Training Season

Written by Lily Brown

RA-RA, ah-ah-ah. Roma-roma-ma. Gaga, ooh, la-la. Want your res ed life.

RA Lily is so back, and happy 2026! You know how it goes. January hits and suddenly everyone is “becoming their best self.” Self-care resolutions. Green smoothies. Planners. Memberships they will stop emotionally acknowledging by February. Maybe you finally signed up for that gym you’ve been side-eyeing (quick plug: my other side gig is at EverybodyFights, where I can both validate your fitness dreams and swipe your card).

For me? My “new year, new me” consisted of returning to campus on January 3rd.

For RA Winter Training.

Was I emotionally prepared to leave my hometown—where time is fake, sleeping until noon is encouraged, my parents cook real meals, and pajamas are considered formalwear? No. Did I do it anyway? Also no. Just kidding! Of course I did. Because I am brave. I am resilient. I am contractually obligated.

You’d think that after three years of this job I’d have earned some kind of veteran exemption. A golden RA pass. Instead, I was summoned back a full week before everyone else.

Did I really want to return this soon? While I am a city girl—and Boston is “a city that's exciting, a city that's inviting, and a city for a woman just like me”—it has now been ten days. Ten beautiful, fluorescent-lit, group-activity-heavy days of being booked and busy.

A real picture of me showing up late to our first session every morning.

Door Decorations & Floor Themes

Welcome to the arts-and-crafts Hunger Games: RA Edition. May your scissors be ever sharp and your glue sticks never dry out.

Let’s talk numbers. How many little decorative things do you think I had to cut out for my floor this semester? Go ahead. Take a guess. No, higher. Higher.

One hundred.

Yeah, read that again. One. Hundred. Door Decs.

And that’s before we have to do it all again because, of course, they all need backing. For the non-RA civilians reading this, “backing” is when you lovingly glue and/or tape construction paper to the back of each cut-out so it doesn’t look sloppy—AKA the aesthetic tax we pay to make our hallways Pinterest-worthy.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a good bulletin board. I would die for a cohesive color palette. But when you’re on cut-out number 63, your scissors start feeling like Jade West personally sent them to ruin your day. You’re tired. You’re squinting. You’re whispering, “Why am I like this?” to a stack of neon cardstock. But it’s worth it. Because there is nothing—and I mean nothing—more satisfying than watching your floor theme come to life.

For my final RA semester ever (insert dramatic soap-opera gasp), I chose Victorious. My floor theme is basically “We All Sing (and Sometimes Cry in the Laundry Room).” Your hallway is now Hollywood Arts. And no, this was not a random choice. I once interviewed Victoria Justice, which means this show now lives in my heart rent-free forever. Also, Victorious is a cultural reset. A lifestyle. A personality trait. If you don’t hear “Make It Shine” in your head at least once a week, are you even thriving?

You are all Tori Vega in your own way (you logged onto EmConnect and somehow signed up for three shows, two orgs, a random student film, and a cappella callbacks). Some of you are Beck (The Type A T&P). Some of you are André (playing music in the common rooms until 2 a.m.). Some of you are Cat (sweet, chaotic, and definitely lost your room key). And at least one of you is Robbie (we’re a little concerned about the puppet you made in your Making Monsters course but supportive, nonetheless).

How y’all should be feeling about the door decs I assigned you.

Role Simulations

Me and my RA duty partner getting into it (yuh)

Before you are ever trusted with real residents, real crises, and real hallway chaos, you must first survive RA role simulations—a series of highly professional, extremely serious training exercises that are somehow conducted like Sikowitz’s improv class. These are basically little theatrical reenactments where RAs act out possible resident situations. You think you’re just going to sit and listen? Wrong. You will be cast. You will perform. You will be perceived. And most importantly, you will be embarrassed.

Some of the scenarios include:

Roommate conflicts
Noise complaints
Emotional distress check-ins
Fire alarm
Party busts
Medical transports

The list goes on… And on. And on.

They make us act these out in front of everyone. So if you were already second-guessing yourself in the role, this really puts your self-confidence to the test. You’re standing there trying to remember protocol while also making eye contact with your coworkers, who are silently judging your improv skills.

Your hands don’t know where to go. Your brain forgets how to form sentences. You’ll be like, “Hi, I’m your RA and I—uh—how are you feeling today?” And your voice cracks. And suddenly you’re sweating. But here’s the thing: it actually helps. A lot. Because when real situations happen (and they will), your brain remembers that you’ve done this before. Then you’re calmer. You’re steadier. You’re less likely to panic and more likely to actually help.

So yes, mildly embarrassing. But also very necessary. Growth is uncomfortable. So is public speaking. So is trying to sound professional while your stomach is growling. But congrats! You survived Robarazzi. You’re basically famous now.

Team Bonding (AKA Forced Fun That Becomes Real Fun)

Me in the new game room like

Meeting the new spring student staff team for the first time felt like that one iCarly and Victorious episode (“iParty with Victorious”) where everyone is just… there. Too many personalities. Not enough emotional preparation. Half the team is frantically learning names, the other half is trying to remember if they already told that “one time freshman year” story or if they just thought about telling it.

There are icebreakers. There are games. There are “two truths and a lie” moments where someone reveals something that makes the whole room go silent. And there’s the new game room. Picture me in there like aggressively competitive, losing Mario Kart, pretending I don’t care while absolutely caring. But honestly? It’s kind of beautiful. You start to see how everyone brings something different to the team—different energy, different humor, different strengths.

But here’s the plot twist: it kind of slaps. Somewhere between the Uno betrayals and the table pool beef, you start realizing these people are actually… my people. It stops feeling like forced fun and starts feeling like the pilot episode of your own weird little sitcom. It starts as forced fun, but then it turns into real fun. And you just know this is your crew.

Me and my RD

And my RD? My new RD and I are tight. You know that dynamic where one person is the responsible adult and the other one is just a little feral but somehow it works? That’s us. She keeps the ship floating. I bring the enthusiasm.

It’s comforting knowing you’re not doing this job alone. You’ve got people who will help you during crisis calls, who will sit with you after hard shifts, who will send you memes when your patience is hanging by a thread. Together, we are a fully functioning support system held together by caffeine, shared trauma, and the mutual understanding that we are absolutely not okay—but we are okay together. And that’s the best part.

Here’s the thing about training: it’s exhausting. It’s early mornings. It’s long sessions. It’s a lot of information, feelings, and more coffee than you thought you could consume. But it’s also meaningful. You remember why you’re here. Why you applied. Why you keep coming back, even for your third year. Because you’re not just making bulletin boards and enforcing quiet hours. You’re making safe spaces, and helping people through some of the hardest years of their lives.

So, here I am. Training wrapped up and slightly sleep-deprived, emotionally caffeinated, and absolutely covered in both paper scraps and good intentions. I’m grateful for my LB team. Grateful for the chaos. Grateful for the memories. Grateful that I get to spend my final RA semester making Emerson shine. We all sing. We all grow. But we do it together.