Beginning at the End

So that’s it, then. This is my last column.

It’s a strange thought. I don’t think I’ve truly processed what that means, just yet.

Four years here have passed. And through it all, The Stute has been my constant, my rock. I’ve come full circle with this paper, in the truest sense of the phrase. So it’s only fair, I suppose, that I take you back, to where and when it all began for me.

It was July before freshman year. I knew nothing about Stevens, the school. I had absolutely no friends here. No real connections to help me out. On top of all that, I was anxious and nervous that I’d made the wrong choice. That coming here might be a mistake, after all.

This weekend — “Stute Weekend,” as it’s called — was supposed to (hopefully) change all of that.

A weekend, to learn how to write articles for the newspaper. Explore campus, Hoboken, and NYC. Maybe make a few writer friends along the way. What could go wrong?

And so I dove in, expecting the worst but still hoping for the best.

First meetings, first impressions, first friendships, are always tough. There was some awkward small talk, a few nervous ‘oh–shit-what’s-your-name-again’ situations. But then the tension melted away, and it was like we’d all known each other forever, and like we always would.

Of course, I didn’t know, then, if there’d even be a forever. Had no possible way of knowing that girl who was my roommate would become my Editor-in-Chief, my drinking buddy, my 2 a.m. friend, each in turn and also all at once. Nor could I have guessed, in any of my wildest dreams, that so many of the people I met during those days would still be so dear to me.

I just tried to live in the moment, and every moment that followed.

As a group, we made a bunch of… interesting decisions that weekend, to say least. But we had so much damn fun doing it. And then, of course, we stumbled upon our most inspired idea yet — to pull an all-nighter, and then walk down to the water to watch the sun rise.

It took a Herculean effort on our parts to not fall asleep. But in the end, it was definitely worth it.

Seeing the rays of light break over the horizon, stippling the dark city with color, took my breath away. Pushed the sleep right out of my bones, and replaced it with a sense of awe, a sense of pure wonder that I wish I could have bottled and stored, kept someplace safe.

There’s two pictures from that day that stand out. The first is a bunch of us, crowded on a small bench, looking out at the sunrise.

The photo is striking, in part, because of just how damn small we all look.

We were still kids, really. So eager to make friends. To find our way, our path.

We didn’t know, then, how transient our anxieties were. Or just what we were destined for.

The second is a picture of the sun, rising over the New York City skyline.

I’ve taken better skyline photos since. This one is grainy and imperfect, somehow both over-exposed and under-edited.

Still, I can’t complain. It’s a snapshot in time. A callback, to a moment when I didn’t have anything else to do. Didn’t have anything to occupy the space in my head other than the view of the sky and the promise of hope in front of me.

In that moment, I just knew. That what I’d been dreading this whole time — casting my old friends, my old self behind — it wasn’t an ending. For the first time, it really felt like a new beginning.

So this isn’t an ending, either. Just a change. That’s all.

People have asked me if I intend to keep writing. Just start a blog! they say, as if it were truly so simple. I wish it could be. Really, I do.

The truth is, I don’t know when the next time I’ll see you will be. My voice deserves a little rest, now. I think it’s earned that. Besides — I’d much rather wait for something to beckon to me, to truly call me out, than force myself to keep creating, keep writing, in a way that might not be totally authentic, totally real.

But maybe that’s alright. Maybe it’s beautiful because it ends.

Like the sunrise from that day — all things must end, only to begin again.

So take a moment now. Appreciate who you once were. Who you’re going to become. This glorious, messy, imperfect process, of beginning at the end, over and over and over again. As we were always meant to do.

Per aspera ad astra. Through adversity, to the stars.

Until next time, friends.