By: Sydney Umstead, News Editor
One part of me wants to give some profound summary of the transformative development that my time at Canisius has brought. But, that would be like saying that everything happened at once, that all change was made possible in an instant.
I received some good advice recently in an article by Laurie Githens. She wrote, “What you think will happen to you in this life is, for the most part, irrelevant.”
I wanted to begin here because if I had heard those words four years ago, it would’ve sent me into a spiral. In fact, I plan every minute of my life, always. I’m notoriously bad with change. But, the thing about change, my dear reader, is that it is a force that will not allow itself to be barricaded against. You cannot wall off change, as it will just keep pushing back.
So, in a piece that is intended to be a reflection on love, change and lessons, I wanted to focus on not only the now, but also what came before that.
I feel sometimes that who I became happened overnight, and at the same time, it also wasn’t overnight at all.
I was up for the National Junior Honor Society, and I couldn’t bring myself to complete the form – anxiety, fear of rejection, etc. And then, I was told I was a perfectionist, which I adamantly denied. Then years of reflection and rumination have brought me to a different point. My grades dropped after that moment, like somewhere in the distance, my rose-colored glasses turned smithereens. It made me feel I had to be perfect, to prove I was a perfectionist. Which I didn’t even want to be anyway.
And, sometimes, that’s just how it goes. The people you hold closest, my first boyfriend, can sweep the rug out from under you.
I have had my fair share of lore-inducing ex-relationships, but this isn’t a trauma dump, my dear reader. It’s to say this: “What you think will happen to you in this life is, for the most part, irrelevant.”
Confined by the word “perfectionist,” I overanalyzed each interaction to ever happen to me. If someone changed their facial expression, in any way, it felt like it was against me.
I would be lying if I said that I still don't do this. When people describe me as quiet, it is because I am worrying if they like me, like a silent one-sided chess match.
Nonetheless, I’ve changed in ways I never thought I would. True, I hate public speaking, but I’ve done it. I apply for things now, even when there is a potential for rejection.
I stood on a hill and said I’d never get into another relationship, let alone a long-distance one. But, funny enough my dear reader, for all the times I said those words, the exact opposite was proven.
So, at this point, 489 words later, you may be wondering where the connection is with Canisius, and to answer you; I must quote Tennesse Williams (here she goes, you may be saying but, just wait).
Williams wrote, “Time is the greatest distance between two places.” And Canisius, to me, is both literally and symbolically a representation of the distance that time creates. I am not the person I was when I started at Canisius, and I am so grateful for that.
I’m proud of what I write, and in a way that I never thought I would be. I cannot tell you that I don’t perpetually worry about what others think because I do. But, I can promise that I try every day to remind myself that my value is mine to decide.
I also want to thank everyone. Which seems like a blanket statement, but it isn’t. The entirety of The Griffin staff made me feel less alone, and less secluded the second that I joined the staff. I don’t believe any of this change would have been possible without that. The professors I’ve had as well saw past the shaking like a dog in fear and saw a student that may push themselves a little too hard.
So, my dear reader, as you walk these halls for the first time or the last time, I hope you remember that change, that its abrasive nature is inevitable, and that alone is beautiful, at least to me.
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