Every year, fall reminds me of the versions of myself I’ve been, the nervous first-year, the hopeful sophomore, the slightly lost junior. The air shifts, the leaves start to turn, and campus feels both familiar and alive. My first day of university hit like a wave I wasn’t ready for. I stepped onto campus juggling a too-heavy tote bag, earbuds in, trying to look like I belonged while my stomach was in twists. Everyone seemed to already know the rhythm, where to go, who to talk to and what to wear while I felt like a background character. I told myself that by fourth year, I’d be confident, grounded and maybe even have a signature fall drink order. I thought I would have it all figured out: who I’d be, what I’d want, where I’d end up.
Now, at 21, being “lost” feels different. I’m no longer fumbling with Google Maps or unsure which building to enter (though I still took the wrong bus last week) but it’s the bigger questions that trip me up: what do I want to focus on after graduation? Which friendships will last, and which are meant to drift? How do I balance the pressure to achieve with the desire to just be? I think by now, some of that uncertainty has faded. I know the campus better, I know my strengths and weaknesses, but other parts have only grown sharper, more layered. I’ve realised that being “lost” isn’t a single, static feeling, it changes depending on the day, the decision or even the mood I wake up in.
I’ve spent the last four years collecting pieces of myself I don’t fully understand yet. The late-night conversations that made me rethink what I value, the friendships that taught me how to show up for people (and when to let go), the classes that left me questioning everything I thought I knew, the heartbreaks that reminded me how deeply I can feel, and the quiet walks home that helped me make sense of it all. Each one has shaped me in small, often invisible ways, tiny lessons in patience, empathy and self-trust that I’m still learning how to hold.
Sometimes I pass first-years speed-walking to class, clutching coffee cups and printed schedules, and I see a bit of myself in them, that nervous excitement of wanting to belong, to get it right. It makes me realise that growth doesn’t always announce itself, sometimes it shows up quietly, in how you carry yourself through the same places that once made you feel small.
Fall reminds me of that every year. The trees don’t resist change, they let go, trusting that something new will come. That’s what I’m learning too: how to let go of old versions of myself without guilt. The one who thought she’d have a five-year plan. The one who thought failure meant falling behind. The one who thought growth would feel clear and linear instead of a messy and uncertain transformation.
I used to think growth was about collecting achievements, checking off boxes, or finally living like my Pinterest mood boards. But the more I learn, the more I realise learning never really ends. There will always be another box to tick, another goal to chase, another thing I don’t quite know yet. Growth isn’t loud or linear, it happens subtly, in the spaces between everyday life. Over these years, I’ve discovered a lot about myself, often in unexpected ways. I’ve learned that sending a risky email or asking a question in class can be terrifying, but usually leads to something better than staying silent. I’ve learned that some friendships naturally drift, and that letting go doesn’t make me a bad friend. I’ve learned that getting lost on campus or misreading a schedule can be frustrating, but those moments often teach me patience and resourcefulness. I’ve learned that staying up late to figure something out, a project, a paper, or even a life decision, is exhausting, but oddly satisfying when it clicks. And I’ve learned that even when the next step isn’t clear, showing up, making mistakes and trying again is still progress.
If I could sit next to that eighteen-year-old version of me, the one who felt sure she would know everything, I’d tell her that knowing less can be a kind of freedom. That it’s okay to let life unfold without a script. That it’s okay to change your mind, your major, your definition of success and yourself.
So maybe being “lost” isn’t the opposite of growth after all. What if growth is just the messy, uncomfortable kind that doesn’t get talked about enough? Maybe it’s not about having the answers, but learning to live with the questions.
And for now, that’s enough. For now, I take comfort in knowing it’s just fall. The air is crisp, the trees are changing colour again and so am I.