The past almost-three weeks since spring break have passed simultaneously far too quickly, and far too slowly. Last Friday, thesis drafts were due for Seniors, and the weeks between spring break and that date were some of the most panicked I’ve felt in my life. It’s not even that I was behind, pulling all nighters, or running into significant issues in my writing process. The sheer fact that this is the culmination of my entire academic career at Scripps has simply been weighing on me. As I wrote in my last draft, it has felt like I’m barreling towards a drop-off of unknown height and steepness. However, things are beginning to look up. As of this week, I’ve turned in my thesis, finished my last two midterms, and I can literally count off the things I have to finish before graduation on one hand (ok, maybe two). Now that I’ve been able to stop and take a breath of fresh air and reassure myself that everything will be okay, that I will graduate, I’m finding myself pondering a conversation I had over lunch with a particularly wise adult I met with over spring break: my kindergarten teacher.

I suppose meeting my kindergarten teacher for lunch might seem unusual or quaint, but it’s pretty common in a community as small as my hometown. My mom had kept in touch with Michelle ever since my little brother “graduated” her class and the two of them have had many coffee dates over the years. On a recent occasion, Michelle asked my mom to arrange a date between us before my graduation so that we could simply talk about life. So over spring break, that is what I did.

There is something poetic about divulging your fears and insecurities about emerging as an adult to the woman who taught you how to write. As I explained to her my hopes and dreams for the future, some of my high school friends entered into our conversation, and I found myself explaining their plans as well. As I explained who is teaching English abroad, who is going to work for a social justice nonprofit, who is going on to nursing school, who hasn’t yet figured things out, I realized that all of us had been in that same kindergarten class. Michelle was listening with rapt attention at the stories of how the lives of each of her students had unfolded, but I found myself dumbfounded, wondering how many of these lunch dates she had made before. How many times had she listened to the worries of her former students, heard about their dreams, successes, and plans that didn’t quite work out?

After I finished babbling about the excitement of young-adulthood, Michelle shared a few of her stories and pieces of advice with me. First, she told me that my plans might not pan out. This advice sounds harsh, but she didn’t mean it that way. Instead, she meant that I would apply to many grad schools and jobs, and that even if the first attempt, or five, or ten, didn’t work out, that next one would. She assured me that it might take time to figure out my place in academia or the work force, but in the end, I would find that niche and everything would make sense in retrospect. She told me stories of her other past students, those who are now older than me, and the uncertainty of those post-college years, and where they eventually found themselves. And she told me stories about my own strengths, ones that she had seen in me when I was a precocious five-year old who loved reading, telling stories, and talking to adults.
Five weeks out from graduation, I glean a tremendous amount of perspective and peace from the memory of this conversation. It may seem simple, but feels powerful to realize that all of us were once kindergarteners. So much life has unfolded between then and now, but on a basic level, despite fears and insecurities, we’re pretty much doing okay.