A quarter of a century ago. That was the last time I prepared for fall college classes. I barely remember it. I'm sure I bubbled over with anxiety, as I bought textbooks and decorated an off-campus apartment with dorm leftovers, restocked the backpack and steeled myself for the final steps on the path to grownup life.
I wish I would have slowed down to enjoy it. I put so much pressure on myself. I had a thousand pounds of worry strapped to my soul. What if I fail my last classes? What if I pass but can't find a job post-graduation? What if I get a job and am horribly unqualified and unprepared? What if nothing spectacular happens? What if worry is all I have, always?
I look back and let out a sigh of relief and release. I wish I could shout back at my 20-something self: It works out! You survive! Did the fretting and tears and hand-wringing help? Not sure. They gave me an ulcer and boatloads to unpack with a therapist. Mostly they got in the way; they kept me from savoring senior year and the last carefree moments before I took on a career and moved away, eventually took on a mortgage, a life partner, motherhood, caregiving for aging parents.
"Hey you!" I'd call out. "You think you have stress and strife? You ain't seen nothin' yet, chica.
Sit back. Enjoy your youthful moments."
Those were the days. The guy you voted for won the presidency. Your dad still remembers who you are, and your mom doesn't have the cancer that will kill her. You aren't burdened by cell phones and social media. You are only responsible for yourself.
This morning, quite a chunk of lifetime away from 1994, I'm enjoying a cup of coffee at my favorite spot in Iowa City's Northside. This neighborhood welcomes a new generation of uni kids—many who are aspiring, struggling, tortured artists and writers—preparing to start the fall semester tomorrow. I'm pecking away on my laptop, an impostor hiding among the earnest and scholarly.
In a few years, I expect my kid to find himself on a college campus. I'm sure my worry will return, in a new form. Did I prepare him for this? Will he study? Will he drink too much? Go to bed with strangers? Never call me? Amass great debt?
Will he fail?
The wise future me looks back and calls out, "He will fail. And learn. And succeed. And, with great moxie, live his best life."
I wish I would have slowed down to enjoy it. I put so much pressure on myself. I had a thousand pounds of worry strapped to my soul. What if I fail my last classes? What if I pass but can't find a job post-graduation? What if I get a job and am horribly unqualified and unprepared? What if nothing spectacular happens? What if worry is all I have, always?I look back and let out a sigh of relief and release. I wish I could shout back at my 20-something self: It works out! You survive! Did the fretting and tears and hand-wringing help? Not sure. They gave me an ulcer and boatloads to unpack with a therapist. Mostly they got in the way; they kept me from savoring senior year and the last carefree moments before I took on a career and moved away, eventually took on a mortgage, a life partner, motherhood, caregiving for aging parents.
"Hey you!" I'd call out. "You think you have stress and strife? You ain't seen nothin' yet, chica.
Sit back. Enjoy your youthful moments."
Those were the days. The guy you voted for won the presidency. Your dad still remembers who you are, and your mom doesn't have the cancer that will kill her. You aren't burdened by cell phones and social media. You are only responsible for yourself.
This morning, quite a chunk of lifetime away from 1994, I'm enjoying a cup of coffee at my favorite spot in Iowa City's Northside. This neighborhood welcomes a new generation of uni kids—many who are aspiring, struggling, tortured artists and writers—preparing to start the fall semester tomorrow. I'm pecking away on my laptop, an impostor hiding among the earnest and scholarly.
In a few years, I expect my kid to find himself on a college campus. I'm sure my worry will return, in a new form. Did I prepare him for this? Will he study? Will he drink too much? Go to bed with strangers? Never call me? Amass great debt?
Will he fail?
The wise future me looks back and calls out, "He will fail. And learn. And succeed. And, with great moxie, live his best life."
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