The last few weeks of senior year felt like a dream. With finals over, for the first time, everything was wide open. I could do whatever I wanted, wander around and enjoy campus freely for the first time without some impending schedule or deadlines weighing heavily on my shoulders.

I jumped in my school's fountain, a tradition usually enjoyed by first-day freshmen, but even more exciting as a soon-to-be graduating senior. I had "last" dinners and drinks with my friends. I attended senior week (or in my school's case, senior two days) where I attended a "mystery" trip to a bar, entered a letter into a time capsule and spread out on my campus' front lawn enjoying live music and food trucks. It was perfect, it was wonderful.

I didn't feel any hint of sadness as I spent my last few days with my friends. Instead, I marveled at the fact that I had come this far and things had gone so well that I couldn't wait to take all that I had learned and all the people I had come to love with me into the future.

I sat at graduation not devastated but full of so much hope.

And then, the storm came (literally!)

What had started out as a beautiful day quickly morphed into a brutal storm. Listening to our president's thoughtful commencement address, my classmates and I watched in horror as thick storm clouds rolled over those beautiful blue skies right above our heads. I looked up and silently prayed for it to pass.

But, it soon erupted into a downpour. Our president did her best to keep us hopeful, pausing mid-speech to shout encouragingly "Class of 2019, should we keep moving forward?" We, of course, responded with an emphatic "Yes;" I had worked four years and spent thousands of dollars to attend this ceremony, and I wanted to hear every minute of it.

As she pressed on with her speech, it became increasingly clear that that wasn't going to be possible anymore. Graduation caps were drenched, programs were becoming illegible. And, before long, everyone was standing up and scattering around, trying to find their families and seek shelter.

But, I still had had some goodbyes left, so I tried to search for my friends. But in a sea of around 10,000 people, that was nearly impossible. Of course, by the time I found my family, the rain had cleared up, and the skies became bright and sunny as if nothing had happened. I texted the last few people I had wanted to see, but in the chaos, they had already left campus.

I left campus for the last time with a small hole in my heart, a few pangs of loss. Over time, I figured, I'd get over it. I'd see them again soon.

But I had no idea how much those feelings would come to grow.

I spent the summer, like a lot of post-grads, applying for jobs. That June I turned 22 and made sure to really enjoy my birthday because I assumed that next year (and most years after that) I'd be spending it in an office. I went on a handful of interviews, and got rejected. I brushed it off, thinking I just hadn't found the right place yet, and it would all come together soon.

But when I still hadn't gotten a job by the end of August, my mom suggested I return to my old summer job working at a supermarket so I could start saving money to pay off my student loans. It felt like defeat, but I knew it was what I had to do. When I reapplied there, I told them I was only planning on staying for around six months, the shortest amount of time they could offer me, confident that I would find a job in the weeks to come.

In October, I attended my school's homecoming. I walked back on campus for the first time since graduation with a strange feeling of sadness and nostalgia. It felt simultaneously like I hadn't been there in years and like I had never left. I looked around and realized that people that I had thought were some of my closest friends I hadn't even heard from since graduation.

I listened to my old classmates, one of which was even the same major as me, tell stories about their new jobs and what they were up to. I felt a pang of embarrassment, like I was doing something wrong and was missing out. I was reassured, not to worry, I would get a job soon, a phrase that would come to hurt more than comfort.

Later that month, both of my grandparents ended up in the hospital. My grandma, who I was very close to and had always seen frequently, would ask "did you get a job yet?" It was always the first thing she wanted to know. I remember visiting her in the hospital, telling her that I had had a job interview later that week. I prayed that it would work out so I could race over and tell her.

But when she died in late December, I lost that chance forever.

My grandpa, who was showing early signs of dementia, moved in with us that day. Suddenly, my family and I became 24/7 caregivers. As his dementia worsened, it wrecked havoc on our own mental health and sanity. His constant mood swings and forgetfulness were the cause of endless arguments. I began to cherish my long hours at work and dreaded coming home.

In January, I found a position I was really excited about. Although it was only an internship, it was paid, was located in my town and was at the type of company I had always hoped to work at. I figured as long as I had an internship, I could add it to my resume, and it would make getting similar full-time jobs in the future a whole lot easier.

But, during my phone interview I was told while they thought my background and experience was a great fit, I was overqualified for the internship (they wanted someone who was still in college) yet under-qualified for any of their full-time positions.

Slowly, I began to feel hopeless. All of my friends that I had graduated with were either working or in grad school. I began to question everything. Had it been stupid to major in English? Should I be going to get my Master's? It felt like everyone was moving forward with their lives while I was standing still. Even people I knew in the Class of 2020 were beginning to figure out their post-grad plans and accepting job offers.

It became harder and harder to feel happy for them. I began to feel like I was slipping into a dark hole that I didn't know how to make my way out of. Was I doing something wrong? Was there something wrong with me? Were my interview skills just not up to par or did I just not have enough experience on my resume?

For every lack of an answer there were just more questions. I started to wonder how long I could go on like this for before I would have to consider making a pretty big change.

In late February, however, I finally received a small glimmer of hope. A job that I had previously applied to was now rehiring. This job was my ultimate dream job: full-time, great benefits, close to home and was exactly the type of work I had been wanting to do.

But in the back of my head doubt began to creep in.

What if I reapply and reinterview only to be rejected for a second time? That was something I wasn't so sure I could take. But my family convinced me to reapply, and I left my interview feeling pretty confident that it had went well.

About a week before I was supposed to hear back, the COVID-19 pandemic struck, and I was told they were postponing hiring indefinitely.

At the end of May, I hit my one-year mark since graduation. It was painful in the upcoming days to see my snap memories pop up on my phone, reminding me of the person I once was as I dreamed about who I would become. My school sent out a one-year post-grad career survey, which I declined to fill out. (I hope to be able to one day.)

My biggest takeaway from all this is to not live your schedule by anyone else's. You don't have to reach your milestones at the same time. You will face rejections, you will lose touch with people that you thought would be in your life forever, but that's natural, that's life and that's OK.

Most importantly, however, don't lose hope because if you don't believe in yourself, then no one else will. I hope that one day I will be able to rewrite this as a success story. But for now, all I can do is keep moving forward, take it one day at a time and hold on to my small sliver of optimism, telling myself that there are better days to come.