by Lily Frohlich (UC Santa Cruz)

When I was entering high school, I wrote a letter to my college-bound self. It opened with the line: “Dear Lily, I hope that as you are reading this, you are on a plane headed to Canada.”

When I signed up to spend a quarter of my undergraduate experience abroad, I had very little idea of what to expect. The UCEAP program I selected was labeled for the independent adventurer, but I barely paid attention to what that might imply. All I knew was that I was following a childhood dream to make use of my Canadian passport and travel north. Growing up as a dual citizen, I had always wondered what it would be like to live north of the border, where half of my extended family resides.

I received blank stares when I told my friends I would be studying in Montreal, rather than across the Atlantic like most of the people I knew. Why, they asked, would you subject yourself to a brutal winter when you can see the Pacific Ocean from your home campus? The classmates I eventually met at McGill University gave me similar raised eyebrows when I told them I was from California. My desire to study in Montreal was rooted deeply and felt too sentimental to explain to someone I had just met.

My desire to move north was something I had always carried with me, despite having little reason beyond a gut feeling. Once, when I was 15 years old, I had a vivid dream of rollerskating down the streets of Montreal. In my first month on exchange, while riding my bicycle through the city, I had an intense feeling of gliding down the pavement that brought me right back to that dream. In that moment, it felt as though I had given a gift to my younger self.

The Reality of the Independent Adventurer

That moment paints a romantic picture of my year abroad, but the reality of my exchange was far from perfect. I spent the first semester living in a neighborhood that was far from campus and largely isolated from most students.

I learned that the UCEAP label for the independent adventurer means there is not necessarily a specific cohort of exchange students. Instead, you attend the university alongside local McGill students. It also meant that I received only loose guidance about where to find housing, which is how I ended up far from campus and student life.

The students I met, living up to the Canadian stereotype of extreme friendliness, were always welcoming. Despite their warmth, I found it difficult to transition classroom small talk into a genuine connection. I was also struggling with being away from my queer community. Montreal has a vibrant neighborhood called The Village, but I was too timid to explore that world on my own. It felt as though a part of my identity was hiding, even in a country known for being inclusive.

Much of my fall semester was a confusing juxtaposition. I spent my days marveling at the beauty of the changing seasons on the mountain at the center of the city, yet I was painfully lonely. College can be a time of almost overwhelming social saturation; I was used to constant run-ins with acquaintances and impromptu dinner plans in Santa Cruz. Suddenly, I found myself spending most of my time alone. I felt frustrated, and at times, I wondered if I could handle spending the rest of my year there.

Pushing Through the Loneliness

I knew that if I were to spend the rest of my year in Montreal, something needed to change. I was not altogether without friends, but I felt I had only vague connections with the people I had met.

Going against my desire for safety and my natural introversion, I started reaching out to people. I pushed through the fears of rejection and found that, instead, I was welcomed. I slowly started to collect the strands of connection and weave them into a web of tentative friendships.

People I might never have connected with in other circumstances became cherished friends. Friendly conversations at house parties turned into weekly brunch adventures. I had always been told that to have a friend, you have to be a friend, and for the first time, I realized this does not only apply to long-standing relationships. It is entirely true in the first stages of a friendship as well.

Finding My Community in the Freeze

After my first semester, I moved into an apartment closer to campus. I subleased a room from a friend I met in the first semester who was embarking on his own study abroad adventure, sharing the space with his two roommates. My new housemates, mere acquaintances when I first moved in, became some of my closest friends.

The winter months that I spent in that apartment are a time I already look back on with tender nostalgia. It feels as though I can picture that little apartment inside a snow globe. While the Canadian winter powered on outside, my world existed indoors, kept warm by new friendships and powerful heating systems.

Sometimes, we would brave the flurries for adventures. Beyond trips to campus and the grocery store, we ventured out for weekend ski trips, slushy evenings at Igloofest (the coldest music festival in the world), and occasional outings into the Montreal nightlife. I joked that it felt as though everyone I knew was a DJ. After diving into the world of house shows in Santa Cruz, I was fascinated by this entirely different style of music creation. We trekked to The Village, where we explored triple-decker clubs full of people in imaginative outfits. I did not find the exact kind of queer community that I have in Santa Cruz, but I found a new kind of community. The differences between us only made the stories we exchanged more entertaining.

Dear Lily, You Did It

It snowed during the final exam period. After weeks of a tentative spring, the Canadian winter gave one final announcement: do not forget me!

The stormy weather reflected my struggle with my impending flight home. On one hand, I was elated to see my friends and family back in California; on the other, I was devastated to be closing this chapter of my life.

I learned so much about myself through my year abroad. I was proud of how I had pushed myself to meet new people and be vulnerable in unfamiliar situations. I counted down my last walks through the city until there were none left. As I stuffed my winter jackets into suitcases and braced myself for the final goodbye, the main emotion I experienced was gratitude.

I had embarked on an adventure that I had dreamed of since adolescence. At times, I struggled to remember why I had wanted to surrender the comfort of my life in Santa Cruz, but by the end of the year, I had built a life so fulfilling that I did not want to leave. There was such kindness in these new friends, a warmth I want to adopt and pass along to new people I meet. All of these people already had friendships and communities established, yet they welcomed me without hesitation.

I started to tear up on the way home, just as the plane was reaching altitude and Montreal was covered in a blanket of clouds. My tears were a mixture of joy and sadness, for everything I was saying goodbye to and for everything I was now taking back with me. Besides a suitcase of maple syrup and Saint Viateur bagels, I had a newfound confidence in who I was.

I thought back to my younger self, the version of me that had written that letter.

Dear Lily, you did it!