My first day in hostel- small town to big city

 🌙 My First Day in Hostel: Chaos, Silence & a Tiny Bit of Courage

I still remember the nerves I felt that morning — the kind of anxiety that just sits in your chest, refusing to move. It was my first day of college and my first day in hostel life, and I wasn’t sure which one I was more terrified of.

After college, I headed straight to the hostel. My parents were already waiting there — I could see the tiredness in their eyes, but also that soft worry they were trying to hide from me. They thought they’d help me settle in, arrange my things, maybe make the room a little homier. But no — they weren’t even allowed inside. And just like that, I had to do it all alone.

I walked into my new room. It was tiny, crowded with four beds squeezed into corners, barely any space to breathe. Since I was a latecomer, the best spots were already taken. I didn’t get a separate study table and only got a small compartment in the shared cupboard. I smiled and acted cool — but inside, I was screaming.

My roommates were from Karnataka, Andaman, and Tamil Nadu — totally different states, totally different languages. At first, they looked so serious and I thought, “Great… they must be rude.” We didn’t talk for hours. Just silent unpacking, quiet shuffling, and that awkward tension of strangers forced to share a space.

Then came dinner. I went to the mess, half-hoping the food would be so bad I could distract myself by complaining. But surprisingly, it wasn’t bad at all. I ate quietly, called my parents, and instantly felt the tears burn behind my eyes. They sounded sad too. That call made it even harder.

As if the day wasn’t dramatic enough, I lost my earrings. First day, first disaster. But to my surprise, those “serious” girls — my roommates — helped me search the whole room until we found them. That moment changed everything. We laughed a little, started talking, and ended up playing Truth or Dare like old friends. Turns out? They weren’t rude — they were kind, warm, and just as lost as me.

But the night wasn’t easy.

Once the lights were off, reality hit me like a wave I didn’t see coming.

All day, I had distracted myself — with arranging, with food, with conversation — pretending I was okay. But the silence of the room was loud. The fan above made a dull sound, someone was whispering into their phone, and I just lay there on my new bed, staring at the ceiling.

I kept turning sides, adjusting the blanket, hoping I’d fall asleep quickly. But the more I tried to sleep, the more my mind started racing — memories of home, of Amma calling me to dinner, Appa checking if I locked the gate, the way my bed at home smelled like Dettol and soft cotton.

Here? It smelled like dust and newness. A room that didn’t know me. A bed that didn’t feel mine.

I felt a tight knot in my chest. My throat felt dry. And then — my stomach turned.

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. I rushed to the washroom, trying not to wake anyone up. I didn’t know if it was something I ate, or just homesickness sinking into my body like poison — maybe both. I threw up, quietly, wiping my face with tissue, too embarrassed to ask for help.

I came back, lay down again, and stared into the darkness. I didn’t cry out loud. I just let a few tears fall quietly.

I kept telling myself,

“You’re not weak. You’ll be fine tomorrow. This is just a phase.”

But no matter how much I repeated those words, my body didn’t listen. I felt dizzy, small, and very, very alone.

I didn’t want to bother my roommates — we had just become friends hours ago. And I didn’t want to call Amma in the middle of the night. I knew the sound of my voice would break her heart.

So I waited for the night to end.

And when the first bit of light entered through the window, I didn’t even wait. I took my phone and called Amma. The moment I heard her voice, I broke down.

“Amma, I can’t do this. I want to come home. Please.”

She didn’t lecture me. She didn’t tell me to grow up or toughen up. She just said,

“Okay, get ready.”

And just like that, she came and picked me up. No questions asked.

She took me to my cousin’s house. Made me eat, made me rest. And yes — I missed the second day of college because I couldn’t handle being away from home.

That was my first day.

Messy. Emotional. Claustrophobic. And yet, unexpectedly kind.

I didn’t know it then, but that chaotic day was the beginning of a new version of me. A version who now knows how to set up a room without her mom telling her where to keep the bedsheet. A version who learned that you can go from strangers to roommates to late-night storytellers in just one night. A version who’s still scared sometimes, still cries quietly, but also keeps showing up the next morning.

The truth is — hostel life isn’t just about sharing a room. It’s about sharing silence, awkward firsts, and eventually, a bond that only those four walls can create.

Yes, I missed my second day of college. Yes, I ran to the comfort of familiarity. But that’s okay. Because healing isn't always about staying strong — sometimes it’s about pausing, breathing, and coming back stronger.

And I did come back.

I walked into that same congested little room the next day with a different energy. I had cried, yes — but I also felt lighter. I laughed more. I opened up. And my roommates? They waited for me like we were already some weird, accidental family.

If you’re reading this and you’re scared about stepping into a hostel, or college, or a new chapter — please know this: it’s okay to be soft. It’s okay to miss home. It’s okay to cry, get dizzy, feel lost. You’re not weak — you’re human.

                                                                                                 ~Abirami