Ada, Ohio: a dot on the map you might miss if you blink too quickly.
The sky stretches over cornfields and quiet streets – the kind of place where time feels suspended. For those of us who’ve spent our college years at Ohio Northern University, Ada isn’t just a kind of place; it’s almost a paradox. It offers an experience so different from the cinematic, neon-drenched university life sold to us in movies or at D1 campuses. Ada, in all its small town charm, offers its residents very different lessons. There’s a depth here, a complexity that reveals itself only if you choose to look closely.
Popular culture paints college as a whirlwind: roaring stadiums, endless parties, and sprawling campuses teeming with strangers. Anonymity thrives there – you can slip into the background, reinvent yourself each semester, and live out a coming-of-age story. It seems thrilling and liberating, but also, truthfully, deeply impersonal. Ada’s pace is slower. The heartbeat of our campus life echoes through familiar faces and familiar places. There are no giant crowds here to disappear into; your story matters, and so does everyone else’s.
In Ada, you know names. You learn them quickly because they’re woven into your daily life. The same faces follow you as you recognize classmates at the library, neighbors at the local coffee shop, and professors in line at the grocery store. But names here are never just labels – they’re tied to stories, and there’s a quiet accountability in that familiarity. You know who’s struggling, who’s excelling, and who’s working two jobs to stay afloat. This close-knit community demands vulnerability; it strips away the armor you might wear elsewhere. There’s no disappearing act – your choices, good and bad, are seen. In that visibility lies a type of maturity, but it’s hard to make mistakes when everyone’s watching, and even harder still to outgrow them when everyone seemingly remembers. This can either foster a sense of responsibility or feel restrictive, depending on your perspective.
Ada also nurtures a kind of naivety that becomes glaringly obvious once you leave. You get used to leaving your backpack unattended, your doors unlocked, and your drink loosely unattended. These small-town habits don’t translate well outside the bubble. The real world demands vigilance and skepticism, but Ada doesn’t teach that. Instead, it cultivates a false sense of security; a trust that doesn’t extend beyond the cornfields.
The isolation here can feel stifling – quiet and overwhelming. At times, the slowness becomes almost suffocating, and the stillness forces you to face what you’d rather ignore. No distractions. Yet, Ada teaches you to slow down and cherish the simple things: a heartfelt conversation with a friend, the vastness of the sky on a long walk, the comfort of being truly known and seen. No matter how far you wander or how much time has passed, Ada remains unchanged at its core – for better or worse. Returning often feels like the warm embrace of a long-forgotten friend.
When you leave Ada, you’ll realize the world beyond these cornfields won’t wait for you. It moves fast, forgets easily, and rarely offers second chances. Ada doesn’t prepare you for that pace, but it does teach you how to matter in a place where you can’t hide. Out there, the challenge isn’t just keeping up – it’s deciding what you’ll stand for when no one’s watching. The question isn’t whether you’ll move fast enough; it’s whether you’ll leave behind anything worth remembering.
Liked this article? Check out the others in the, “Why Stuff is Weird” series.