“I hope you get where you’re going, and be happy when you do."

-Jack Kerouac

Dear Readers,

As I packed up my room one last time before heading towards my final semester of college, I found myself rummaging through scraps of papers and old folders that held the memories inscribed on my past years in college. The old red plastic that I had tucked away in the corner of my desk suddenly took over my entire day as I glanced back at old tests and humorous notes friends had left in my old freshman dorm. There were worn out polaroid pictures of friends who had grown up with me from the twinkling years of mindless 18-year-olds to matured and experienced adults in their early 20’s—holding with them the pains, secrets, and loves of the last three years. Above all the scraps I found in that sacred folder, the one thing that resonated most with me was a letter my Mom had left for me on Move-in Day. Within the lengthy rules and hopes there was something she wished for me, that I didn’t quite understand until now: “Don’t worry about the past, looking back too much does no good. Don’t obsess over the future; things can change in the blink of an eye. Focus on the now, and make everything worth living for.” It took words that were meant for an inexperienced freshman to open the eyes of an aged and abled senior: make the most of the time we have now.

It’s very easy to begin to mourn the past before things have ended; as humans, we fear what’s in store for us because we don’t have the answers or perceptions of the future. What we love are comfort and familiarity. Leaving home for college was “the big adventure” we exaggerated, dramatized, and fueled because at 17 we felt as though we had nothing but time. But four years in college—falling in and out love—meeting and losing friends—understanding the difference between careers and dreams teaches you that these four years are meant to scaffold and prepare you for the realities of tomorrow. I don’t think we fear the outside world as much as we fear leaving the people and moments behind because deep down we understand that the wildness—the intensity—the overwhelming sense of freedom and youth are things that we bury with our caps and gowns.

I know that come this semester I’ll walk around campus in the early hours of the evening just as the sun has set and I’ll catch glimpses of myself—the overly excited (and often stupid) freshman in the fourth-floor window, hoping that his Thursday night will be unlike the ones before. I can picture the stressed out version of myself pacing from the library to the student center finally understanding what it means to pull an “all-nighter.” I can see the broken version of myself wandering around as if all hope had been lost in the future, and more importantly myself. I know I’ll smile and laugh at the loud and crazed version of myself who beckons the crowd to follow him back home because he can’t (and might never understand) when the good times finally have to end for the night. Of all the version of myself, I hope to see—perhaps in May—the best version—the one who has loved intensely and with an open heart—the friend who never let a helping hand down—the son who always picked up the phone even in the midst of things—the student who finally became the teacher—and the boy who understood that letting go of college doesn’t mean letting go of friendships, fun, or laughter.

If you’re like me, and ready to cross the threshold this semester into the great abyss, don’t cry before it’s over—but laugh, smile, and live in the moments you have now. Grasp at every opportunity to see a friend—seize the difficult paths that open doors to your dreams—put your heart out into places you never normally would—and always remember that these moment—these memories—these days—are the bricks and stones in which we build our futures.

Now close your computer—leave the Facebook page off your phone—and embrace the tender moments of the now before they become the jagged regrets of the past.