I rolled out of bed at 5 A.M. that morning dreading the next ten days. I hardly felt up to the five hour bus ride; I boarded with doubts. I observed the ease of the girls around me, all introducing themselves and striking up conversation. I could see the zeal and personality on each face. Already frustrated with myself for panicking when someone introduced the idea of an “ice breaker” game, I put in headphones, turned up my Jack Johnson Pandora station, and stared out the window. I knew it would be a long ride. What seemed like days later, I stepped onto the campus of Florida State University, and the chaos of check-in was raging on in one of the rooms I would soon know every inch of. With my paperwork cleared, I was assigned to the City of Okaloosa, in Kissimmee County, also known as the right hall of the sixth floor. Six flights of stairs ended with heavy breathing, and I was greeted by my city advisor. She gave me my name badge, something I wouldn’t leave my room without for the next ten days, and told me my room number. On my dorm door hung a handmade sign with my initials on it, and a pink bow. As I stretched the sheets I packed on my twin sized bed, nerves started to creep over me. I anxiously awaited the arrival of my roommate, worrying about what she would think of me. That night, sitting on the floor of our hall at our first city meeting, I felt entirely out of place.

I hoped the lines at check-in ended the madness. As that we were standing in line, counting off, and waiting to leave for dinner, I realized how wrong I was. No matter how you spin it, 300 hungry, tired girls in a cafeteria will never run smoothly; the first night was especially rough. I stood in a long line for pasta, and cautiously drank in my surroundings. I mostly kept to myself, stuck in my old ways. I although I didn’t know anyone, this was all too familiar. With a plate of food in hand, I turned around to the tables and already forming friendships in fear. Unable to stand there like an idiot for much longer, I located an empty table and sat down alone.

I walked around the first couple days with no idea what position to run for. I heavily considered not even bothering; I could easily wait it out, not run, and be appointed to a position by the staff. However, something made me think I needed to at least try, it would all be over in a week, and no one really knew me anyways. Unlike so many of the girls there, I hadn’t made posters or begun selling myself to my peers with rehearsed hellos at every chance I could. I wasn’t any good at approaching people, and my bubble letters have always looked so sloppy. I thought if I just put my name on a ballet for something with little competition, maybe voters would just circle my name because they thought it was pretty.

Primary election day crept up on us. The girls from my hall gave me sincere words of encouragement throughout the day. Public speaking scared the life out of me, and back home I could hardly present a PowerPoint project to a class of twenty-five. I was shaking and the nerves I suppressed all day knocked at the walls of my eyes in the form of heavy tears. I heard my name over the microphone speakers but it sounded dauntingly distant. Slowly I made my way from the top row to the floor of the auditorium. How had I not noticed the immensity of that room when I walked in? I stood the alongside ten amazing girls. In front of me sat another one hundred and forty. My rehearsed words slipped out of reach; rather than hearing those before me, I heard my heart beat against my chest. I stepped forward on cue, and heard my voice projected over the room before I realized my mouth was moving. The next thing I knew I was back in my seat.


I sat in the biggest, most ornate chair I had never sat in. It swallowed me when I sat and melted into the cushiness. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. It seemed silly for me to be in this magnificent, pretentious room, with its doors that went to the ceiling, adorned with the sacred seal. I mean, it even smelled important and serious. Then, however, was before I understood the opportunity in that room. See, being elected into the House of Representatives ended up meaning a lot more to me than a win. Sitting in that chair looking up at our Speaker of the House felt like an honor at the end of those three days. It felt like home. That vast room, with its portrait cover walls and patriotically embellished desks, transformed into the first place I had a voice. We debated bills on topics from education to wildlife to reproductive rights. Following the carefully crafted parliamentary procedure, we recognized anyone looking to contribute. Everyone walked in those beautiful doors each day with their own opinion, and on the floor each of us held the opportunity to voice our opinions. In that room, with those girls, I felt as comfortable speaking to a group of 120 as I would in a one-on-one talk with my best friend. When I raised my plaque to be called on, and the rehearsed parliamentary procedure was spoken, I was free to speak out and be heard. I held my microphone without shaking, and I smiled when I spoke.

I stood in a room of 300 brilliant, talented, and morally grounded young ladies. We gave up on sitting after about the tenth award, then knowing we would greet each name called with jumps to the air and screaming cheers. My roommate stood next to me squeezing my hand, and we all felt the tears running down our freshly powdered cheeks. However, smiles also adorned each of our faces that night. Never in my life had I felt so much pride and happiness for the success of another person. Never in my life had I felt so at home.

On our last night we dragged our comforters out to our hall floor and cuddled up for our last, longest, city meeting. It was 11:30 at night, and we were exhausted from the half mile trek across campus from the award ceremony. Our city advisor called us up individually to speak kind words and give us our certificates of completion. She called me up, and I stood next to her with so much pride in myself for being there. We spent the week working all day, meeting new people, learning, experiencing, and making memories. We came home to our dorms exhausted every night, and went to bed dreading the 6 A.M. wake up call, but no one complained. When Alana burst into our rooms smiling and singing a new wake up song, we woke up laughing rather than moaning. We sat together that night, eating pizza and cracking jokes. Homesick or not, we weren’t ready to say our goodbyes.