H.S.

The summer before I came to Cal Poly, my grandpa passed away. His death was sudden, unexpected, and incredibly traumatic. My world was torn apart. He was one of my best friends, someone I looked to for guidance, advice, and laughter. It wasn’t just his passing that tore me apart; it was the moment my family found out. I can still vividly remember every little detail of that night - July 3rd, 2015. The knock at the door. The private investigator who asked to speak to my dad in a somber voice. The sound of my dad’s sobs. The look in his eyes as he screamed “Poppy is dead. He drowned.” It is a night I will never be able to forget. 

The next morning, eyes red and puffy from crying all night, I boarded a plane with my three best friends to embark on our senior trip, a trip that had been planned for months. I was hesitant, but my parents, choking back tears, assured me that “Poppy would want you to go.” The entire trip, I was racked with guilt, calling my parents every couple of hours crying. I felt like I missed out on my family’s grieving together, getting closure by cleaning out my grandpa’s apartment, and processing our loss. I was gone the whole first week after his death, separated from my family, trying to have fun but feeling guilty every time I did. 

His funeral came and went, and in the blink of an eye, a month after his death, I was moving into my dorm room. I waved goodbye to my parents, and just like that, I was alone again. In my first two weeks, I couldn’t sleep or eat. After my first month at Cal Poly, I had my first panic attack. And another. And another. I couldn’t stop reliving the night of my grandpa’s death. I would be laying in bed, replaying over and over that night in my head. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was scared, ashamed, and lonely. I didn’t know who to talk to or turn to. My friends I had barely just met had no idea what was going on and I felt that if I explained to them my loss, they would leave me. I didn’t tell my friends from home because I could see them having fun all the time on social media, and I didn’t want to admit that I was not okay. My parents begged me to go see a counselor, something I refused to do until January 2016. This incredibly scary step saved me and my Cal Poly experience.

I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I had developed because of my grandpa’s death. Suddenly, everything became clear. The frequent panic attacks, not feeling like my usual happy, motivated and determined self, all made more sense. There was something wrong, but it was not my fault. I saw a counselor regularly and joined a grief group, where I shared my story for the first time. I met students just like me who were struggling with handling the death of a loved one while away at college from their family and the ones who loved them most. This group of people, whose names I didn’t even know before joining the group, made me loved, supported, and heard at Cal Poly, and that was what I needed to convince me to stay.

Slowly but surely, I made baby steps towards getting better. It was not easy. I was (and still am) incredibly hard on myself. If I had a bad day, that feeling of failing myself and my parents overwhelmed me and made the next day harder. But finishing the day alone was a success. It was a daily battle, a constant struggle to remind myself of the positive things in my life, and to allow myself to be vulnerable to others. I opened up to a girl in my dorm, which was one of the hardest things I ever did. I was so anxious and nervous about telling her, worried she would stop being friends with me. Fast forward three years, and that same girl is one of my best friends. I realize now that what helped me get better was trusting the people I had in my life and being vulnerable, because they became my strongest supporters and the reasons why I found myself again. 

I am at a point in my life where I never thought I would be. College has been full of incredible highs and devastating lows, and there were many points where I thought the lows would win. But now, I am seven months away from graduating and pursuing my dreams. I am applying to grad schools, serving on my sorority’s executive board (the fact that I’m even IN a sorority blows my mind), and I am one of the Co-Chairs for the Open House Committee. Whenever I start to feel anxious, and I start to worry that I will spiral back to freshman year, I remind myself – the bad days that I have now are better than the best days I had three years ago. It may not have seemed like it three years ago to me, but now I know that I was growing. I AM growing. I was getting stronger, even in my darkest time. I am stronger because of my experiences.

It’s strange now for me to think about this time in my life, because if I look back at the pieces I made public, it appears like a lot of good memories. When I look back, I can see the fear and sadness in my eyes. When I scroll back on social media, I can tell that I am not myself. While I could never see myself sharing this whole story on my social media, I do think there is great strength in being vulnerable to others. Everyone I “follow”, and everyone who “follows” me, should be my friends. I should trust my friends to still love me and support me, even in my most vulnerable state.

Every person I have opened up to in my life has stuck by my side ever since. These people I have been vulnerable with are the people I am closest to, the first people I turn to when I do or experience something amazing, and the first people I run to when I’m not okay. To anyone reading this who can relate to my story - I encourage you to share your story. There is strength in vulnerability, and sharing your story can make a difference in someone else’s life.