Dear San Luis Obispo,

I wasn’t ready for you at first. I arrived with a car full of awkwardly folded clothes, an electronic typewriter, and dreams bigger than my dorm room closet—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t hard to beat.

My freshman year started with a crash course in conflict resolution (and creative earplug use), courtesy of a roommate whose boyfriend thought her twin XL bed was plenty big for the both of them. It wasn’t.

I learned to be assertive, to take long walks at odd hours, and that personal space was not a luxury—it was a necessity.

Moving into the sorority house felt like trading one set of quirks for another—but this time, I found something that stuck. I liked the sisterhood, sure—but I loved the focus on service. Organizing fundraisers, raising money for charities, feeling like my energy was making a real difference—that’s where I started to see who I was becoming.

When I first arrived at Cal Poly, I thought I had it all figured out. Pre-med, determined, driven. I imagined myself acing organic chemistry, gliding through labs, and someday saving lives. What I didn’t imagine was nearly flunking chemistry and sitting across from an advisor who casually told me I’d be better off getting a “Mrs.” than a Master’s. Let’s just say—thank you, sir—for lighting a fire under me hotter than a summer day in Arizona.

That moment, frustrating as it was, became a turning point. I ditched Biology for Physiology and dove headfirst into wellness, into the preventative side of health—the place where movement and mental wellbeing mattered just as much as prescriptions. It felt like coming home. I didn’t want to treat sickness—I wanted to help people stay well.

I showed up to class in my pajamas more times than I care to admit, powered by Diet Pepsi, ambition, and whatever leftover pizza from the night before. I taught aerobics to make some extra cash and danced my stress away with the college dance company, Orchesis, a haven of people who understood that movement was therapy. We rehearsed, performed, and celebrated the kind of connection that can only come when you trust someone to catch you mid-leap—on stage and in life.

Eventually, I was fortunate to move near the beach, and shared it with a couple good friends, and it felt like magic. A room of my own, a view of the waves from the observation deck on the roof, and the sweet, salty realization that I could stand on my own two feet. I surfed badly but joyfully. I kayaked in Morro Bay, where seals stared like judgmental old men and the dolphins occasionally graced me with their approval. I hiked through miniature oak forests that felt like they were plucked from a storybook—twisting, ancient, wise.

In SLO, I learned the power of stillness. I learned to just be. To soak up the birdsong, the breeze, the sky. “SLO down,” I’d whisper to myself when the world felt too fast. It became a mantra then, and it still is. I learned to slow down, breathe deeply, and find my footing even when the ground beneath me felt shaky (or full of sand, seaweed, and the occasional beach tar stuck to my flip-flops).

I navigated new friendships and learned to let go of those that no longer fit. I figured out how to love from afar and how to love myself up close. I worked in the health center, threw myself into projects, and believed in the Cal Poly motto—“Learn by doing”—not just in school, but in life. You taught me that falling apart doesn’t mean failing. Sometimes, it means figuring it out differently.

And you, San Luis Obispo, were the backdrop to it all. You were the golden hills at dusk, the slow drip of time on a Sunday, the laughter of friends over yogurt and pizza. You were the surprise of dolphins in the surf, the crunch of boots on a mountain trail, the soft hush of wind through the oaks.

Even now, when I drive over the Cuesta Grade, it all comes rushing back—the warmth in my chest, the quiet knowing in my heart. You remind me I was once brave enough to start over, to shift direction, to say no to what didn’t serve me and yes to what did.

You were never just a college town. You were my my sanctuary, my compass, my solid ground.

Thank you, SLO, for being the place where I figured out how to be alone without being lonely. For letting me dance, dream, and hike my way into adulthood. You’ll always be one of my greatest loves—not just for your beauty, but for how you helped me fall in love with me.

With love, always,