Why Finals Week Makes Me Want to Stay in Gambier

"Once I stopped thinking about finals week as a time of early sunsets and impending stress, it became easier for the little joys to reveal themselves."

By Emilie Hankla '26
Date

On the Saturday before Thanksgiving break, a few orange leaves still hung on desperately to gray branches. Those that lost their grip fell to the ground, their edges turned upwards in defeat. Soon, the fallen leaves disintegrated underneath suitcase wheels. Later, I remark that in the week I turned my back on Gambier, winter’s numbing kiss had blown over the Hill. The cars left in the South 1 parking lot are coated in frost. They shimmer as headlights touch them. I imagine they shudder when heat courses through the engine. I’ll shudder too when I finally run my cold hands underneath Watson’s piping faucet, warming up slowly like the kindling of a fire.

Once back in my dorm room and anticipating my roommate’s arrival, I hang our red monogrammed stockings with silver ribbon. Constantly inspired by the Village homes adorned with lights, my roommate and I have a habit of noticing how their Christmas trees peek from behind velvet couches. We debate the use of white or colored lights, the extravagance of a blow-up Santa and the necessity of candles on window sills. We envision what our own homes will look like, forgetting for a moment our dorm reality. But we make do with what we have: a rickety heater as our make-shift mantel, a wooden snowman from the Walmart sale section, and small ceramic characters from an Amazon nativity set (unfortunately, one of the wisemen lost his head during transport). 

Even in our attempted curation of the perfect Christmas, the stack of ripped, underlined, and highlighted readings waits patiently on my desk as if taunting me with what is to come. College students often say that the three weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break are the worst weeks of the semester. Beyond final papers and blue book exams, a world of underbaked gingerbread cookies, nutmeg sprinkled on top of eggnog, and beanies lost in the wind awaits. These three weeks are then an obstacle, and I spend them feeling like I’m dragging a heavy brick behind me with a fragile, frayed shoelace. I may just snap. 

“Each hour of studying marked by the ticking hand and the clacking keyboard brings a new sense of accomplishment, a feeling of almost there.”

Emilie Hankla '26

My roommate Renee once mentioned, as she sipped her green tea, that she liked finals week. I don’t think I have given anyone such a poignant glare. It baffled me that as an English major on the pre-med track, she could enjoy the time clearly meant to make her wither. But her remark in late November soon developed into a prophecy. I began to notice that the hours spent in a lower level of Chalmers Library make the light at the top of the stairwell seem brighter than before. Sore throats leave the sweet taste of hot honey lemon water in your mouth. And the tears that cause my pen marks to bleed through the paper make my friends’ hugs feel considerably tighter. Renee was right. Once I stopped thinking about finals week as a time of early sunsets and impending stress, it became easier for the little joys to reveal themselves in wonder. 

  1. In the morning, the remaining blades of brown grass are crisp with frost. They crunch underneath the soles of my boots and create a symphony with the wind.
  2.  If I close my eyes, it almost sounds like fall again. But when I stop walking and the wind stops roaring, winter’s tranquil silence sinks in, and I notice the absence of fall’s noisy chorus.
  3. The campus appears as though on a grayscale, white like a blank canvas. I am tempted to dip my paintbrush in the sunrise and bring it back down to earth.
  4. Throughout the day, the snow melts progressively in the air as it turns into sleet. It twinkles like fairies in a gray sky. I see my reflection in the window and for a minute, I imagine I’m in a snow globe.
  5. Each hour of studying marked by the ticking hand and the clacking keyboard brings a new sense of accomplishment, a feeling of almost there.
  6. At Wiggins, cardboard ornaments hang from the windows. The smell of peppermint syrup melts into a warm latte. Coins clang in the tip jar.
  7. The Village Market plays "White Christmas" softly on the outdoor speakers. The water in the dog bowl has frozen over. I see shadows of a merry gathering in the apartment above.
  8. Come night, my hands freeze through my gloves and my ears redden at the tips. But I’m distracted by the steady snowfall under the light of the lamp posts and the white powdering on my burnt orange scarf.
  9. Settled under the comforter, I feel the biting air sneak in through the small crack in the window. Each online submission portal glows a light green, and all my pencils are out of lead. Happily, I fall asleep on the cold side of the pillow.

For the first time, the notorious three weeks between Thanksgiving and winter break became an opportunity to notice small pockets of peace embedded in the spiral of stress. In my observations, I have found beauty in the Village’s every crevice. I feel as though I have lived here a thousand years. And despite the endless assortment of papers, I want to stay loads more than I want to leave.