Everyone knows the feeling. You’re back home after college, a period abroad or some other maturity-inducing sabbatical and, as if by some magic, you immediately regress to your high school self.

It’s infinitely worse this time of year, as finals around the country come to a close and Houston is flooded with schoolmates at home for the holidays.

I don’t know if there’s some invisible portal you cross at the state line, but all it takes is one run-in and suddenly all my adolescent insecurities come flooding back, my ability to reason is out the window and my emotions are of a range and intensity I thought I had outgrown.

I’ve been living back in Houston as a pseudo-adult for six months now, so one would hope I’d achieved some measure of confidence and comfort in my new life. I’ve got a completely fabulous job, new non-school chums and have branched into more of the city since I’ve been back than during the entirety of my minor-dom.

All of that being said, walking into Lizzard’s—a standard hangout for my high school’s alumni and a guaranteed collision site—still requires a self-directed pep talk and a deep breath before I can breach the threshold.

It’s not that I was a nerd in high school, at least not your typical pocket protector-touting stereotype. I was, however, something of an outsider. I grew up in the Heights, which, despite its gentrification, was still considered somewhat undesirable to my St. John's colleagues. I will never forget when a classmate warned about the potential dangers of the Metro, “You could end up in the Heights.”

And I was deprived a fresh start in high school. I entered ninth grade with the same kids who had witnessed the horror that was middle school, and my white leather Reeboks, multi-colored braces and 'fro (the calamitous result of a home haircut — I was going for layers) were all-too-fresh in my classmates’ memories.

So I clung to my public school friends and those who shared my zip code, not really appreciating my ivy-covered limestone surroundings until graduation was imminent.

My hair eventually grew out, the braces came off, and, most notably beneficial to my social aptitude, I got boobs. I spent four years parading them around 900 miles away at a sprawling state university full of people I didn’t know, and I left feeling more like myself than ever before. It was a significant discovery that my college friends' summations of me matched those of people who've known me forever.

Now that I've been back for a semester (I still think in terms of the academic calendar), I've managed to stave off the regression that used to envelop me.

Dolly Parton once said, "Figure out who you are and do it on purpose." I'm sure I'll have some deep breath-inducing run-ins before the hordes disperse, but I think I'm getting better at that second part.