When I imagined studying abroad, I pictured myself somewhere vastly different from the U.S. — maybe Egypt or Greece — not sipping tea in an English college town. But in the Autumn of 2023, I found myself at Pembroke College at the University of Cambridge. Until then, I had always imagined I’d go abroad to somewhere like Egypt, where I could truly challenge any of the American-centric cultural or educational practices that had been ingrained in me. I was sure my education consisted of an over-emphasis of the American Revolution, or perhaps too much time spent learning state capitals, and had told myself since high school that I’d need to go somewhere so different from my home country to make the most of my experience abroad.
Truthfully, I had been set on the American University in Cairo, where I could study courses like “Is American Still a Superpower?,” “The Quest for the Historical Jesus.” or even “History of Egypt in the Graeco-Roman Era.” To my dismay, I learned that the U.S. Department of State had deemed Egypt a high-risk destination, which made studying abroad there nearly impossible. So, I shifted to thinking about going to Greece, since I had a background in the Classics and Ancient Greek, or perhaps Rome. But when I talked to the professors who I most admired, they all seemed to have the same suggestion: study at Oxbridge.
Growing up, I’d had a mild aversion to the British accent. I’d never even considered traveling to London (I didn’t leave the U.S. until early 2023), let alone applying to a British university.
But after some thought, I figured that if everyone I respected was recommending Oxbridge, and most all the historians and academics I admired had trained at one of the two, they were probably onto something. So I researched the programs Hopkins had with either Cambridge or Oxford, learned we had a close connection to Pembroke, and applied.
Looking back, I can’t believe how little research I did about Cambridge. My application focuses on alternative viewpoints in history (thanks to my initial interest in Cairo), my interest in the Faculty of History’s self-branding at Cambridge, and mused about what the tutorial system had to offer me (a practice that I’d meet one-on-one with a scholar once a week to review an essay I wrote on a topic they set for the week). It wasn’t a bad application, but I now realize how little I understood about what studying in England would actually be like. Nonetheless, I was accepted.
When I arrived in Cambridge, and to England more generally, I quickly realized this was definitely a foreign place. I thought American culture, words, and mannerisms would have a near 1:1 translation abroad. They did not.
And when I stepped foot into Pembroke and began meeting fellow international programme students, I realized they all knew wayyy more about Cambridge than I did. There were balls, and grand dinners, courses I hadn’t found in any catalogues, unfamiliar sports, and – get this – a work-life balance. I loved it.
One of the moments that stuck with me from my first weeks in Cambridge was my attempt to join their track team. In the United States, you only ever hear of “track and field.” I was a NCAA track athlete – surely Cambridge had a team? But when I googled “track,” I only found a cross country team (which you couldn’t have paid me to join). Frustrated, I resolved to join the rowing team (the sport which now dominates my life). It wasn’t until a date with a British student that he suggested I try “athletics.” I was confused. Of course I’m athletic — I want to play sports, aka athletics. But no — “track” in the U.K. (and most of the world) is just called Athletics. Already, I felt my world expanding.
At Cambridge, I made friends with British students, but also became close with peers from South Africa, Serbia, China, and Jamaica. Many were immigrants or expats themselves, often maintaining strong ties to their heritage in ways that felt different from what I’d seen among American students. Not only did meeting them open my eyes to new cultures and perspectives, but it also deepened my connection to my own background. Without easy access to pierogis and spaetzle, my Eastern German/Polish roots suddenly felt much more significant.
That’s all to say that I quite literally found my time at Cambridge to be life changing. And I haven’t even begun to speak about my academic experiences. Spending each week focused on a single essay tailored to my interests was pure bliss. I focused on my exact interests, with access to hundreds of libraries and countless rare books and special collections.
My average day often started with waking up early to row on the River Cam, followed by a full English breakfast at the Pembroke dining hall. I’d then head to the Faculty of Classics library to peruse their stacks (they had multiple sections just devoted to Euripides), recite Ancient Greek with my tutor, travel to read an original copy of Phillis Wheatley’s Poems, cycle to the Athletics facility to throw shot put, and then still have time in the day to hang out with friends. I genuinely couldn’t believe that there was some other side of the world where you could balance multiple sports, rigorous education, and a social life that the students in Cambridge did.
If it isn’t clear, I didn’t want to leave. I tried to stay a full year, but it wasn’t financially feasible. I had to break up with my Cambridge boyfriend when long-distance stopped working. I was gutted. Returning to America, where it was cold and dark and snowy, was harder than I expected. I felt especially ridiculous because I truly loved everything about Hopkins. I had the best possible undergrad experience and am deeply grateful for my time in Baltimore. But coming back was hard.
I resolved to find a way back. I would apply to the big international fellowships, the Gates Cambridge, Rhodes, Marshall, and even a Fulbright. I convinced myself that if anyone could win them, it was me (and I still think that if you’re applying, you need to believe you’re qualified). I spent the summer of 2024 working nonstop on applications, meeting with advisors, and learning how to articulate my life goals with precision.
I didn’t win any of them — if I had, this blog post would probably be very different. I was a finalist for one, and not being selected absolutely crushed me. I had bought a really nice skirt suit. I flew across the country for the first time in my life. I truly thought I nailed the interview. It felt like I had placed my entire being on this vulnerable, public platform, only to be told I wasn’t good enough to return to this place that I’d fallen in love with, that had expanded my world views, that offered me a more balanced way of living.
I assumed I wouldn’t be going back to England anytime soon. I was close to accepting a grad school offer I genuinely liked in the U.S. I had also applied for the Meg Walsh Fellowship, the one that has let me do this research, but hadn’t heard anything back. A few weeks after rejection, I got an email inviting me to an interview. I prepped, but felt deep down that maybe it just wasn’t my time. Ten minutes after the interview, I got the call: I got the grant.
I ran into my roommate’s room: “I’m moving to England!”
I don’t think I really processed that I would head back until the week before I moved. And I knew I’d be going back to the archives in Cambridge, but I hadn’t considered how that might feel.
This past week, I traveled to Cambridge to do my favorite thing: read eighteenth-century literature in old libraries in a beautiful Medieval English town. It felt surreal to be surrounded by manuscripts dating into the eleventh centuries, looking out onto perfectly manicured yards, and meeting the world’s nicest librarians and archivists.
After my first day in the archives, I had about an hour-long gap before I went to get dinner with one of my closest Cambridge friends. I decided I’d walk along the Backs, a stretch of land behind Kings, Trinity, and St. John’s colleges. On that walk, I realized I hadn’t heard silence since moving to a city of eight million people. The trees were exactly the same as two years ago, glowing with the same golden fall colors. I heard the same sounds, saw the same tourists, and sat at the same bench I’d always loved.
It was an overwhelming mix of emotions, mostly gratitude, but also joy, nostalgia, sadness for what was and what could have been, optimism for what might still be, and even some frustration with myself for spending so much time sad or blaming myself for not staying longer or returning sooner. But there I was. In Cambridge. On the same bench, in the same Backs, wearing the same pea coat.
I am eternally grateful that I got the chance to move abroad while I’m young and I can’t emphasize enough what a privilege that is, especially in times like these. In the end, I had to laugh that I’d ever beaten myself up over this little English town or that I was sat crying beside the most stunning architecture I’d ever seen. Somehow, reading old books and writing about them brought me back — a reminder that sometimes, dreams return in different forms, and that can be just as meaningful.
