My Goodbye to All That

I started writing this blog post when I was back home in Michigan, staring out at the choppy lake and finding a sense of relief that my emotions seemed to perfectly match my view. Tempestuous, unpredictable, blue. I was floating in an odd time of transition while visiting home, straggling between moving out of my sublet and moving into my new apartment, and finalizing my internship before starting my new position at the company as a full-time employee. Amidst the unknowns, I was grateful for the knowns, too. I had a place to stay and a job secured; it was everything I had hoped for as a postgraduate. And yet I also felt the heaviness of being home — the heaviness that it’s not quite home anymore — and I felt scared to flip the page to my next chapter in Boston. 

Now, a few days later, I sit on a bench in Amory Park, feeling as though my inner and outer ecosystems are once again aligned. The sun shines down on my face as I slurp the remains of a too-expensive green smoothie. The branches of a willow tree graze my view of the park that’s adorned with sunbathers and dogs. The heaviness has lifted, for now, and I feel grateful for the breathing room.

My next chapter has not quite begun, but I’m trying my best to find ease in the process of turning the page. I move into my new apartment tomorrow, when I'll start the daunting and overwhelming task of creating a home. Change is difficult for me, and I dread the quiet moments when the homesickness will feel nearly unbearable, when I'll feel in the tightness of my throat screaming that I’m simply not strong enough to do this. Yet when I was home in Michigan, I could feel in my bones that Boston is where I need to be. As I stared at the lake, I reminded myself that the best decision is not always the easiest decision. Onward, I reminded myself, watching the waves overlap one another.

It took an entire summer for me to process that I’m no longer a student. The waves of shock hit me at random times: walking into the office supply store (which smells oddly comforting to me), watching kids with oversized backpacks trek to and from Target. For so long, our identity has been as students. Where do we go now?

A new wave of shock hit me yesterday when I met two friends at Tatte for coffee. One friend is staying in Boston, and the other is moving to New York. We sat there for hours in a mix of engaged conversation and comfortable silence, and with each burning second, I felt a quiet sadness creep in. I remembered when the three of us met for breakfast for the first time in the Warren dining hall, our attempt to set a routine of meeting before our COM 101 class with the nonchalant desperation of becoming friends. 

It was the worst breakfast of my life. 

Immediately, it was clear that none of us were good conversationalists in the early morning. We all naturally have quieter dispositions, I would soon understand, and we were best balanced in the company of at least one extrovert. So there we sat in the orange lighting of the dining hall, our forks and spoons lifting to our mouths, only to be set down again to accompany us in our awkward silence. I remembered the relief of parting with them when our class finished that day, and I wondered in muted panic if I would ever find my people in college.

Four years later, and there I am sitting at Tatte with my people. It’s odd how things change. And how things stay the same. 

I feel the ache of these goodbyes deep in my gut. I’m scared for what's next. How many more uncomfortable breakfasts will I endure this upcoming year? Have I maxed out on my friend soulmates, or do I still have more to meet?

In the meantime, I'll stare at the lake, I'll sit in the park, and I'll sip my coffee and overpriced smoothies. I'll feel, and learn to accept, everything that comes as I say goodbye to all that.

With teeth, love, and an extra heavy heart,

Nora