I’m bad at goodbyes
On the way home from dropping off my older brother — a freshman at UCSB — I cried the whole two hours. In elementary, the last week of school before summer break was always emotional. I didn’t know if my friends would come back the next year or if we would even still be friends if they did. One grade to the next meant a lot of changes — most importantly, which part of the playground I’d play on. In high school, I attended upperclassmen graduations and frantically ran around trying to squeeze in each congratulations because I felt I’d never see them again.
Goodbyes are never easy.
And as I’m getting older, it hasn’t changed much. It just feels bearable because there’s more distractions to keep me from immersing myself in the goodbye.
But I’m beginning to learn goodbyes aren’t meant to be punishing or anxiety inducing. They’re also a symbol of release of what no longer serves you. It’s a reflection of growth. It’s hope for what’s to come.
Somehow I learned this when I unexpectedly had to say goodbye to my adventurous, ride-or-die, the Klay Thompson to my Stephen Curry 2015 Hyundai Sonata.
It’s just a car, I know. But to me it’s a time capsule holding onto all the memories I’ve had from college till now.
Within the stitches of the seats, there’s memories of each late-night food run with my college housemates. Gently marked on the windows are the drives to San Francisco and all of its glory from the dead bugs on interstate 5 and ocean breeze kisses on PCH. The unseen fingerprints on the steering wheel represent different stages of my life when I was truly figuring out who I wanted to become. The countless number of playlists repeated on the stereo perfect for any occasion.
It was shocking — borderline traumatizing — how I saw my car on April 27 after it went missing for two days.
I felt so violated. The car floor was covered with items: letters, polaroid photos, receipts, keychains that were removed from their personalized spot.
The person had taken it for a drive, crashed it somewhere into something and abandoned it in a sketchy neighborhood.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The puzzle pieces to this didn’t exist.
I read a quote, “Growing feels like breaking first.”
My car in its broken state mirrored the growth I knew that was happening for me internally.
I started driving my car in 2016, sophomore year of college. I would say for more reasons than one, 2016 is the pivotal year of my life. It’s when the core foundations of my existence came undone. For one, I left my biochemistry major behind and pursued English. (As we know, the rest is history.)
It was the year a lot changed. Through life circumstances that snowballed beyond what I could handle, I conversed with a type of silence I’ve never encountered prior.
The journey since then has been un-becoming what I’ve become. Not taking up space, voicelessness no longer interested me. Grad school has definitely catalyzed this process.
So, I find the timing uncanny.
The week before finals, I’m forced to say goodbye to the one thing that captures the previous version of me. Instead, the un-becoming me is preparing to step into a new season where my voice is of strength, not a copy of weakness.
It wasn’t easy. But if this journey has taken me to where I am now. I’d honestly do it all over again.
I read another quote, “If it’s hard to say goodbye, your life has been truly blessed.”
