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Monday, Sept. 2, 2024 was a chilly evening, charged with anticipation for the first day of classes. The steps of Widener Library were occupied by hundreds of freshmen exchanging introductions as “Legally Blonde” played in the background. Elle Woods responds with “what, like it’s hard?” when asked how she got into Harvard Law School, and the crowd goes wild. The Class of 2028 has just realized that they, too, could answer like Woods now.

I pass by the jubilant scene reminiscing about my own freshman year before I return to my room, where I’m greeted by a group of fellow sophomores having a conversation decidedly less enthusiastic than the festivities on Widener steps: about strep throat, back pain, and the crushing weight of the schoolwork to come.

When did we become so old?

The challenges of transitioning from high school to college are frequently discussed, as are the effects of “senioritis,” or the lack of motivation that near-graduates face. But the trials and tribulations of our middle years on campus often go unspoken. As sophomores and juniors, we still have so much time ahead of us here, but few-to-no exciting firsts. We see freshmen moving into our old dorms and we say our goodbyes to graduating friends, but we stay standing still.

For freshmen — not yet familiar with Harvard’s, um, fun problem or its suffocating networking culture — Harvard is novel. They use Google Maps to navigate campus and wear their keys around their necks, blissfully unaware of how stupid it looks, as they soak in the beauty of our red-brick buildings and enjoy their first taste of the seemingly unlimited resources the College has to offer.

I’ve realized recently that I would rather the exciting chaos of freshman year, scary as it was, than the security and weariness that comes with sophomore year. In our second year on campus, I’ve watched myself and those around me fall into the same concerning patterns: clinging tight to familiar faces, precluding ourselves from making new friends; endlessly complaining about the 11-minute walk from our Houses to the Yard; accepting defeat to the frightening “sophomore fall” and only caring about academics.

One might claim that the sophomore slump is justified: For many of us, classes have increased in difficulty and extracurricular commitments have intensified. There is a larger issue at play here, though. Harvard equips us with the means to succeed and make change. But it also primes us to be unappreciative of everything we achieve.

We spend our four years here taking intellectually stimulating classes and helping professors with cutting-edge research while working hard as members of student organizations. We learn to structure our lives around a Google Calendar, replace sleep with energy drinks, and skip community events because our workloads take priority. We postpone calls with family until a better time comes — it never comes, by the way — and we complain about dining hall meals, forgetting that the alternative (real life) may look like cooking three times a day.

In short, we begin to take things for granted, and in doing so, we grow increasingly unaware of just how fulfilling a life we’ve made for ourselves.

Even more concerning is that this phenomenon isn’t limited to those from privileged backgrounds. Rather, it is a highly contagious form of mithridatism — a tolerance to privilege that builds each day we spend on campus until, sometime around the beginning of sophomore year, it feels as though life before Harvard never existed, and life after it ceases to feel real too. I worry that by the time we become juniors and seniors, we won’t even be able to pinpoint what often makes us find our lives so dreary.

The cheering freshmen I saw sitting on Widener’s uncomfortable steps were experiencing a rare moment of Harvard self-recognition, fully grasping the weight and wonder of the new chapter of their life just beginning. A year on — if not sooner — they risk following my class down into the rabbit hole, where life orbits around work and socializing so often takes the form of complaining.

During long nights working on papers and problem sets, I find myself thinking about how we can pursue greatness in our academic and professional life without neglecting the smaller moments that take place in between classes and meetings. And I wonder whether the Class of 2028 will fare better than me — figure out a way to forever look out onto Harvard Yard with the same buzzing excitement that they did that one chilly evening, charged with anticipation.

I hope they find a way.

Olga Kerameos ’27, a Crimson Editorial editor, lives in Mather House