Editor’s note: Emily Dardaman, a 2013 graduate of Wesleyan High School in Norcross, was a summer intern with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s Marketing Department. We asked her to reflect on her hopes and fears as she prepares to start classes at the University of Georgia on Aug. 12.

“Follow us to the cookie store,” they said. And so we did, 300 of us, wearing orientation nametags that might as well have been tattoos: “Make jokes about us.” “Sell us things.”

We wandered behind the orientation leaders through the four blocks we called “downtown.” There, smoke-breathing barflies stared at us with their best attempts at welcoming expressions while I realized very quickly that I was not as much of a grownup as I thought I was.

Half of us trickled into those dimly lit dens in pursuit of adventure or trouble — or more likely both. I kept going, chatting with the herd members along the way and wondering if saying “y’all” was a prerequisite here. Every conversation arc could be traced with a pencil — “Hey, what’s your name?” “Where are you from?” “What is your major” — or essentially, “Where are you going?

What are you doing with your life?” We were all just hoping that anyone knew, because we sure didn’t.

I arrived on this particular journey through a more convoluted path than most. Seventeen college visits — from Dartmouth to Auburn. Ever since I was little, I dreamed of attending a trendy college in the Northeast instead of following my peers who went to state schools in droves.

However, love throws a wrench in the best-laid plans, and that’s exactly what happened when I fell in love with the University of Georgia. All the stars of scholarships and practicality aligned, and a couple hundred pages of paperwork later, I began filling my closet with red-and-black paraphernalia.

Just a little more than two months ago I was one of 113 people proudly marching down the aisle, wearing a polyester black gown and the confidence that I was among a group of the oldest, smartest and most accomplished specimens that my school had to offer. I had carpe’d my diem, and as the various speakers charged us to go forth and conquer, I was certain that I had found and secured my place in the world.

Something in the faces of my 26,000-plus new peers proved me wrong. Lesson 1 of college is that you are not that special. You are now a number and your past accomplishments mean very little.

Even if you walk around nude or carry a lightsaber, no one really knows or cares what label you wore in high school. No matter how much of a jock you were, odds are you didn’t make the UGA football team. To claim the title “nerd,” first you have to survive the weed-out organic chemistry classes. And I wish all the self-styled popular kids the best of luck finding “the cool table” within UGA’s massive dining halls.

But don’t despair; everything from rugby to Bahá’í to cancer prevention societies is there for you to choose. Multiplied, these infinite chances guarantee that you will be special.

Now, whenever I drive by my high school, it seems to have intrinsically changed. It seems smaller, even as construction is underway to expand the campus. I’ve only been gone for a few months, but already the students there look younger to me, more insecure in their rolled plaid skirts and too-big blazers. Suddenly I’ve become like a sitcom father who reminisces about his high school glory days. Watching the place that was your whole world suddenly become small is sobering.

Looking ahead, I see this montage of hopes and fears. I see intimidation embodied in a 300-person lecture hall. I see a year of wrangling posters into formation onto dilapidated dorm walls. I see late-night taco runs and new friends of all shapes and sizes.

But the best and the most terrifying thing I see is the unknown. The question marks in my mind feel like a Friday night, a sweaty handshake, a half-finished metaphor. I don’t know where I’m going and I am going where I don’t know.

Everyone says that freedom is the most important part of college. I can’t even count the number of Top 40 hits and cautionary tales that center around that theme. For years I have been indoctrinated that Greek symbols, spontaneous road trips and cafeteria food would be my spirit guides on the path of self-discovery. But are they?

Apparently, yes. The clichés are true. I have tasted the Kool-Aid and it is good.