Edited by: Sophia Noble
O-week has officially begun.
I slowly drift out of my thick cover of clouds and peek out at the vastness of the world stretched out before me. A labyrinth of red brick buildings. Intricate net-like structures. Sprawling green lawns. Endless flights of stairs and rows of elevators. Students filing into various buildings. This is my new world, my new reality.
Homesickness stabs at me like a cold, steel-gray knife. How I long to see the warm, familiar faces of my parents, my grandma, and my brother. Here, distant stars glimmer in the coal-black darkness, and I am too afraid of the darkness between us, the cold distance I must travel to become close to the stars.
O-week wears on. Through workshops, game nights, cohort meetings, and endless sessions at the Sports MPH, I get to interact with my peers and batchmates. Despite these avenues, I struggle to find my people, somewhere I fit in. I end up drifting from one friend group to another like a lost satellite. As I talk to people, a voice echoes in my mind: “What are you doing? You are too uncool to hang out with them!” or “You have too many imperfections, too many craters on your lunar surface!” Not only am I insecure about my flaws, I am also afraid of being vulnerable and letting people into my inner world, for fear that they would dislike what they would find there. Furthermore, the memory of the period of loneliness that I went through in high school negatively impacts my social confidence.
As I rotate through the whirlwind of flickering light and darkness, through the swirling eddies of the infinite stars, I begin to question my identity and sense of self. I am a creature of constant change, flitting between different phases and locations. How, then, am I supposed to establish my identity at university as a fixed, rigid object? How am I going to fit in? These questions and thoughts spin in my mind like the meandering path of my orbit.
As I drift along the black sky like a lost ship searching for the beckoning light of a lighthouse, being tossed in the roiling waves of small talk, I long for depth: for deep, meaningful conversations, lasting memories and vulnerability. This time, when I talk to people, I try to go beyond the superficial small talk to really get to know them as people, to figure out who they are, and have fun with them. The more I talk to the people around me, the more I realize that everyone has their own imperfections and insecurities. I realize that instead of letting your perceived flaws hinder your friendships, you can let them form the basis of meaningful relationships. Friendship is about accepting and embracing the craters on one’s lunar surface, and recognising that it is these craters that make us whole.
Once we begin to come to terms with our faults, something magical happens — we begin to showcase our true, authentic selves to people. We start drawing into our lives people who truly accept us for who we are. The crescent moon becomes whole again: a glowing orb of light hanging on a branch of the sky, caressed by the soft breath of the blooming darkness.
There is still so much about myself that I am yet to understand, so many aspects of my personality that I am yet to explore, so many forms and identities that I am yet to take on. However, accepting the complexity of my personality makes me understand that I am not a fixed celestial object in the sky, but a constantly shifting, evolving moon that dances between the light and the darkness.
***
Somewhere, miles and miles away, yet so close, the Chandrayaan-3 slices through the darkness, and lands near the South Pole of the moon.
In that world of silence, a voice, a harmony, ruptures it, like a chord struck by a magical harp: “Hey, do you want to have lunch together?”
This time, I open myself up to fun, beautiful experiences and memories, to a fuller exchange of emotions. I display my true self. This time, I let them into my inner world.
Light spills from the moon, weaving little golden threads binding the moon and the stars, and a new chapter of my life begins.