Some Aerial Reflections

my life condensed into variably interesting posts on the internet

From everything I’ve written in the past, you probably know what to expect: some updates on my research, some shoutouts and small wins, maybe the occasional sappy photo. 

Don’t get me wrong, either - more than enough happened in the past few weeks for me to pen another one of those newsletters. And yet, I don’t want to. For some reason, I feel like this is an interesting time, a transition of sorts. Special times call for special measures.

Right now, I’m chugging out this newsletter at 30,000 feet, on a plane bound for Toronto. Besides the constant whirring of the engine, it’s dead quiet.

I realize that it’s been months since I spent this long in silence - without biking down streets swarming with students, without eating in the presence of hundreds of other people, without falling asleep to the muffled sounds of my friends laughing downstairs.

Now it feels weird, almost like the entire year is hitting me at once. I think back to all the excitement of going to college. Courses. Friends. Research. Skydiving. Professors who taught me how to think. Tests. More tests. Wrangling laundry and nearly crying over taxes. Reckless movie nights. Impromptu road trips to San Fransisco. All the conversations, long dinners, and little moments that made me smile. 

And then, finals ended. I packed up my room, hugged what must be a hundred different people, and turned in the keys to my dorm. Now I’m sitting on a giant metal tube that’s barreling to Canada. 

To be honest, I still wonder if any of this actually happened - it all rings too much like a fever dream. 

Forget about that - I’m not even sure how to feel right now. On one hand, I’m overwhelmed by gratitude and awe. In a world where billions of people can’t reliably go to school, I’m grateful that my entire job this year was to learn from the best in the world, meet wonderful people, and collect interesting experiences. (How is this a thing!?)

On the other hand, I can’t shake this strange heaviness, like I’ve lost something important but don’t yet know what. Maybe it’s the sense that time is slipping away. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’ll never be a freshman in college again.

Deep down, I guess part of me realizes that you only get so many firsts in a lifetime: your first job, your first wedding, your first time traveling alone. As much as I try to quiet that part of myself, it stings to burn through another first. It reminds me that life marches on, whether I want it to or not. 

Looking back, this year was still incredible. It felt like fireworks every day. But somewhere, in the back of my brain, I can’t shake the thought that the fireworks will stop. How can all this contradiction exist in a person without splitting them in half? Is this what it feels like to grow up?

I’m still not sure what to think about this, or how. But I know I don’t want to live my life in fear. I’m not going to sour the beauty that already exists in my life for a future that hasn’t even arrived yet. 

As Lord Tennyson might have said: it’s better to have lived and lost than to never have lived at all. There’s something magical about being here, in such an exciting and marvelous time, that I simply can’t afford to lose to worry. And as for firsts, who’s to say that they’re finite? Is the world really so small that we can run out of new things to do? 

I breathe a little, looking out the window to gather my thoughts. Outside, the puffy white clouds continue their lazy trek to nowhere in particular. Meanwhile, the sky is breathtakingly blue. Somewhere behind me, I hear the chime of the seatbelt indicator. I feel in my stomach that our plane is descending, and before long, land comes into view. 

In those last few minutes, I put my laptop away and sit in the unexpected charm of it all. Right now, at least, it feels like we are on an adventure. I still have miles ahead of me, and you still have miles ahead of you.

It’s too early to be afraid - we’re just getting started.