In each installment of Aaira’s Adventures, Aaira Goswami ’27 captures the fleeting emotions and quiet reflections of life at Stanford, exploring moments of growth and discovery. From joyous experiences as an international student to unraveling the unexpected, join her journey of learning more about life here. 

A shiver runs down my spine. Speeding on my bicycle, I am trying my best to reach the Oval on time. A few minutes ago, I was at Casper Dining when I got a call.

“Hey Aaira, are you still coming for dinner at our professor’s house?”

I had completely forgotten.

In my long tee and magenta shorts, I rushed to retrieve my bike. Of course, the lock, which had already been temperamental for weeks, chose that exact moment to rebel. After a frantic struggle, it finally clicked open and I sped off, heart racing faster than my wheels.

To my horror, I was the only one dressed casually. The rest of my class stood in a sea of grey while I lingered at the edge in a light green t-shirt splashed with the Golden Gate Bridge and “California” in looping cursive. I wasn’t just underdressed; I felt like I did not belong.

We stood there for another 15 minutes, waiting for a few more late students. But time didn’t feel like it was passing; it felt like it was stretching. Every second gave my mind more space to spiral.

I should have dressed up.

I should have remembered.

I should have —

Wait.

Where is my wallet?

I looked down into my pockets and couldn’t find my wallet. It had my ID card and my keys. I started internally panicking and realized that I had also left my bike unlocked.

As I turned to search for my missing wallet, my professor called out to us. “Let’s head out,” he announced. Climbing into a car, I pulled out my phone and started texting my friends in my dorm, panicking and asking if they had seen my wallet back at the dorm.

After a 5 minute ride, we reached the professor’s house. The entire ride, I could only think about my wallet and where it could have been. I realized I had dropped it on the way to the Oval. He asked us to take off our shoes. 

I looked down and saw my socks. Neon colored. One yellow and the other pink. You have got to be kidding me. 

As we sat down for dinner, I tried to hide my socks underneath the table and focused on eating. The food was delicious, but I was focusing too much on myself and how I looked. I had this pang of anxiety while eating. I felt like every single thing that I did, whether it was asking someone to pass me the bowl of salad, or laughing at someone’s joke, I was being judged. Soon, the conversation drifted to my professor talking about his life at Stanford and what it was like when he was a student. Listening to his unique experiences made me realize that one day I would be retelling this embarrassing story as something funny that happened to me to my friends, my coworkers and future students/mentees if I ever do become a teacher.

Somewhere between the neon socks and the nervous laughter, I forgot what I was wearing.

Soon, I started easing into the conversation. I tried to make a few jokes and to my surprise, they landed. Though initially I had been trying to lay low, I found myself laughing loudly, sharing other embarrassing stories and being grateful I had showed up.

The more I engaged, the less I thought about what I was wearing. That initial discomfort didn’t disappear all at once, but it faded each time someone reacted to what I said rather than how I looked. By the end of the evening, it was clear that people weren’t paying attention to my outfit. They were paying attention to me.

I realized that at the end of the day, what you say matters a lot more.

I never found my wallet again. I shamefully bought a new set of keys and ID card, but my bike was thankfully not stolen. It was, after all, a $90 bike from Walmart that I assume no one wanted. 

I recently attended another dinner at a professor’s house. This time I remembered the date and the time. I dressed up quite well, in a beautiful denim dress with brown boots and a long coat. I reached there on time. However, I didn’t speak up as much as I had the first time around. 

Maybe in trying to get everything right on the outside, I lost a little of the spontaneity that made the first night what it was.