I have been away from Evanston this winter, participating in Northwestern’s Bay Area Immersion Program.

The Segal Design Institute describes BAIP on its website: “Dive into the vibrant heart of San Francisco with the Bay Area Immersion Program, where you’ll embark on a journey of discovery, pushing the boundaries of what’s possible at the crossroads of design, technology and digital media.”

I’m not totally sure what that means, and it’s not the reason I’m here. I applied after the initial application deadline was extended last spring — the courses looked interesting, sure, but they didn’t necessarily make sense with my planned major coursework beyond journalism.

My mother grew up in San Francisco, and I’ve been coming here all my life. As I got closer to leaving this fall, I realized the honeymoon of being a new college student was beginning to sunset. I will be an upperclassman next fall, and I felt I needed something to show, either physically or interpersonally, for my “majoring in college” over the last year and a half.

I didn’t anticipate this being one of my favorite quarters at NU. Going into it, I thought I might find a passion for design and technology that I didn’t have previously. But as you can probably tell, my growth this quarter had little to do with design, technology and digital media.

In San Francisco, I am solely responsible for my upkeep. There is no dining hall to feed me, no bathroom cleaned for me and no campus familiarity to comfort me. In September, my cohort was told to find housing and reach out if we had trouble. There was hardly a guarantee of a roof over your head here; at least not on the University’s accord.

Being away this quarter has taught me things about myself and the ways I engage with others that no environment in the thick of the college experience really can. Contrary to popular belief, living with people and assuming responsibility for our functioning household is hard. The dishes need to be done, the trash taken out and our common spaces cleaned. There is little room for coordination problems — for all I know, the consequences of missing trash day are devastating.

The live-on-campus requirement means many NU students are not exposed to this particular “it takes a village” dynamic before their junior year. But these things are rudimentary. The most important lesson of this experience came from the onus of my mental well-being befalling.

In December, I left my friends in Evanston. I have kept in contact with them virtually and visited for a weekend, but for all intents and purposes, I had to quit “cold turkey” from the support system that has kept me afloat for the better part of the last two years.

I knew I had to become my own best friend, so I started keeping a journal. News from campus, dynamics I’ve been privy to and personal struggles in need of an outlet — summed up in less than the front and back of a page on any given day.

Handwriting has a way of clarifying. There are things I write down, and there are things I withhold. Not for purposes of evasion, but rather for the physical pain in my hand from writing.

The thoughts we wouldn’t waste our time transcribing have a tendency to distract us from the more important plots in life. This dynamic — of compartmentalizing the things that give us purpose from the things that don’t — has given me “direction,” something many at NU profess they do not have.

I write for less than 20 minutes a day, yet it has set my nearly 20-year record straight. Before I start writing, I like to go back and read previous entries. It’s a memory exercise more than anything; each day, I am reminded of who I am, who in my life I love and what makes us tick.

I now appreciate the difference between being alone and being lonely. You can’t really be lonely if you embrace being your own best friend by default. Where you would otherwise charge someone else, you create a new stake in your happiness that belongs to, well, you.

There is another word people use to describe this condition: confidence. This quarter, I have learned to own myself — my energies, my routine and my work — and it has revolutionized the way I engage with the world around me.

I know why I go to the gym every day. Why I choose to sleep in and stay up late. I know the kinds of people I am attracted to and the small things that make me happy.

It is a virtue I will never again take for granted. I know my place and I own my story — my happiness, successes, strengths and shortfalls. It may seem obvious, but we tend to ask ourselves why we do or say things that bring us unhappiness. When this happens, we are exposed for not knowing ourselves well enough.

In San Francisco, I have come to terms with the things that bring me joy. If the Aidan from December could hear me now, he would be so thoroughly confused — if not for this newfound confidence, then for the fact that I am writing the seventh installment of my weekly column in The Daily.

Some call college a “four-year sabbatical on life.” But all too often, the privilege of having the undergraduate experience can become lost in the various obligations of living it. So for those considering a quarter in San Francisco or elsewhere, I cannot recommend it enough.

Give yourself the time and space to get to know the person you’re becoming. Going at it alone or with a few people you barely know is a risk worth taking, not despite the wonderful life you lead in Evanston, but because of it.

Aidan Klineman is a Medill sophomore. He can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.