Falling Forward

On a hot summer day, the hardest part about jumping off a bridge into the river below is taking the leap itself.

The footbridge downtown that spans the river is an adrenaline seeker’s dream (and a law enforcer’s nightmare). The river slows into a deep, mellow current right under the bridge and flat, rocky banks make it a perfect place to swim to shore. As summer temperatures climb steadily into the nineties, there is no better way to escape the sun’s scorching intensity than to submerge into the cool river.

So, on a day so hot that moisture seems to get sucked right out of the air, a friend calls to invite me to go swimming, and saying yes is easy.

The beach is crowded by the time we get there in the evening, a throng of people clustering against the bridge railing as one after the other dives into the water. The sun is low in the sky, gleaming on the river and casting everyone in a mild glow. I haven’t jumped off this bridge since high school, and as I clamber over the railing, line my toes up on the edge, and look down at the slow, swirling water below, I feel my heart pound. Distantly I hear my friend, already in the water, tell me to count to three and just go.

The jump – literally – from standing and imagining the fall, to stepping off the ledge, actually falling, is the biggest hurdle to overcome. Thinking about the irreversibility of that first step, where there’s no going back after it’s taken, only forward, can be paralyzing.

All through this past year I felt stuck on the precipice of action, teetering between my current life at home and the looming drop into the future beyond. I feel connected and grounded to the people here who have known me since childhood; I am inextricably tied to my hometown. At the same time, I feel trapped in a small-town bubble, suffocated in a predictable, mundane life. I want to experience more than the comforts of home.

So, inspired by the accessibility, affordability, and community I had in Beijing last summer – while still wanting access to nature and strong hockey programs – I applied to grad schools in Northern Europe.

Decisions arrived in April, and by May, I committed to attending a two-year master’s program in central Finland studying biological and environmental science. I was – am – ecstatic. Since graduating from BU, my path forward has been a swirling unknown, the future clearing up only a few months at a time. But now, I’ve taken that first step forward again. I am falling through space, watching the water rush towards me.

As I told friends and acquaintances about my fall plans, they asked me if I was nervous about going somewhere entirely new, starting over again. 

I thought back to my first night alone in Beijing, listening to cicadas screaming outside my window. And before that, in Seattle, spending a month getting lost while driving. In the Tetons, when I learned how to manage a full-time job. All the way back to my freshman year in Boston, the first time I moved alone to a place I’d never been, to challenge who I am and what I know.

I will feel lonely; I will feel homesick. But my desire for growth overpowers any fear I have of change. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced before or can’t handle, and it will be better than I ever imagined.

A month from now, I will be in Finland. Meeting my roommates, wrestling my mattress up the stairs, getting lost on the way to the grocery store. I’ve applied for a residence permit, registered for attendance, and booked my plane ticket. All that’s left is to enjoy the fall.

On the bridge, I keep my eyes on the water and step forward.

The moment for decisions has passed; the rest is easy. Punch into the water, submerge in the cool, dark river. Kick upwards, feel the heat of the sun a moment before breaking through to open air, and the cloudless, blue sky.