What I'd Forgotten

Last week I was back at my college alma matter, where opportunities for people watching are in abundance. Especially if you need to know what's fashionable. Sitting at the library entrance is much like scanning pinterest. You learn that it's still okay to roll up your jeans a few inches, but that the messy top bun should now be placed slightly to the side, preferably accompanied by a cute headband. At least in South Florida. Truly, learning never ceases in life.

And how nice to continue to learn in the place that prepared me for my vocation and the real world.
Last week, Jordan and I spent a lot of time on the PBA campus. He, writing grad school papers, and I blogging. Spending time on campus reminds me of so much I'd forgotten about what it was like to go to college in South Florida.

I'd forgotten how little lizards would scamper across the pavement, as I walked to class, their tails curled up behind them like a question mark. They'd stop suddenly and cock their heads, looking as if they wanted to know me. I'd forgotten how the city is crowded with noise of motorcycles, sirens, horns, planes, and loud laughter of college students wanting attention. I'd forgotten the smell of grease drifting from the cafeteria, that used to beckon me to dinner, and now, ten years later makes me feel slightly ill. But I didn't forget the gentle rustle of palm trees that accompanied me as I walked across campus. I didn't forget the feeling of freedom as I jumped off my bike onto the hot sand of the beach, or the sparkle of the inter-coastal waterway that lit up my soul.

I'd forgotten how I used to walk self-consciously: fast, like I was going somewhere important, sucking my stomach in and glancing at people out of the corner of my eye, wondering if they were watching me.  Feelings of insecurity came rushing back as I walked across campus to the library. I had to remind myself that these people were three years younger than my younger brother, and should no longer intimidate me. But I remembered the time a stranger told me to smile when I walked; to brighten someone else's day rather than focus on my own insecurities.

I'd forgotten that in college, I hadn't yet learned it was completely okay to be different. Forgotten the panic that engulfed me the third day of school when other girls spoke of wanting to "go out" and find cool bars. I wondered if I'd ever find a friend; if I'd ever fit in. But I didn't forget the beautiful friendships I eventually found with people who accepted me not only despite my quirks, but because of them.

I'd forgotten Thanksgiving break of freshman year when all my friends from home reported loving college and having the time of their life, and wondering if  I was the only one struggling. But I remembered how one by one, when I told my friends how hard college was, they let out a sigh and said it was the same for them.

I'd forgotten the panic attacks in class sophomore year that I never spoke of because I was ashamed and didn't have a name for them until years later. I'd forgotten the anxiety that was nearly drowning me and how I could barely walk to class alone some days without feeling like I was going to pass out. But I remembered the comforting smile of the first people I told about my anxiety, who confessed that they, too, knew the feeling, and I would be okay.

I'd forgotten how homesick I felt in this place I now consider a second home.
But I remembered the redemption of the hard places.

It's a mercy I've forgotten many of the things I have, but it's also a mercy to be reminded of them. Because I am not who I was ten years ago and I am deeply grateful for that. I never would have grown without the difficulties. I'm tempted to laugh at myself now, for the naive assumptions and unnecessary worry. But I was just a college girl with her hair in a messy bun, and her heart in a messy place who had yet to learn that I wasn't alone in my struggles. That I could just relax, because eventually it would be okay. I would be okay. I know the college girls of today, with the messy top buns, pushed slightly to the side, who are walking self-consciously to the library, will eventually realize that, too. And I hope when they come back to visit campus in ten years, they are reminded of the hard parts they'd forgotten, so they can remember the redemption lying beneath each struggle.