By Fallon Weiss, Kennedy College of Sciences Well-Being Leader

In my eyes, in my smile, in the mirror sometimes I see her: 2023 Me. Four years, I’ve found, can change a person more than you think it can. I was excited for a new chapter, for independence, and to start over from the, quite frankly, the awful years of being a high schooler. When I’m brushing my teeth in the morning, I see her. 

She’s worried if she’ll fail. Worried if she’s not smart enough, talented enough, ready enough for the next step. You can see it in the way she walks with her head down, earbuds in. Locked in so intensely on every assignment, as if each perfect score will be her personal valor. I can see through the mirror as she’s getting ready for her first day of college. Like always, she’s carried some habits from her childhood: She picked out a perfect first day of school outfit, and woke up extra early to have time to do her makeup just right. She’s looking in the mirror, a smile full of joy, and wondering if she looks “cool” enough. 

From the other side, I want to tell her she already is. But the past can’t be talked to, only seen.

She’s packing up her new backpack, and slipping on a black hoodie with a raven design on the back of it. It’s his. She feels happier knowing he’s near, even if he lives in another state. She thinks this hoodie is forever. It feels like his hugs. She liked hugs. What she doesn’t know is that she’ll have to give him back his hoodie two years later, and it will have gained more loose threads than it was given to her with. And, her love for it will have patched its many, many, holes. From where I stand, I want to know how she’s so doubtful of herself but so determined, so steadfastly believing in others. I want to know why she loved him so completely but forgot about leaving some of it for herself. 

When I enter the Starbucks on North Campus to pick up my morning coffee, I see her in every cup. She’ll post and take pictures of everything, sending them to family and friends. In fact, the most exciting thing about the meal plan to her wasn’t the dining hall at all. Somehow, it was about getting Starbucks coffees when she hadn’t had the taste in years. It always made her feel like royalty. In fact, she always gave all the employees compliments when she put in her order, and got to know each of their names by Winter Break. 

I feel her close when I take exams, her nervousness and anxiety is like a spark on a pile of papers. It catches quickly, and it grows bigger than she or I can handle sometimes. I want to tell her to breathe, but it’s hard for her to listen. All her mind is thinking of is how fast that clock seems to tick, and how blank her mind seems to be. Afterward, it’s so hard for her to breathe that she escapes into the bathroom – and hopes no one hears – as she splashes water on her face and dries her tears. She tells herself she just needs to be better. That she’s not enough, she needs to be smarter. She’ll just study even more. She’ll just go to more office hours. She’ll just spend every bit of free time she has with tutors. 

I want to tell her that doing more doesn’t mean she’s doing it right. That there’s more to why she’s struggling. That people don’t learn in exactly the same ways. That she’s doing all she can, and she needs to stop putting so much pressure on herself. I want to hold her hand and say that she doesn’t have to do this all by herself – that there are people around her who care.

But she’s stubborn. I know that better than anybody. 

I know she doesn’t know it, but despite what she’ll go through… I’m happy for her. She’ll get scared, and worried. She’ll cry over bad test grades, call her family and tell them she thinks she’s dumb… and yet: She’ll find a new calmness within herself, a strength she never thought she could ever have. 

She’ll have a father who will teach her all his best-kept test taking secrets. A sister who will always know how to brighten her day and give her hugs when she needs them. Friends who can make the worst classes into the best ones, and become her best study buddies. Teachers who will show her potential when she’s blind to it. Mentors who will become her biggest cheerleaders. She will have a village. And even if it takes a lot of mountains to get there, she’ll find what she’s looking for. 

And one day, when she looks like me, she’ll look back at herself and smile.

Yes, you can’t talk to the past. But you can cherish what you’ve become, and I don’t want her to regret any of it. <3