A few days after I was accepted, I asked my dad what he thought the acceptance rate was. He said, “I don’t know, 80 percent.” And I said, “Not quite. About 7.” “70?” “No, 7.”

I felt terrible for coming to Harvard. My financial aid package was incredible, but it did not say “zero dollars”, a figure at which my parents had sighed in relief at a couple of in-state interview weekends.

So far I think I love going to school here, but I am not going to apologize for thinking critically about what that means. I don’t know how I could torment my parents with the confusing and expensive sounding details, I don’t know how to tell them about the protests or the discussion groups, I don’t want to send them my columns because I don’t want them to think I’m unhappy here, or that their concerns were right and that I don’t belong here after all, and neither do they.

The first and last time my parents were here was move-in day, and the John Harvard statue scoffed at my sad old parents and our sad old things. They were both so tired and so sad to see me go. The next time they’re here will probably be commencement.

My parents have worked hard enough. I don’t want to burden them with any of the worries or insecurities or questions I have here. I want the next image they have of this place to be me thriving in it, walking across a stage and receiving my diploma. Ain’t that some belonging.

Until then, I’m warm enough. I’m eating enough, I’m happy enough, and my boots are keeping my feet dry. I’m doing just fine.

Madison E. Johnson ’18 lives in Wigglesworth Hall. Her column appears on alternate Wednesdays.