Spring Break and Skiing (But not Spring Skiing)

My last spring break as a Scripps student is winding to a close. My overall reflection on this past week? To be honest, it wasn’t exactly rejuvenating. I think “surreal” would be a more appropriate word. Spring break is the bridge between the two halves of spring semester. Before spring break, it feels like you have all the time in the world and that the semester is still full of possibility– new friendships, new interests, new activities and classes.

A semester full of possibilities

A semester full of possibilities

As soon as the break ends, there’s a certain finality to the rest of the semester. There’s little time to explore new possibilities, and it feels as though the end of the semester is rushing towards you at full speed. This is especially true as a senior, with thesis deadlines already looming in the very near future, and with our semester a full week (or more) shorter than other students. Finally, this time is especially daunting because it doesn’t just signal that we’re yet again nearing the end of a year at Scripps– this is it. After this, we won’t be coming back as students.

Before Spring Break, I was a total gooey sentimental mess, but also excited about the big changes coming up and being able to say “I just graduated college.” While I still have these same feelings, I also have some apprehension. The experience reminds me of the first time my friends took me skiing on the mountain in my home town. I was 14 years old, had just learned to ski, and was a nervous nelly whose worst fear was heights. After I ran out of excuses for staying on green runs, my friends dragged me up to the blues and black diamonds. I remember coming off the ski lift on Mount Ashland, and making my way down the first gentle slope towards “Romeo.” It didn’t feel too bad at first, carving down a gentle slope towards the fork where the different runs diverged.

Then I noticed what was coming up ahead. The change in terrain was so suddenly steep, that all I could see was a giant break in the trees and a drop off so sudden that, from a distance, it appeared to be a cliff. While the logical part of my brain knew that my friends weren’t trying to kill me, it went totally against my instincts to continue moving downhill on a pair of planks towards something I couldn’t see. That I continued at all wasn’t so much an act of trust, but more an acceptance of the inevitable– I couldn’t exactly turn around at this point.

This is how I feel right now. Like there is a giant cliff in front of me, that I logically know isn’t actually a cliff, but still can’t help but anticipate.

Once I got to the lip of the cliff-that-was-not-a-cliff I could see that it was, in fact, very steep. I felt as though if I were to fall, I would not simply hit the snow, perhaps skidding a few feet at most, but would instead plummet to all the way down the slope to the tiny ski lodge below as though it were in fact a cliff. But taking a deep breath, I proceeded, my skis pointed in a pizza slice, my back hunched like a granny, cutting turns so wide I was getting in the way of other skiers. I did not fall, and though my thighs burned from going so slow, I made it safely to the bottom. Looking back up at the slope, I was disappointed with how it looked so much shorter and less steep from below.

Skiing’s a little different from graduating. But right now, I’m reminded of this experience because more than anything I’m stressed out by the unknown. I’m looking out on a cliff-that-is-not-a-cliff, and all I can see is a gap in the trees. But it’s important to remember that in the end, the unknown is the only stressful part. When the end of school actually comes, it will be hard, but I’ll be perfectly capable of succeeding– even if that means looking like a granny.

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