April in Chicago brings sunshine at 10 AM and ice pellets by 10:30. Campus pathways alternate between slush and salt-stained marble floors. Yet despite the weather, the university comes alive with a special energy during Admit Weekend – the moment when acceptance letters become real people with bright futures.
Even now, from my home office in Florida, I feel that familiar flutter when April arrives.
"I love your accent! And that jacket – where did you find it?" asked a girl in a Northwestern sweatshirt that suddenly seemed out of place.
"Camden Market," I replied, running my fingers along the embroidered collar. "I'm Jane."
"Sarah from California. Are you nervous too?"
I was, but not for the obvious reasons. It was the Chicago skyline from the water that captivated me – human ambition rising against the gray April sky. Despite the sleet pelting the boat's deck, everything felt possible.
That first Admit Weekend remains clear in my memory – awkward conversations, formal parents, my shoes slipping on patches of ice. And the realization that this windswept city would become home.
Years later, I found myself on the same boat tour, now as a volunteer. I handed a cup of chai to a shivering girl from Seoul while her parents pretended to photograph architecture.
"My first week here, my laptop died right before a paper was due," I told her. "Within hours, my resident head arranged a loaner, my advisor contacted the professor, and a third-year I barely knew helped recover my files."
The boat had changed since my first trip, but April in Chicago remained stubbornly consistent – a mix of rain, wind, and unexpected moments of sunshine.
What I didn't mention was how the university had saved me after graduation. When job rejections piled up, the admissions office offered me a position that transformed my perceived failure into the most fortunate detour of my life.
In the admissions committee room, I slid Mei's portfolio across the table, tapping the Journal of Computational Biology letterhead. "Look at the methodology she developed as a high school senior." Without pausing, I opened another folder. "And James's electric bills – his signature, not his parents'. Night shifts at the hospital while maintaining a 3.7 GPA."
The campus lamps had flickered on hours ago. The committee chair checked his watch repeatedly while the dean stifled yawns. But the thought of these students – Mei in her makeshift lab and James studying by flashlight – kept me advocating long after dinner.
Later, watching both students laughing with new friends on the boat tour, I felt a satisfaction deeper than any performance review. As Assistant Director of Admissions, I'd fought for dozens whose potential I glimpsed between carefully crafted sentences and meticulously listed achievements.
As Director of Data Analytics, my relationship with Admit Weekend evolved. The models I developed helped shape incoming classes – identifying not just academic excellence but the qualities that made a cohort diverse and dynamic.
"The numbers tell part of the story," I explained to a concerned father during my final boat tour. "But we're looking for human elements no spreadsheet captures."
He nodded, watching his daughter who had already found her people – a small group gesturing animatedly at the bow, oblivious to the April rain.
"She'll be okay here?" he asked, anxiety barely disguised.
I looked at the skyline, at the city that had held me through professional growth and personal transformation. "More than okay. She'll become herself here."
Now in my tiny home office in a 1966 Florida concrete slab house, I tap my university keycard against my desk – a habit from years of campus security protocols. My laptop displays the ItrLt logo, its edges still unfinished like a promising first draft.
Yesterday, our algorithm produced unexpected results, sending our engineering team into midnight video calls – faces from Seattle, Bangalore, and Berlin appearing on my screen, all sharing the same electric energy I once felt in admissions meetings when an application defied traditional metrics.
My phone shows the Chicago weather: 40°F, rain with some sleet. I imagine students in inappropriate footwear navigating the riverwalk – dress shoes sliding on wet pavement, canvas sneakers darkened by melting ice, optimistic sandals defying the forecast.
What I learned through all those Admit Weekends, as I evolved from nervous international student to confident director, is that the most meaningful transformations happen during seasons of transition. In the messy space between what was and what will be.
As another cohort cruises past Chicago's skyline today, I channel their energy into our startup. I remember standing where they stand now – full of possibility, gazing up at towering structures and believing I might someday build something lasting.
The weather in Chicago today: cold and wet.
The forecast for these students, for our company, for all of us in life's transitional moments: boundless possibility, with good chances of success.