Let me set the scene: You’re a freshman. It’s syllabus week. The possibilities are endless. You’ve got your new campus ID, a tote bag full of highlighters you won’t use, and just enough nervous energy to feel like anything could happen. And then—he appears.
Some boy with a skateboard and emotional damage strolls into your life. He probably says something like, “You’re not like other girls,” while adjusting his rings and sipping a Yerba Mate. And just like that—boom—you’re hooked. Your campus love story begins, and for a minute, it feels cinematic.
And yes, I’m speaking from experience.
My first college boyfriend was exactly what you’d expect. He had charm, but in that confusing, “why do you own so many beanies and never actually go outside?” kind of way. He was smart enough to debate philosophical concepts in the dorm lounge at 2 a.m., but somehow not smart enough to text back. He made mediocre pasta with way too much garlic and called it his “signature dish,” and I—naively, adorably—thought that meant love.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
Here’s the thing nobody tells you when you’re eighteen and heart-first in everything you do: your first college relationship feels like everything. It’s intoxicating. It’s your first real taste of independence—no curfews, no parents, no one to check in on whether you’re falling too fast. And somehow that new freedom often translates into intensity. The kind that makes you skip dinner with your suitemates just to sit on the edge of his twin XL bed, watching him play 2K like you’re in a rom-com instead of a glitchy dorm room.
You call it quality time. I call it delusion with WiFi.
You stay up late talking about the universe and his “trust issues,” you ignore your 8 a.m. lecture because he had a dream about you, and suddenly you’re wondering how someone who still uses a 3-in-1 shampoo could feel so essential to your life. It’s confusing. It’s overwhelming. And, for a lot of us, it ends.
When it does—which, let’s be real, it probably will—you feel like the world is cracking open beneath you. You cry into your roommate’s throw pillow. You walk through campus like the tragic main character in an indie movie. You start quoting Taylor Swift in daily conversation like it’s scripture. You listen to Phoebe Bridgers like your emotional survival depends on it (and honestly, maybe it does). You draft texts you’ll never send and spend way too long re-watching your own Instagram stories, trying to see if he viewed them.
You start to question everything. Was it love? Was it real? Was it you?
But here’s the truth: that heartbreak doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re human. It means you took a risk, you opened your heart, and you felt something real—even if it wasn’t forever. Your first heartbreak is part of the college experience, just like general eds and overpriced lattes. It’s a rite of passage. And yes, it hurts. But it also teaches you so much.
It teaches you about boundaries. About the importance of keeping your own life full, even when someone else feels like your entire world. About how to advocate for yourself when you’re being treated like an afterthought. About how to be alone without being lonely. And maybe most importantly, it teaches you that loving someone isn’t the same as losing yourself to them.
Because here’s what they don’t say in the college brochures: The person you become after your first heartbreak? She’s a little wiser. A little braver. A little more herself.
And for what it’s worth, that heartbreak may shape you more than the relationship ever did.
You start to realize that you are still whole, even after they’re gone. That your worth isn’t determined by how much someone else sees it. That love—real, good, grown-up love—comes when you’re ready, not when you’re desperate to fill a space inside yourself.
So no, my first college boyfriend wasn’t “the one.” But he was one. A part of the story. A character in the chaos that is college, and a catalyst for so many lessons I carry with me now.
So no, you’re not being dramatic. You’re just in college.
And that boy with the skateboard? He was never the point.
You were.
—Emily Hess
Confessions of a Hot Mess: A Guide to College continues next week with “Guide to College (3/6): Friends, Frenemies, and Figuring Out Who Actually Has Your Back.”
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
