Freshman year teaches you to live in a strange in-between space: between low expectations and wild optimism. You know full well the food might be dry, the class might be confusing, the night might spiral into sleeplessness, but you still show up. And that might be the bravest thing anyone does here.
Aristotle believed in the golden mean, the idea that virtue lies in moderation. He would’ve hated Andover. There is nothing moderate about freshman year. Everything is too much, too fast, too loud, too smart. Andover doesn’t train you to be balanced; it trains you to stay standing on tilting axes. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps we learn who we are by surviving the extremes. Freshman year at Andover is like being thrown into a surprise obstacle course, only every hurdle is graded, curved, and in front of you before you even learn the rules. In a way, it’s the year that is our own warped golden mean: consistency/balance not in perfect moderation, but ubiquity of extremes.
You arrive with a rolling suitcase, a clear goal, and the naive belief that time management is a skill you already possess. By the end of week one, that self-assurance is ripped away from you. You begin to question your intelligence, your Wi-Fi connection, and, at least once, whether that yogurt in Paresky is supposed to taste that way. But somewhere in the chaos, you discover your own resilience.
Freshman year is full of moments like this: you hope ignoring a looming assignment will buy you control, even though beneath it all, you’re panicking. Then one day, you finally open that Canvas notification, facing the task head-on. It isn’t pretty, but it isn’t fatal. You do the unthinkable: go to Conference instead of hiding in the library basement. You try again. You get better. That’s how grit takes root.
This hope — irrational, stubborn, delusional — defines more of freshman year than we’d like to admit. This is the same weird hope that makes you check the Paresky menu three times before lunch, even though you already know what’s on there. You’re not forgetful; you’re just hoping it’s changed. That somehow, between fourth and fifth period, the kitchen staff collectively decided to pivot from cod to chicken nuggets.
You walk into a new class thinking maybe this one will feel easy. You submit your assignment, hoping you won’t overthink it this time. More often than not, you’re wrong, but when the lesson finally clicks or your words land just right, that spark of confidence is all the fuel you need to keep showing up.
That same chaos and uncertainty spills over into your social life, too. No one tells you this upfront, but the whole “You’ll find your people” thing? That’s a slow burn. You don’t stumble into a perfect friend group that loves the same obscure novels and immediately welcomes you. You meet people who intimidate you: people who seem like they already belong, who say “I’m so behind” right before scoring a 97. But slowly, through the ten p.m. common room rants, the stressed laughing over group projects, and the shared silence during that one fire alarm at 3 a.m., you build something real. You survive a math problem/test together, and suddenly you’re at brunch talking about life. First, it’s awkward. Then it’s normal. Then it’s essential. You don’t find your people; you build your community.
Freshman year at Andover is the most honest version of the Andover experience. It’s raw, unfiltered, full of moments where you’re not sure who you are or what you’re doing, but you’re doing it anyway. You’re building muscles no one can see yet: resilience, curiosity, the ability to laugh at yourself after saying something deeply cringeworthy in English class. You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. You’re supposed to question it.
So while it’s not time to face the looming shadow of college admissions, the climb has begun, and every misstep, every late night, every awkward first is part of something forming beneath the surface. To the Class of ’28: the discomfort isn’t a glitch, it’s the curriculum. That’s Andover’s greatest lesson, and it starts before you even realize you’re in class.
