Dear Past Morgan,
It’s around November. It’s senior year. You just turned 18. You’re the editor-in-chief of the yearbook staff and it’s deadline season. IB assignments seem never-ending. College application deadlines are quickly approaching like some freaky Marvel movie villain. Are you stressed?
You’re probably stressed (I’m a little stressed for you).
I’m sure you’re on your fourth venti coffee of the week and 15th admissions essay. I can’t give you any hints about the essay, but please stop drinking so much coffee. You have anxiety. Caffeine just makes you more anxious.
Anyways, you have your eyes set on schools in Boston or Washington D.C. and are dead set on majoring in journalism.
Florida schools are your backup even though you’re guaranteed Bright Futures through IB. You know UF is a great school, but you really, really don’t want to go there because that’s what everyone expects you to do.
You’re applying for every scholarship, every honor college, anything that may get you a few thousand dollars that could make the difference. You feel pretty confident, right? This is what you do best—you write.
You’ve always been a writer (and you still will be, no matter what happens—don’t worry about that). You’re putting everything you are on the page and hoping that these college admissions people—these strangers—see you for who you are, see how much you want the future they can offer, and decide that you’re enough (you hope that you’re enough).
You’ll turn the letters in. You’ll wait. You’ll hope.
Well, in a few months, you’ll get acceptance letters—a bunch of them. Go ahead, say that you expected them—it’s okay to be a little cocky sometimes, even if it’s only in the privacy of your own head.
You’ll be in weird places when you receive them (notably, a Forever 21 in the Altamonte Mall, alternating between squeezing into too-small jeans and trying to connect to the crappy WiFi—not at all like in the movies).
You’ll be thrilled when you open the first few. You’ll ignore the numbers and the sad glances Mom gives you when she sees them. This will last for a few letters, but soon, all you’ll feel is dread, because you know what comes after Congratulations—more numbers.
The schools you applied to are generous, but they simply don’t give you enough. It doesn’t matter how many times you do the math. Throughout all your calculations, UF will remain the most viable option.
Still, you’ll hang onto your dreams, because there will be one school that hasn’t responded yet. Checking your email and mailbox will wedge itself into your daily routine—wake up, breakfast, mailbox/inbox, school, inbox, yearbook, mailbox/inbox, rinse and repeat.
That school will represent Hope, with a capital “H” because that’s how much you’re hoping, and you’ll cling to it. And when the letter finally arrives in the mail, you’ll think, too thin, it’s way too thin. You’ll be waitlisted.
UF will become the school you can afford without loans.
You’ll accept their offer of admission without ceremony, without telling anyone.
The worst part is that you’ll know that it’s not a bad outcome, objectively. UF is a good school. You’ll have a car, be close to home, be with your friends and save more money. It’s just not the outcome you wanted.
What did I want?
What did I expect?
You’ll ask yourself these questions over and over, as you brush your teeth and take exams and figure out who you’ll room with. You wanted more, you’ll decide. You won’t really know what more is.
You’ll give into ugly emotions when you see people with worse grades going to some of the schools you once dreamed of attending. You’ll feel frustrated and spoiled because, really, your situation isn’t that bad.
You’ll question if you really want to major in journalism—the future you said you wanted since you were thirteen. Your parents and friends will try to understand why you’re upset, but they won’t, not fully. You’ll feel like you worked hard for nothing, even if that’s far from true.
Your feelings are valid. Let yourself feel them in this moment. Feel them deeply. Work through them—write, talk to your therapist, but above all, be honest.
You’ll eventually come to a realization:
You still have a lot to be proud of, no matter where you go to college.
It’s a slow realization. It begins when you read a line by Maggie Stiefvater in her short story, “Opal”: “It won’t be what you imagined, but it’ll be just as good.”
You’ll look at that line for a long time, trying not to cry, because it was spoken to one of your favorite characters, one who was rejected from his top college. The summer feels a little easier after you read that.
UF feels more like a choice you wanted to make. You’ll spend the months leading up to move-in in nervous anticipation, and when your parents leave you in Tolbert, you won’t be happy, exactly, but you’ll be okay.
And before you know it, a year will pass, then two; you’ll turn 19, then 20.
You’ll realize you never had a future with hard journalism—not one you would’ve wanted, anyways—and become an English major, which will feel like coming home.
You’ll decide you want to challenge yourself and double major in sustainability studies—are you laughing right now? All your friends are, after all your years of saying you’d never do anything resembling science.
You’ll be immensely grateful for the weekends you can visit home; you’ll think, I couldn’t do that if I was in Boston. You’ll realize that your work in high school was absolutely worth it, and that it was crazy to think strangers could determine your worth.
You’ll make friends who feel like family. One day, you’ll wake up and realize that you’re happy, not in an unsustainable way, where the feeling could fizzle at any moment, but in a slow, steady way that feels impossible right now. Trust me. It’s possible.
It’s all there, waiting for you. Believe that it’s coming, and when it does, go ahead and take it.
That’s what you should be clinging to. Not weird mailbox rituals.
Lots of love,
Future Morgan