I remember my freshman year RA once saying to me with a smile, “Freshmen are all kind of selfish.”
It wasn’t an insult. She was a smiley, sweet, caring girl from Hawaii who loved baby seals and giving compliments. Criticism was not a natural feature of hers. In that moment, her words to me were actually reassuring. I was feeling stuck, and I got the impression that others in my class felt the same. College is a strange bubble of freedom, where you can curate your life according to personal preference. Whatever classes, sleep schedule, menu choice, and social circle you want, it’s yours!
The problem is that, when handed so much power to pick and choose, new college students tend to close in on themselves. They can easily forget the concerns and needs of the people around them. It can be an incredibly difficult time to build friendship. At times, it can feel downright lonely.
This was my RA’s point, but it ended with a hopeful note: it gets better. As people move through college, they have more experiences that remind them to look outside themselves. So, college can also become a time of deep friendships that last a lifetime. It can even be the place where the foundation of a future is laid: for some, the discovery of a celibate vocation, and for others—myself included—the meeting of a future spouse.
I met my husband ten years ago on the lawn of Geddes Hall. We didn’t know it then, but before we graduated, we understood that we would embark on the journey of marriage together. It was a thrilling discovery—but also, in a sense, a call to arms. We knew that marriage, if it was to be a happy, lasting one, would require much of us. Life could not march to the beat of “my way or the highway,” because “my way” would now be joining hands with another to follow “our way.”
But the truth is, it never was “my way.”
At least, it never should be, if I want a happy life. I could modify my RA’s statement to say that all humans are kind of selfish. Given our fallen nature, giving of ourselves is often difficult. Combine that with a mainstream culture of comfort, and it’s all too easy to tailor decisions to what’s best for me—my goals, my career path, my future. Even on the natural plane, this kind of thinking yields the same problem as that of the typical freshman: loneliness. On the supernatural plane, it robs us of the vision of a far better way: that of God our Father, who has the best in mind for us, both now and for eternity.
That is why the Church has always spoken about vocation in general, and marriage in particular, in terms of generosity and gift. We often hear of marriage described as “a total gift of self.” That phrase can sound idyllic, abstract, or even unrealistic. It’s the phrase of a wedding day, filled with affectionate promises and dreamy hopes of tomorrow. But if it isn’t grounded in something real, a deep understanding and true commitment, it will fizzle away quickly and leave us feeling empty.
On my wedding day, I embraced those words and spoke my vows with joy, knowing what they would demand of me. Seven years and four children later, I still do. I can attest to the fact that my vocation continues to shape, challenge, and fulfill me, because it remains an invitation to generosity.
Looking back on my time at Notre Dame, I see that the invitation to generosity began long before marriage. What brought me out of the lonely moments of freshman year was not just time and experience but also mentors, friends, prayer, and renewed efforts to grow and respond: to prepare myself for the vocation where God was leading me.
With this in mind, I want to encourage my fellow Fighting Irish still living at home under the Dome: don’t wait to be generous.
If you want a thriving marriage, or just a happy life regardless of your vocational path, it’s worth it to build this virtue now. We live in a world that neither celebrates nor teaches it. At the same time, the world craves and needs it. People are lonely. They are thirsting for companionship both human and divine. Someone has to swim against the tide, to break out of the cycle of selfishness, and give it to them.
How do we do this? As with many things, it starts with the little things. Wake up on time and make your bed to set a tone of availability and care for the day. Close the laptop and really listen when a friend needs to talk. Fill a conversation with more questions than stories about self. Offer to help, even (and perhaps especially) when it’s inconvenient. Spend a weekend morning (ideally with some regularity) visiting someone in need rather than sleeping in. Ask for advice, assistance, and forgiveness with humility. Above all, be generous with God. Make time for Him every day, in quiet conversation, knowing that as a loving Father, He will guide and urge you in the direction that is best.
It is these moments, which perhaps no one else but God will see, that expand our hearts and make us ready to give in greater circumstances as well—for a married couple, to be generously open to life; for a priest, to be generously available after Mass or in the confessional; for a religious sister, to be generous in service to her community; for all, to respond generously whenever God asks for more. The more we give, freely and lovingly, the more giving becomes not a chore but a source of joy.
My husband often says that his favorite part of marriage and fatherhood is the built-in responsibility. You don’t have to go looking for ways to wake up on time (the kids are a backup alarm clock!), make time for others (there’s always someone eager for a listening ear!), or offer and ask for help (the opportunities are endless!).
It isn’t automatic, and every day involves a new effort, many apologies, and fresh starts. Still, when embraced with love (and a good sense of humor), marriage and family life is a great school of virtue for everyone involved, spouses and children alike. This is the case for any vocation, because each vocation is a path to heaven—that is, a way of life with the capacity to shape those who trod it into saints.
But why wait until that specific vocational path becomes clear? The more we give of ourselves today, the happier we will be, and the more fruitful our vocations will be. Building the muscle of generosity when no one else demands or even expects it will make the heavy lifting of marriage (or the priesthood, or religious life, etc.) less of a shock and more of a natural next step.
God wants us to be holy (that is, happy) here and now, not after the five-year plan. At the Second Vatican Council, the Magisterium of the Church solemnly proclaimed this beautiful and timeless truth, that “all the faithful of Christ of whatever rank or status, are called to the fullness of the Christian life and to the perfection of charity.” We are all called to be saints, in and through our circumstances. It can feel daunting, and saying “no” to my preferences can pinch, but it’s well worth the happiness that follows.
In the words of an old love song, “I have no use for divided hearts; I give in whole and not in parts.” True love is satisfied with nothing less, because only generosity brings joy.
In a place like Notre Dame, teeming with talent and enthusiasm, it’s especially clear that we all have so much to give. But how will we give, and where, and to whom? The choice is ours. But the tried and true path of the happiest people on earth—also known as the saints—is to look out, first at the tabernacle and then at our neighbor, and to say with a heart that is open and free, “Thy will be done.”
Sophia Martinson, former editor-in-chief of the Rover, graduated from Notre Dame in 2018 in the Program of Liberal Studies. She currently spends her days reading countless literary wonders (mostly picture books) to her four children, working on her debut novel, and chatting with her husband or a friend over a strong cup of coffee.