Sometimes in life, we are so excited and confident in our next steps that we are completely blind to all the roadblocks that may come into our path. We are starry-eyed optimists, keeping our focus on the excitement in our future, our motivation to work hard, and the things that inspire us. We believe we are untouchable.

That was me in May 2015.

I graduated high school as salutatorian in a class of 24 students, and I was beyond ready for my next steps. I had been accepted to a number of prestigious private universities, not unlike the private Catholic high school I attended, and I had chosen one far enough away from the small city I grew up in that I would have some independence, but close enough that I would still see my family every now and again. I had a solid group of friends from high school to whom I vowed to stay close, and I was nearing my two year anniversary with my boyfriend, who, despite his college being hundreds of miles from mine, I was convinced was "the one." We had already survived one year of long distance--what was another four?

And so I merrily skipped to college, a small campus in the bad part of a large city. There was nothing that could deter me from my excitement. My roommate and I hit it off immediately over Skype, began texting every day, and eventually met in the city a few months before the start of classes. I moved in early to train for my on-campus job, and was thrilled with all the activities that began when all the other freshmen arrived to the school. I remember sitting in an auditorium during orientation watching our leaders dance and sing onstage a song they had written (more like parodied) about how we were all born to be at this particular university. And I remember, in that moment, believing them.

And so the first month or so of school was fine. I continued to be close with my roommate, and gradually become closer to other people I had met in a group chat months before. I talked a little with my high school friends. My boyfriend came to visit for the weekend, and we had a great time. My little dorm began to feel like home.

But, as F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in his crowning achievement, "The Great Gatsby," "All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don't come back." Slowly, things began to change. My roommate and I stopped hanging out so much, gradually growing apart to the point of barely speaking to one another. The school had almost no campus life, and once the excitement of the beginning of the year ended, everyone's enthusiasm waned. My relationship with my boyfriend headed south over communication issues, and our relationship ended over a phone call less than two months into school.

I was devastated. What had happened to my life? Where was this grand, fun-filled, TV-worthy college experience? They never showed people eating in the dining hall alone, or lying on their lofted bed in the waning hours of sunlight, too depressed to even turn on the lamp. And yet, that was me. I walked alone across the small campus many times to different places, and the look of the campus in the still evenings made me sick to my stomach. I hated it.

And so, at my lowest point, I made the decision to return to my hometown university, the one college I had steadfastly refused to even apply to. I told myself that it was better this way, and I tried to move on. I never regained the closeness of my friend group in high school. By the time I started class at my new school, I wasn't sure things could get any worse.

The semester was rough, but some things changed for the better. I reconnected with a casual friend from high school whom I'd never really been close to before, and now we're the best of friends. I began a relationship with a wonderful guy at a nearby university (which is another story in and of itself). I joined the school newspaper and opened the door to some fun opportunities. And then, in the summer, I met a team of writers working for Odyssey, and they helped renew my hope that maybe I could still have a great college experience.

During my first year of college, my life made a complete 180. I ended up in the complete opposite place that I ever expected to be, without my core group of lifelong friends and beloved boyfriend, and with a whole new outlook on things. It took me some time to get there, sure, but I'm finally discovering the truth about life, which is this: sometimes life doesn't work out the way you planned. Oftentimes, that's the case. It doesn't, however, mean that you're worse off. It just means that you have to adjust your way of thinking and get on with your life, and with achieving your goals. I have learned that, no matter what happened last fall or what happens in the future, that the only time a door is closed is when I close it. And I don't plan on closing any doors.

So I guess you could say that I'm still a little starry-eyed, a little optimistic, and more than inspired to work hard. That girl in the photo of my graduation night doesn't know what's about to hit her--but I know that she can take it.

I know because I did it.