Imagine this: it’s mid-September, move-in day of freshman year. You walk into your dorm room, plastic bags in hand, sweating through your Stanford T-shirt, and there’s an elephant. Not literally, of course. But it feels like there’s one. With giant, sharp tusks and flapping ears, it’s casually sitting in the corner while you’re unpacking. You glance at your roommate, wondering if they see it too. Unfortunately, there’s no Resident Advisor (RA) handbook titled “How to Cope with Sudden Overwhelming Self-Doubt While Also Pretending to Be Excited About New Student Orientation (NSO)”. You’re left staring at this invisible elephant, wondering, is this just me?

And that’s kind of what freshman year is. A giant, weird, unspoken feeling that you’re constantly trying to make sense of. You’ve come here because Stanford has “chosen” you — for your athletic prowess, academic achievements, ambitious mindset… eh, all a bunch of buzzwords. You start to wonder: Why did Stanford choose me? What the hell do “intellectual vitality” or “self-presentation” even mean? And so you try to figure it out. You join a bunch of mailing lists. You apply to clubs even though you’re not sure what they do… because why not? Flaky frosh syndrome is real. Then, you start asking the real questions: why is there no water in Lake Lag? Why are there no bathrooms in Wilbur Dining? Who is Arrillaga, and why are they everywhere?

Flaky frosh syndrome isn’t just novice indecision. It’s a symptom of Stanford’s culture that values doing over being. That culture makes it easy to confuse productivity for purpose; that’s why so many of us feel pressure to fill every moment, even if we’re not sure why. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing: it’s why your friends are prototyping a water filtration device for rural schools and double-majoring in computer science and biology, all while training for a marathon. But somewhere in all this doing, you start to wonder if anyone here is actually being. Being well. Being present. Being kind. “Doing good” is the Stanford currency; it shows up in internships, start-ups and LinkedIn posts. “Being good” is much quieter. It looks like pausing before you speak in class. Saying “hi” to the Residential & Dining Enterprises (R&DE) custodians. Choosing to relax on a Friday night without guilt.

But when the culture around you is built on momentum, even those small choices can feel radical. Eventually, “doing good” can start to feel like a performance, proof that you’re worthy of being at Stanford. That pressure can often come at the expense of energy and authenticity. Doing good shouldn’t drain the life out of you. Because if you lose your capacity to be good, what’s the point of all the doing?

I remember my first time meeting with a wellness coach in winter quarter of freshman year. I had been stricken by this overwhelming sense that I was not a true citizen of my dorm, Stanford or the world. On paper, I was doing everything “right”: I had joined clubs, made friends and done well in classes. But it still didn’t feel like enough. I kept thinking to myself, I only have four years here… Am I doing this right? 

And not just in the big, existential way. I mean in the tiny, day-to-day ways, too. What’s the right way to start a relationship? The right way to write an email to a professor? To make friends? To be “impactful”? To find passion? 

I started believing that every decision was a fork in the road. I told myself, “THIS IS STANFORD. EVERY MOMENT MATTERS.” The pressure to do everything the “right way” became paralyzing. It was exhausting.

But here’s the thing I’m learning: if the pursuit of rightness becomes a barrier to trying something, then maybe rightness isn’t the goal. Maybe the goal is understanding. Understanding yourself. Your values. Your joy. Your limits.

My coach didn’t give me a four-year plan. Instead, she asked, “What would it look like to feel like enough today?” Not in five years. Not when I’ve become the person I want to be. But today. That one question helped me realize that not everything has to be a defining moment of my college experience. Not everything has to be optimized. Some decisions will feel random — because they are. And yet, when you look back, even those “meaningless” decisions will have taught you something about who you were at the time.

The truth is, everything could be meaningful, but not everything has to be. That’s the beauty of living.

And yes, time is fleeting. I, too, have fallen into the trap of thinking everything matters. This event could be the one. This person I grab lunch with could be the one. I mean, we’re at Stanford — your next-door neighbor could literally be the future cover of Forbes. And so we feel this pressure to treat every moment like a prequel to something great. But don’t do it just to “do good” or be “right”. Act to be good, stay present and honor what matters most in the moment. So yes, watch those YouTube dorm rankings. Send the awkward emails. Get lunch with a stranger who might be the next Forbes cover (or might become your best friend). 

And if you’re standing there wondering why there’s an elephant in your room?

There’s still no how-to guide.

But maybe that’s the point.