A pounding noise wakes me up in the middle of the night. My first thought: I’m being robbed. Then I hear people screaming my name in unison. I crack open the door to a blur of music, confetti and people yelling “Welcome to Stanford Synapse!”

I’ve been rolled out — Stanford’s peculiar, yet endearing tradition of welcoming new members into student groups.

At Stanford, doors open in a lot of ways. Sometimes literally — like this one — but other times through people, through the chaos of the quarter system, or through the peculiar magic of a physical place that turns randomness into family. How does that manifest itself through the years? 

Freshman Year 

Freshman year feels like the first inhale after years of holding your breath. You’re thrown into a Branner quad with random roommates who somehow become brothers. One of them — Elic Ayomanor — ends up catching touchdowns in the NFL; but before that, he’s next to you doing Math 51 problem sets. The other two? (I could never forget Fran and Miguel.) They’re still the people you talk to about every minor inconvenience in your life. 

You see the first 50% median on a chem exam and wonder if you’re cut out for premed. You learn what “office hours” actually means (therapy with math), what “FOMO” actually feels like (missing Casper brunch) and what “community” actually looks like (Armenian Students’ Association BBQs, spring quarter sunburns and watching people parkour and bike into the then-filled Lake Lag).

Everything feels alive. You’re overwhelmed and sleep-deprived but also completely enchanted. The magic holds you tight.

Sophomore Year 

By sophomore year, you know the shortcuts — both the physical and the academic ones. You can navigate campus blindfolded. You’ve learned that “attendance required” just means “find a friend to send the QR code.” The dining halls feel smaller, but your circle of friends feels deeper.

This is the year Stanford reveals its true nature. Time here moves at 10x speed. Yes, the quarter system feels quick but friendships and relationships develop quicker. You meet someone in the fall, and by spring, you’re telling them secrets you haven’t even admitted to yourself before. You realize that people here know you (really know you) in ways that make time feel irrelevant.

You fly across the world to visit your roommate in Switzerland over Winter Break, ski down the Alps and pray out loud that you don’t break every bone in your body. It’s terrifying, and it’s perfect. Time is relative, but friendship is all-encompassing.

Junior Year 

Junior year, you excitedly move back into campus, content with finally landing good housing. For me, it was Suites — a small luxury that suddenly made life feel stable enough to focus on building. You stop wondering how to do Stanford and start wondering what you want to do with it.

You go to Chicago in the middle of Week 4 to present research at a conference, hop to San Francisco for a “work day” that turns into an accidental clubbing trip and get a grill for your suite because why not? Maybe you co-found a startup (because of course you do), help establish Stanford’s first summer internship program in Armenia, spend a spring weekend in Napa and turn an entire floor of Sigma Nu (SNu) into Armenia for International Special D.

It’s a chaotic, beautiful blur — but something feels … different? Shifted. You start to realize that the things that make Stanford, Stanford, don’t just exist infinitely. They’re built, year after year, by students, by people like you who stay up late planning events, writing code, figuring out how GrantED works (ASSU please fix the website), hanging lights, cooking food, making magic out of nothing. You stop being the one swept up by it, and start being the one creating it. Not for yourself, but for the people who come next. 

Senior Year 

As a newly-minted senior, I begin pounding on the door and screaming names. A few weeks ago, I was the one holding the speaker, blasting “Shalaxo” through the hallway, yelling “Welcome to ASA!” at a group of wide-eyed freshmen who remind me so much of myself. The same door that once opened for me, I’m now opening for them.

Senior year is all about circles. You roll out the freshmen for the last time. You take your last FDOC picture. You know every shortcut, but you take the long way. The magic returns in full force, but tied to an unspoken timer that everyone feels but no one dares acknowledge. 

Eventually, the pounding fades slowly in the distance. The music drifts down the hall. The door closes softly behind you. It was never about keeping it open forever — it was about learning how to open it for someone else.

As a now-wise, but not-really-wise, senior, I leave you with this: be one of those people. That’s where the real magic of Stanford lives.