| As we near the final movement in the symphony of our college years, fear naturally begins to set in.
And it's not the kind of fear we felt four years ago at the cusp of adulthood, a fear that could be -- and was -- alleviated by our blind hope and adolescent naïveté, one ultimately subdued by the excitement of future promise. Standing on the steps of Constitution Hall, taking pictures with friends and family before we all parted ways, the depth of our worries really went no further than nervous apprehension of change and fresh beginnings. Because for whatever uncertainty we would face, the basic formula of the college experience effectively -- if only loosely -- mapped out the next stage of our lives, and provided us a home base to which we could return whenever in need of reorientation. We knew where we were going; we had an idea for how long; we could guess what was expected of us; and some of us even knew what we planned to do. And even if these changed throughout our four (or five, or sometimes six) years, the basic pattern -- study hard and get your degree -- would remain unaltered.
Yes, new friends, new classes, new schedules and new living arrangements would challenge the notions of normalcy that had rigorously defined our high school years, but within this fold of unfamiliarity we were simultaneously endowed with the promise of malleable freedom. We could, and were encouraged, to challenge and explore ourselves as part of the process. Sometimes, we might have gotten lost along the way. But whenever the challenges became too scary, the journey too rough, or the pressure too unbearable, we still had our bearings.
For many in the class of 2012 -- and the class of 2010, and 2009, and 2013, and 2014, and probably for many classes to come -- it is this loss of certainty that presents the biggest fear. The formula has been erased. There no longer remains a set path to guide yourself into the real world, and the only person you can rely on is yourself. There are no academic advisors, professors, or older students to hold your hand along the way, and while your parents will always root for you from the sidelines, one day you will be expected to stand up, shake off their coddling hugs and go into the world to pursue your dreams on your own. But there is no welcoming economy seeking to accommodate a growing number of overqualified graduates in a shrinking workforce; there are no companies praising your uniqueness, your individuality, and all the bullshit you've been force-fed for the past 16 years; there is no basic formula guaranteeing success, or even stability. And that... that is the definition of post-graduate fear.
For most people.
Because in direct contradiction to everything I have just written, certainty itself is the root of my own worries.
I stand in stark contrast to the masses constantly written about in online periodicals and print editorials. Maybe it's because I'm one of the few, the fortunate enough to gripe about certainty when uncertainty is the norm. But that doesn't make me feel any better.
Long before I entered college, I knew that I wanted an international career. An occupation that would take me to distant lands and exotic situations, filled with unfamiliar people, customs and languages; perhaps this is a by-product of coming from an expat family. But as these dreams slowly unravel into a tangible reality, rather than count my lucky stars, I find myself questioning them.
The certainty of my future is challenged only by detail; how will I go abroad? Where will I end up working? What will I end up doing? State Department was always the ultimate goal, but in an era of expanding internationally oriented governmental agencies -- and educational opportunities -- the options have multiplied. But it is certain that I will be abroad, and that I will be far from home for a very long time. But how long? My upcoming 10 months in Nanjing could easily turn into a year; one year could easily turn into several years; and could several years turn into a decade?
I still wrestle with many of the same uncertainties that my peers will grapple with in the coming weeks, months, and years: time, occupation, and money will always be headaches, irrespective of future plans. But the one constant factor in the equation -- that I will be gone from home, leaving everything and everyone I know and love for an indefinite period of time -- is somehow the most emotionally destabilizing.
Ironic, isn't it?
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