I haven’t kept track of how many days are left.
I’m constantly reminded by my peers, though, that this season is coming to a close. We’re leaving next week, graduating soon after.
I don’t feel much sentimentality. At least, not right now. I’ve been a bit absent on the whole “This is our final X and our last Y ever!” train. I’m sure I’ll feel like a sappy Miley during the last episode of Hannah Montana at some point. We just haven’t quite reached that point.
Last week, I caught up with a close friend. Our conversation, just like our steps, followed a long and windy path. We eventually got to talking about mastering social situations—the small-talk questions to ask, the carefree way to dance when everyone else is standing awkwardly, and how some people just radiate confidence.
What my friend told me was this: she wishes that people—the ones who knew what they were doing—would have told her how to do things the right way. They could’ve saved her years of floundering and struggling, trying to figure out X and Y.
I agreed—somewhat. It could’ve been nice if somebody had styled me in “cool” outfits or selected the best people for me to befriend. Like everyone else, I’ve failed many times before.
But here’s the thing: people did give me the advice. I just didn’t listen. It took me flailing through awkward silences and missed opportunities to figure out that, sometimes, they were right. I had to struggle on my own before I could understand.
High school is a stellar example.
I used to be scared of presentations—of talking in front of a group, really. AP Seminar was a wake-up call. I knew the standard advice. Look people in the eye. Talk slowly. Stop fidgeting. Pretend like you’re in front of a mirror.
And still, I stumbled my way through anxiety-ridden presentations about the theme song to my life and why I love Sofia Coppola. Advice from teachers (and the internet) was quasi-helpful, but practice is what made me a confident speaker.
The same thing goes for personal style. I’ve put much thought into what I’ve worn to school. It’s a creative outlet, a never-ending project I enjoy crafting. Over the years, I’ve selected more than a few outfits that I would never wear again. But, when I first picked out some of the worst ones, I thought they were fantastic—having potential to be the best I’d ever worn. I truly believed in Hello-Kitty maximizing and the occasional all-black look from shoe to shoulder.
Many of these outfits looked worse than I intended. They flopped. But without them? I’d be clueless as to what my “style” is. I wouldn’t know what pieces I like to pair together. I wouldn’t know that I feel sluggish when wearing grey or that patterned tights can revamp an outfit I’ve worn ten times before. I would be clueless if—like in the movie Clueless—I had a machine telling me the most stylish clothing to wear.
If I could go back to freshman year, yes, I’d do things a bit differently. I’d join The Central Trend sooner, find a job instead of making excuses, and start conversations instead of sitting in silence and then regretting it.
But for many things, I needed the struggle. The missed opportunities taught me that, next time, I’d better be assertive. The peers I befriended, and the ones I didn’t, showed me the qualities I now look for in new people: weirdness, work ethic, and an interest in learning.
As an underclassman, I looked in awe at the graduating seniors. I thought they had mastered some magical type of self-assurance. I now realize that this is what comes with experience, from the “awkward” mess-ups.
So go out and struggle. Inevitably, you will. We all will, and we’ll probably resent it. But don’t avoid it. Force yourself into the intimidating projects, uncomfortable conversations, and freestyle dancing at Homecoming—that’s how you figure it out.
