Last Friday, I graduated from university I called home for four amazing years. As the commencement date approached, I kept wondering when the finality of it all would hit me. Finals flew by, I received pictures of my family's newly furnished apartment, the promise of a new beginning awaited me…but I wasn’t ready to close this old chapter of my life. I wrapped myself in a safety blanket of optimistic numbness, parting ways with friends as if I’d see them again the next semester, eating and laughing together like always. I brushed off loneliness and disappointment whenever I learned who had already left campus or saw their Facebook photos posted from airplane windows. I blocked out my emotions and made sure I felt nothing so that leaving would hurt less.

Would the emotional dam finally burst at commencement? Or would I continue to feel the same emptiness?

It happened a few hours before commencement. I took in my appearance in the bathroom mirror as I tried on my complete cap-and-gown set for the first time. I expected myself to break down crying. That was a typical response to graduating and leaving behind everyone you love, right? But that never happened. Instead, I stared at my reflection in muted confusion. Beneath the oversized cap, I still looked the same as ever: the same height, the same messy hair, the same young-looking face ensuring that I’ll be carded till I’m 40…but I somehow couldn’t recognize the girl gazing back at me. The girl who was confused by conflicting parts of her identity was now comfortable with the dualities. The girl who felt weighed down and repressed by societal expectations was now less afraid to express herself. The girl who felt like she wasn’t doing anything productive with her life despite her academic accomplishments was now able to see how valuable she was to the people around her.

I experienced a similar realization a year before. I was walking back to my dorm one afternoon when I spotted a small cocoon suspended on the staircase wall by transparent silk. The fact that it would someday hatch and reveal a butterfly (or maybe a moth, I wasn't sure) fascinated me. I became obsessed with checking it every time I passed, hoping to witness the ultimate moment when the cocoon would break and free its slumbering occupant. This became routine for months until one spring day, when I wondered out loud when it would ever hatch, my classmate pointed out that the cocoon was already empty. I never noticed the small opening at its back where the newly reformed creature must have crawled out after completing its biological makeover. All those months, I’d been zealously checking an empty husk, a mere remnant of the past, and was therefore unable to notice that the transformation had already occurred.

I realized that I shouldn’t how my future would change me because the changes have already occurred. Clinging to the past would only hold me back from further growth and transformation, so I released my anxiety and accepted what was happening around me. Instead of sadness, I felt proud and ready to walk away. It was so bizarre and yet so satisfying.

Moving on from this chapter of my life doesn’t mean I can’t reminisce on the past. Nothing I experienced is truly permanent. The memories, campus and precious friends I’ve made will always be there when I wish to return to them. Knowing this, I could comfortably leave the safety of my former cocoon behind and flutter among the clouds to start a new journey.