Lightness. Weightlessness. Freedom. I cling to these ideals
as I sift through the years-old clutter of my senior year dorm room, vowing to
throw away the accumulation of “things” I have collected over my last four
years here at Harvard. I aim to shed myself of the old, packing into my
suitcases only the necessities that I wish to accompany me on my journey into
adulthood. What do I take with me?
A one-way plane ticket. In a spurt of faith in myself and my
ability, I booked my trip to Washington, D.C., the city I have decided to make
my home for the next however many years. Do I have a job? Nope. Do I have a
place to stay? Negatory. Any family down there? Okay, can you stop asking
questions, you’re starting to give me anxiety. I decided to forgo the easy route
of heading home to Southern California, lounging in my childhood bedroom and
waiting for my dream job to somehow materialize without my presence. Instead,
I’m taking a risk—just like that risk of moving to Montana last summer with
just my dog and a hell of a load of emotional baggage from a distressing
semester abroad; just like when I went on that first Bumble date last semester
that worked out well (and that second one that didn’t go too well); just like
when I wore that dress, and those shoes, and that shirt which I wasn’t too sure
I could pull off but flaunted anyway. That ticket is a symbol, of the risks
I’ve taken and the ones I’m willing to take with this confidence in myself.
The dozens of notes and letters I’ve received this past
year. Friends and family have written me everything from letters of adoration,
to “good luck!” wishes on finals and papers I approached with ease, to
appreciative “thank yous” for deeds I have fulfilled with the utmost affection
for the receiver. They are taped haphazardly to the wall above my bed; I stare
at the names fondly every day. Buried deep in the drawer under my desk are the
letters from the man with whom I fell in love this year, the man who broke my
heart. I bring those, too, because the doubts and the pain instigated by the
end of a relationship do not detract from the happiness and the silliness and
the appreciation and the joy that I felt during it. The memories are worth
keeping, as are the words that meant so much to me in the moment. The writings
of love, from friends, from family, from my past, come with me to remind me
that I’m not alone nor am I forgotten.
A gently used Dunster House champagne flute. How apt that my final
gift from the House that has become home is a vessel of celebration, a token of
appreciation for accomplishment and good deeds. Dunster House has given me so
much in the past three years: I met my best friends in the elevators of the
Harvard Inn; I found in my senior year roommates soul sisters whom I love and
appreciate beyond words (and with whom I’ll be travelling the world in a matter
of weeks); I found a place in which I could go to the dining hall by myself and
see at least half a dozen individuals at whom I could smile, with whom I could
exchange pleasantries, with whom I could share a meal. I love Dunster. I love
its courtyard, the swings in which I sit to enjoy the stars, the gym in which I
pretend to workout but mostly just stare at myself in the full-length mirrors
(I’m about to graduate, I can finally tell my secret!), the front office in
which I pretend to run the House but actually just do homework and spy on the
athletes walking in from morning practice (another secret gone to hell). This
place has been home. And it is the people that inhabit it that make it so
special. Every time I take a sip of champagne out of this flute, I will
celebrate the friends and the memories made in this House.
A badass new haircut. I went for it, guys. I got a bob. My
hair barely makes it into a ponytail now, and I can’t do that twisty bun I’m
oh-so-fond of, but I snipped off my dead ends and my half-hearted attempt at
butt-length hair to embrace a professional, mature, sleek-as-hell cut. I feel
bold, and daring, and kinda sexy, too. I didn’t know if acquaintances would don
that barely-covered grimace (“It looks great! And it’ll grow out so soon.”), or if boys would still think
I was pretty, but I decided I just didn’t really care. And guess what—I
freaking love it. I love my short hair, and I love the way it makes me feel and
look. And so I guess along with those dry split ends and my childhood dream of
a mermaid mane, I cut off my need for the approval of others. I don’t need to
care about what other people think—I only need to care about what I think.
And most importantly—and most cheesily, of course—I bring with
me from Harvard College and into the real world a love and an appreciation for
myself. Seriously, though. For the first time that I can remember in my life, I
like myself. I like that I pet every
dog I pass in the street and ask for its name and breed. I like that I bust my
ass in Soul Cycle and strip down to a sports bra when it gets too hot in the
room. I like that I cry at history books, and Goethe poems, and my namesake
(it’s a song called “Aubrey,” check it out), and basically everything that even
slightly excites my emotions. I like that I love passionately, and deeply, and
without fear of embarrassment. I like that I extend kindness to people who may
not deserve it. And I like the fact that I just made it through four years at
one of the most prestigious colleges in the world with only more respect for
myself and for others along with excitement for the places, and people, and
opportunities that I’ll encounter. I don’t know whether Harvard instigated or
facilitated or even actively hindered this newfound self-love—but here I am,
and here it is, and I have to give Harvard credit for being the place at which
it flourished.
I zip up my suitcase. I take stock, and I revel in what has
been the best four years of my life. I hope that I don’t miss too much the
things I’ve decided to leave behind. And then, I move forth into the world,
walking through Johnston Gate, smiling at my future.
