Labor Day weekend is, to many, the bittersweet end of summer.  For me, it ushers in the war on anxiety.

Let’s be honest — going back to school can be a daunting task.

I’ve always taken a sort of comfort in office supplies — it’s how I cope. I run through the back-to-school section of Target like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep. I hum “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” while selecting my folders and notebooks. There’s a beautiful sense of optimism and control associated with those blank pages the approaching semester still shines with possibility.

The most stressful thing about the entire process is convincing yourself that you’re not too old for the holographic T-Rex pencil case and it’s acceptable to still carry a lunchbox at the tender age of 22.

All of this takes place mid-July, naturally. I stockpile office supplies months in advance in the armory that is my closet and then wait for battle.

Now time has come — the folders and notebooks have been drafted. My army of pens, pencils and highlighters awaits command. My textbooks occupy a backpack that will soon weigh more than a small child. I have snack-sized pouches of cookies and crackers and a false sense of security.

This semester, I promise myself, will not start with another incident …

I do this every fall, knowing that even my color-coded planner cannot provide me with control of my two greatest fears: change and I-75.

My first day at Oakland University — and every single day since — has involved a whole lot of both.

Last semester was my first on campus, and it required a 45 minute commute on the freeway. Classes started at noon, so naturally, I set my alarm for 5 a.m.

It was an important day, so naturally, I overslept. Already frazzled, I scarfed down breakfast, threw on my pre-selected cardigan set and thrust that child-sized backpack into my passenger seat.

It was show time and I was already running late.

I missed traffic and, much to my distaste, had to drive the speed limit. The curves of the road scare me — I almost always miss my exit — and I’ve had enough close calls with semi trucks to wonder whether or not my enormous red SUV has an invisibility feature I’m unaware of.

Cars zipped around me, my vision blurred and the wheel started to slip through my sweaty palms. I pulled off to the shoulder, stood on the side of I-75 and hurled. Then I cried. Then I hurled again.

Welcome back indeed.

This display of gastrointestinal rebellion was humiliating, disgusting and oddly enough, informative.

After the incident, I managed to get back on the road, find the nearest pharmacy, buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, use said toothbrush, arrive on campus and master the infamous parking situation.

I was still two hours early for my first class. The world hadn’t ended because things didn’t go as I had written them in my planner.

Sitting in my car, watching other people’s first days, I got my first lesson at OU. I realized that no one knew of my humiliation, they couldn’t smell my fear, they didn’t know my secret. I had, after all, brushed my teeth.

After careful observation, I concluded that a few others were also fighting the war on anxiety; mine was not the only micro-managed backpack.

They were all mastering their own fears.

As I merge onto I-75 this semester, I’ll take comfort in my experience. I know that we’re all in it together and I am not alone in my anxiety. I also know to pack a toothbrush.