I stepped onto Harvard’s campus wide-eyed and slightly stunned. It was everything I had imagined, and somehow, nothing like it. The moment I arrived, I felt overwhelmed — but in the best, most electric way. I’m not someone who hides in the background, but I wouldn’t call myself the life of the party either. Being surrounded by hundreds of other admitted students, each of them brilliant, polished, and probably terrifyingly confident, was a lot to take in.

Still, within five minutes, I found my people. A group of strangers who felt instantly familiar. They were kind and curious, and made everything shimmer a little. We talked, we laughed, and we tried to make sense of the whirlwind we’d just stepped into. I could already feel the tension easing from my shoulders. The current student hosting me could not have been more welcoming. She was warm, grounded, and refreshingly real. We were from the same area, which made her presence even more comforting. It felt like I had someone in my corner from the very beginning, and I didn’t take that for granted.

The Dean’s welcome address was thoughtful and graceful, filled with encouragement. When the Harvard President walked in, the room rose in a standing ovation. I stood too, almost involuntarily, swept up in the moment. I couldn’t believe I was really here. Somehow, I had crossed the threshold from dreaming to belonging.

Brunch in Annenberg Hall was equally surreal. I had seen the space in photos, on vlogs, in glossy brochures. But walking through it in real life was like stepping into a cathedral of possibility. I didn’t get around to trying the famous Visitas waffles, but I met a handful of lovely people. I also got a small, necessary reminder that this was still real life, with real people and not all of them kind.

I had left my bag on a chair to grab food, and when I returned, someone else’s bag was sitting on top of mine. I asked, politely, if she could move it so I could sit. She looked annoyed and told me she was saving the seat for someone else, even though mine had clearly been there first. I didn’t argue. I just picked up my things and left. At the time, it caught me off guard. But now I see it was a blessing in disguise.

At another table, a group of boys asked if they could join me. We connected instantly. They were bright — incredibly bright — but what stood out most was their warmth. We spent the rest of the day together, eating ice cream in the physics building, exploring engineering labs, watching a comedy show full of clever digs at test-optional debates. I think one reason we clicked was that some of them, like me, came from public school. That shared experience mattered more than I expected.

Throughout the weekend, I kept noticing how many students around me had come from prep schools, elite boarding academies, charter programs, places like Phillips Exeter. At certain events, especially the student mixer, I could feel the air shift. These were students trained for these moments. They knew how to network, how to insert themselves into conversations, how to navigate spaces like these without hesitation. I watched from the edge, a little awed, a little alienated. It was overwhelming, but it was also eye-opening.

And I’m still glad I was there. I met people I never would have otherwise. I listened to stories, asked questions, and started to build a fuller picture of the place I was stepping into.

The next morning, I sat in on a geology lecture — and remembered how cool rocks really are. The professor was sharp and animated, speaking with the kind of clarity that makes complex things feel suddenly graspable. I could picture myself there in the fall, notebook in hand, mind buzzing with questions.

Afterward, I reconnected with my group. We roamed the academic fair, dropped into a seminar on the history of food, and somehow ended up back with more ice cream, this time learning about Jollibee and Filipino cuisine. We wandered through the libraries, slipped into empty lecture halls, and stood at the front, pretending to deliver world-shifting lectures. We were exhausted. We were content. We were already nostalgic.

Looking back, I know I was seeing Harvard through crimson-tinted glasses. Everything felt shinier, more cinematic, more enchanted than it probably was. But maybe that’s allowed. Visitas wasn’t perfect. It was chaotic, disorienting, and emotionally intense. But it was also joyful and grounding. It gave me a glimpse of the next chapter — not just the institution, but the people, the energy, the possibility.

And somehow, in just two days, a place that once felt untouchable started to feel like home.