Santa Barbara Thus Far...

Three years, one month, and fifteen days ago, I entered college. A frightened, excited, nervous, freshman, I said so-long to my parents and opened a new door. My dorm door. Brown, wooden, heavy: it slammed whenever someone closed it. I spent countless nights staring at that door. Worrying, stressing, crying over friends, boyfriends, grades. The stupid little red markings on the tops of papers and tests that I was convinced predicted my entire future. Where I was going, if I was going to succeed, how I was going to become successful if I got a B- in math 34a. 

That door became my Great Wall of China. It kept me safe and secure inside the eleven by thirteen box of a room. When a man with a gun came into my building, my door secured my safety. When numerous nights blurred through my tear-soaked eyes, that door hid my sorrow from the world. Its sanctity left me free to explore my own thoughts.

When my freshman year finally came to an end, I escaped through that door like a sky diver jumping out of a plane. No regrets, no turning back. I was done. Over. Finished. I was moving on. Liberating myself from the confines of that giant wooden door. Escape didn't come easy, however, that door followed me. Reminding me of the sadness that filled my heart. I heard it slam, as I said goodbye to my first love, with a gut-retching BANG symbolizing the end. 

Or beginning-- as it followed me to my first apartment. A small, wooden cabin complete with mold in the shower and a draft under the door. Fresh air for freedom, for life. It was my time to shine: to break free. Or so I thought. But again, that heavy, hideous door held me in. I bundled in my blankets in fear of letting the cold, bitter wind sting my face. 

Like a bear, I hibernated all winter. Too afraid to show my cookie-dough filled belly and my blotchy cheeks to the outside world. I waited and waited and waited...I counted down the days until summer--April, May-- June just never seemed to come. Like the warmth brought by the first light after a frost-bitten night, summer meant the start of something new and I yearned to shed my winter coat. 

Beginnings? I didn't care. I needed a revival: a rebirth. I couldn't stand the door holding me in any longer. My legs longed for the outdoors and to stride across the dusty, tarred California road. I ran: as fast as I could run, I ran. I leaped through a new, open door and into tomorrow. It wasn't cold: it wasn't dark: it wasn't lonely. I wouldn't let it. I couldn't. I fought it. With sweat and laughs and smiles I broke down that wall. Slammed the door on itself and ran away. Through fields, over hills, and across streams, I ran.

My legs carried me to Berkeley: a drastic change from the flat, dirty square-mile of Isla Vista that I had refused to call home for two years.  After countless interviews and nights slept on my future boyfriend's couch (in order to avoid sleeping in a shared apartment with a thirty-year old creep), I found my new home. It was an eight story apartment complete with three Norwegians. Within five minutes, I felt more comfortable there than I ever did in my drafty cabin. The smell of fresh white paint and the new IKEA furniture, that should have felt so sterile, were a sharp contrast to the warmth and happiness emitted from the Norwegians. No more heavy, wooden doors: there wasn't a door in the world that could block out their sun. 

I was happy. My rejuvenated legs carried me through the Berkeley hills. With new friends and a new love, I conquered my world. My legs became stronger and my heart became warmer. I was liberated. Free to pick thirty pounds of peaches on a delightful Davis day. Free to ride my new road bike the forty miles between Petaluma and Point Reyes Station. The door was open.

The rest of that year flew, with the speed of a lear jet, twelve thousand miles away to South Africa. I broke all ties to my California life and jumped feet first off a forty-five foot cliff into a rushing African river. For my six month stay, I ran, I biked, I climbed-- my cockroach infested room could not keep me at bay. Though a piece of my heart was left in Berkeley, my head was light and my smile glimmered against the blue African sky. A sky so big that all I wanted to do was explore. 

And I did. And I have. Everything. Everywhere I could. South Africa, France, England, Germany. Side my side with my best friend, we wreaked havoc across the continents. Biking, running, jumping: we were unstoppable. 

When I finally returned to California in July, I was eager to begin my senior year at UCSB. I had learned and I had grown. I was going to face my wooden door. I was going to defeat it. I was strong. Two triathlons and a 175 mile bike ride proved to me that I could hold my own. When I walked through the white door that hid my new house, I immediately knew this year was going to be different. I was overwhelmed with bright colors, not just from the walls that were freshly painted pink, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple, but also from my housemates whose each  unique style and flare perfectly complemented each other.

I had found it. The peaceful, easy feeling I had been searching for throughout my entire college career. For the first time while living in Santa Barbara, I feel like I am home. No more hiding under blankets in a dark, damp apartment.  No more tears, save for tears of joy. I was free: a 13.1 mile run in a Half Ironman Relay in Vegas and a super sprint triathlon around the UCSB campus wearing nothing more than my high school, varsity swimsuit and a smile. 

...No more doors.