Remember, in elementary school, when all the kids used to cry on the first day? Something about being abruptly transplanted from home, a safe haven, on an arbitrary day into a foreign setting was simply too much for our little bodies to bear. I remember when I finally marched into a first day of school and not only made it through with dry eyes, but also enjoyed myself. I thought I had finally grown up.
I didn’t want to cry, but I did feel an urge for some sort of theatrical cathartic release when I met you. I had high expectations for our relationship. With you, I was going to take classes that I was passionate about, to learn boldly and without restraint. With you, I would make friends that would last me a lifetime. With you, I was set to achieve my wildest dreams. You were going to be my paradise.
Instead, I was met with the unexciting and messy awkwardness of settling into a new environment that they never spend much time on in the movies. Everything about you was confusingly numbered. The stark juxtaposition of being bombarded by an endless stream of close-knit communities urging me to “Be one of us!”, only to go to bed at night feeling utterly unattached was strange. I felt overwhelmed by all the possibilities before me, yet underwhelmed by my reality. I probably felt akin to when I was a kid going to school on the first day — lost, nervous, and unfamiliar. No wonder we cried.
Fortunately, as we got to know each other more, you warmed to me. I settled into a few different communities and worked hard to adjust as quickly as possible. I realized that our relationship was not going to be what I had originally envisioned: rosy, comfortably challenging, digestible. Rather, you relentlessly threw experience after experience at me: ones that challenged me, ones that humored me, ones that made me cry. I simply tried my best to keep up.
I had had enough of you my junior year. I was fed up and burnt out. My days were filled with activities I had grown tired of. I felt like I was just going through the motions. The prospect of having to spend two more years with you suffocated me. I missed having enough energy to be excited. And so I went abroad. I visited places that I had only ever dreamed about. I made new friends from all around the world. I took classes outside my major. It was a completely different life. Going abroad was the best thing I ever did for my happiness in college. It forced distance between us. I began to remember all the parts of you I was grateful for, parts that I couldn’t get anywhere else. Your vigor and intensity, something I had been actively escaping from when I left, started to excite me again. I missed you. When I returned, I was ready.
So here we are, at the end. What a number you’ve done on me. In my final few days here, I’ve spent a lot of time sitting on the esplanade’s docks. I gaze across the river at you and try to package my emotions into words, to make sense of our time together. It hasn’t worked so far. Instead, it feels like I’m looking at the cover of a photo album. I have a good idea of the photos that lie inside, but they’re a little distant and hazy. It’s funny how poorly calm reflection pairs with vivid nostalgia. The expectations I had for you coming in feel silly now. A fulfilling, textured relationship could not possibly only be filled with positive experiences. Sometimes you need the bad days to spark progress and development. Thank you for giving me a photo album that is vibrant and rich.
