I still remember my first day as a brand new Penn State student with vivid clarity.

A shy, only child thrown into a campus with 40,000 other people in the middle of Centre County -- an interesting transition for someone who grew up in the comparably thriving metropolis of Pittsburgh.

I remember repeating the phrase "I'm going to be sick," much to the chagrin of my parents, in the car on the three-hour drive, not thinking that we would actually arrive at Penn State, much like on the drive to test for my black belt when I was 12.

As a freshman struggling with a new environment and wanting to experience the "real" college life, I did my best to join every club imaginable and to talk to everyone I met.

People are never friendlier than they are during your first year of college. Trust me on that one.

I dabbled in the ballroom dance club for a few weeks. I went to a few Adopt-a-School meetings. I tutored French once a week at State College Area High School during the entire school year.

I went to three Penn State karate club meetings. All I can say is I'm really glad I didn't splurge on the 100 bucks needed to pay for a uniform and for assorted protective gear.

I attended one meeting for medical-minded undergraduate students. And I should've known then that it was a bad sign I didn't share everyone else's vigor for the MCATs and for studying equations.

My major was a disaster almost as much -- if not more than -- my wide array of social activities. After realizing it wasn't normal to have knots in my stomach and to feel sick each week before my four-hour chemistry lab, my seven-year dream of becoming an emergency room physician or pediatrician had come to a screeching halt.

I was at a loss.

It's crazy to expect 18-year-olds to decide how they want to spend the rest of their life. Nursing, psychology, English, political science, French, secondary education and crime, law and justice were all in the running, though each had their own complications.

Did I really want to go to graduate school for psychology? Nope.

And how long would it take me to tire of teaching kindergartners how to finger paint?

So after seven months of consternation and anxiety, I realized a way in which I could still reach out to people and to make a difference, simply by doing what I always liked: journalism.

From that point on, I spent every morning before class trying to absorb all that was written on the pages of The Daily Collegian and tried to imagine what it must be like to be a reporter for the student newspaper ... the stepping stone to what most surely will be my career at The New York Times.

I decided that I would bite the bullet and try out yet another "activity" the fall of my sophomore year. I worried and bit my nails and obsessed throughout each step of the Collegian's tryout process, wondering if I had made it, and what it would mean if I didn't, if I had failed after becoming used to success.

Well, I made it. And this is one activity I haven't quit after almost three years as a staff member.

If you had told me when I was a lost, lonely freshman that I would be responsible for a 20,000 circulation daily, I would have laughed at the thought.

Impossible is what I would have told you.

So what's the purpose of this column, you ask?

I'm extending the invitation to you. Bring a blue book and a pen or pencil to the James Building, 123 S. Burrowes St., at 6 p.m. on Thursday, June 30 or at 3 p.m. on Friday, July 1.

Maybe you'll find where you fit in, too.