Up until college graduation, we are students for the majority of our cognizant lives. Life is defined by the prescribed paradigm of formal education, and we are just responsible for coloring within the lines. As such, the conclusion of the undergraduate college years is surreal, incomprehensible, ludicrous, and extraordinary—no matter when, no matter where, no matter what comes next. 

There is, of course, a grieving period that comes with the loss of all that we know. Whether we choose to confront it or not, there is sadness, bargaining, and a primary denial. However, as has been true for each of the preceding academic milestones, there is a cohort to verbally process with, to round the corner together. Despite potentially going separate ways, whether it be different cities or across the world, graduating cohorts can confront the ending phase hand in hand, leaning on one another. 

Spring quarter at Cal Poly has a finality to it, even outside of the context of graduating seniors. There is a feeling of resolution, the neat closing of a chapter. Spring brings with it a familiar tone; a precursor to summer, which we’ve long learned to recognize as the interlude between recent endings and fresh starts. 

The experience of graduating prior to the academic year’s traditional end adds a layer of abruptness that no one can really prepare you for. Everything around me stays the same; my peers still savoring the moments that don’t quite yet feel like ‘lasts;’ all the while I’m trying to create my own closure, attempting to cognitively pack my bags.

As humans, we are pointedly uncomfortable when endings are unceremonious. The end should be a culmination, we feel, like a puzzle piece finding its right place. Stick the landing, fireworks explode. When I shared with others—strangers and peers and good friends alike—that I’d be graduating at the end of winter quarter, I was met largely with apprehension on my behalf. These people pictured themselves in my shoes, exclaiming quickly that they couldn’t do it; wouldn’t do it, if they were me. That the ending would feel startling and premature; that they wouldn’t feel ‘ready.’ 

These conversations have put not just the end of college, but endings as a concept and a motif, into perspective. And I learned something: things are only as abrupt as you choose them to be. 

This was an axiom I was not previously privy to. At first, to soften my landing, I tried to lower my stakes. Because I wouldn’t have the landing strip of spring that my peers would later enjoy, I felt like some course of action must be taken to adequately prepare. 

This so-called ‘preparation’ was the real preemptive departure; the severing of attachments to people and places with which I anticipated would be hardest for me to part ways. As time went on, I realized I’d cognitively packed my bags long before my voyage had even begun. Now I was sitting idly in the final months of my college experience, all the things most important to me figuratively sealed off and packed away. 

This wouldn’t do. And so the pendulum swung. I unloaded these bags and tried to squeeze in all the closure, whatever I figured it should look like, all at once. There was a burning sense of urgency, with memories in turn reduced to a to-do list’s tasks. Visit Morro one last time. Go hike Bishop’s Peak. Hang out with that one friend from freshman year. Write one last Mustang News piece. Wake up every day and breathe in the final moments of my college experience and fleeting student identity. Soak them in. 

As you might imagine, this approach didn’t bring much solace, either. I felt out of my body and in a constant state of flux. I was asking so much of every single moment and experience that none of them quite stuck. 

I became exasperated and panicked by the seemingly insurmountable task of bidding my college experience an adequate farewell. What could possibly be done to do it justice, to orchestrate the ‘ideal’end? In a very fortunate turn of events, I did the best thing I could have done for myself. I threw in the towel. I gave up. 

I conceded to watching the time pass almost passively, like sand between my fingers. I relinquished the idea of a proper conclusion and reconnected with the people and places and things that I love, not because I’m leaving, but because I have them here, now. 

I tried things—went to new clubs and approached new people—for the very first time with only a few weeks left; just because an experience may be short-lived doesn’t mean it lacks purpose. I spoke to first years and felt impossibly detached from their experience, and yet simultaneously, so close. I learned that while I may not be here until the end of the conventional timeline, I will naturally find for myself little pockets of closure.

I write this piece nearing my final day in San Luis Obispo. The absence of a tidy, distinct conclusion has pushed me to find peace, and sometimes even clarity, in the way my own ending goes. I don’t feel near ready, and I have the feeling I won’t ever quite reach that point. But I do have the capacity to feel present and grateful.