rest of summer suffering in regimented bliss. But I am so tired. Instead, I spiral into an unhinged state fueled by burnout.

When the sight and smell of shoes become too much, my mother tells me it’s time. I know that it has been time for a while now. The first part of summer has been mentally and physically draining, and so I take her advice. For once, I truly listen to her. I throw my shoes away. A thud echoes from the monstrous green trash can as the Nike Air Maxes hit the bottom. I feel the slightest twinge of relief somewhere deep inside.

Two weeks before the start of junior year, I purchased a new pair of white Nike Air Maxes. I also dug out a pair of pink and green striped Adidas sneakers from the back of my closet. Like sophomore year, some weeks pass by in a haze of sleepless nights. Sometimes I still spend an inordinate amount of time studying for a math test or writing my third draft of an English essay in Spanish. But I never wear the same sneakers six out of seven days in a week. While white sneakers match with everything, the green stripe on my Adidases highlights the green pattern of my miniskirt and my patchwork jeans look cool with a pair of leather boots. Variety reminds me to smile, laugh, and embrace change. I am trying to keep my shoes in rotation and hopefully, my white Nike Air Maxes will live to see senior year.