It’s 9:50am on a Wednesday. I am sitting in 7th Street Café sipping on my coffee, watching the ebb and flow of people—clearly distracted from the essay I should be writing. It’s now 9:52am. And with the passing of only two minutes, the line has grown significantly. There’s an unspoken understanding that each student in line is likely headed to a 10:00am class, which pushed me to reflect on one of the things I will miss the most about Bucknell—how we’re all united by similar schedules, bound together by the daily rhythms of college. And there’s a certain comfort to that. There’s comfort in familiarity.
I look back at my philosophy paper, attempting to analyze Aristotle’s central question—what type of life should I live?—and once again think about my time at Bucknell. With graduation looming on the horizon, it has become increasingly more difficult to focus on my academic work. I’m not sure if that’s a symptom of Senioritis or my way of processing what these past four years have meant. What type of life have I lived during my time at Bucknell? Who have I become?
Reflecting on the first question, I realize that my college experience can be summarized by a game of tug-of-war with a perpetual push and pull of incompatible elements. Ultimately, our priorities give rise to trade-offs. You might choose to go to LIT night without finishing your homework. But by choosing to socialize, your grades might suffer. You might skip the gym to finish an assignment, temporarily forgoing your fitness. By choosing to pursue one path over another, we make our priorities clear.
However, our choices don’t always yield the best outcomes. You might sleep through a Thursday 8:00am because you took that extra shot; you might say something to the cute boy at the bar only to be completely rejected. But looking back, I’ve learned to value the confusion—the missed opportunities, the failed conversations. These extremely uncomfortable and vulnerable moments actually provide a lot of clarity on life. Because what remains is what’s underneath—another layer of yourself. These experiences may not contribute to our happiness, but they contribute to our wholeness.
This idea of wholeness captures the essence of the second question: who have I become? People are so fixated on “having the best four years of their lives” that they often forget that sadness and vulnerability are not only a part of this journey but an integral part to it. Because without these emotions, growth would not occur. We’ve all done things—some we wish we could erase from our memories, others we wish we could relive repeatedly. But they all make us who we are. We are the sum of our experiences—even the ones we regret. From stressful late nights at the lib, to questionable drunk decisions, each action has shaped us and contributed to our wholeness.
And as I take another sip of my coffee—which is now cold—I am again reminded of the passing of time. The coffee may look the same, but it’s different now. And so too are we.