I’ll take the middle seat

There’s a cliché about calling “shotgun,” the quick, instinctive race for the front seat before anyone else can claim it.

In a packed car, the backseat fills just as predictably. People slide toward the windows for more space — something solid to lean on — leaving the middle open without discussion.

I take it.

Not because it’s better. It isn’t. But from the middle, I can see the road.

It’s a small thing, but for me, it changes everything.

Sitting in the middle, I’m not stuck looking out one side. I’m not turned inward, half-distracted. I’m facing forward. I can see what’s coming, even if I’m not the one driving.

For me, that’s always made the difference between feeling fine and feeling sick.

If I can see the road, I can handle the turns better. I can anticipate the curve, lean with it and adjust before it hits. Without that, everything feels sharper, more sudden — disorienting in a way that builds if I let it.

This year has felt exactly like that.

My first year at Lehigh came fast and is already almost over. There wasn’t much of a slow start. I moved in, unpacked, met too many people to remember at once and was suddenly expected to live a life that didn’t exist a week earlier. New classes and routines, new expectations — all layered on top of each other before I’d figured out where anything was.

At first, it was a lot.

I didn’t know what was normal yet. Everything felt like it mattered more than it did.

A bad day felt bigger, especially away from home in New Jersey, where I had a routine, my family and my pets.

It would’ve been easy to look away. To stay in my room and wait for things to settle.

But the middle seat doesn’t let me do that. I’m facing forward whether I want to be or not.

And over time, that starts to help.

I begin to recognize patterns — the way my week unfolds, the moments that feel overwhelming at first but don’t hit as hard the second or third time. Not every turn is as sharp as it feels in the moment.

I found places like The Grind, where I order an egg-and-cheese on a plain bagel and a coffee. I found friends on my floor, and it’s hard to believe it hasn’t even been a year since I met them.

They’re the kind of things you don’t think about while they’re happening, but notice later.

The middle seat also means you feel every turn.

There’s no way around it. When the car slows too fast or takes a turn too quickly, you feel it more. There’s nothing to brace against.

This year had that, too.

There were days that felt easy. Everything lined up, nothing felt forced. And then there were days where something small threw everything off — a long week, a class that didn’t go the way I expected, a moment where I felt out of place for no clear reason.

Not huge things. Just big enough to feel it.

But those moments didn’t last as long as I thought they would, because I got better at adjusting.

I’m not the one driving. I didn’t know exactly what this year would look like, and I still don’t know what comes next. Things change. Plans shift. Some things work out the way I expected, and some don’t.

But I can see the road now.

Not all of it, not far ahead, but enough.

Enough to know the turns don’t come out of nowhere the way they used to. Enough to trust that I’ll adjust when they do.

The middle seat isn’t the most comfortable spot. There’s not quite enough space.

But it doesn’t bother me the same way.

Because from here, I see and hear more.

I’m in the middle of it.

And for now, that feels like the right place to be.