by Grace Pappadellis ’29 on September 17, 2026
Opinion
My dad rolled his Honda Passport onto the hot tan concrete around Shanley Hall, right at the front entrance. There was a thick patch of bright green grass that appeared as the perfect repository for my life packed in duffles and cases. The feeling this year was different from the last. Not only did my back hurt less—I had fewer bags to haul up endless flights of stairs because I had learned the hard way that packing every item of clothing you have will only turn your dorm room into one massive laundry basket—but as my eyes surveyed the bustling campus still in summer’s humid grasp, I felt a tranquil, uncluttered freedom. It wasn’t just the bigger, modern building with optimal space and air conditioning, but the calmness that comes with the sudden dousing of familiarity. The immediate relief when you realize you recognize your surroundings, your peers, and you feel the embrace of your now closest friends instead of the reticent hugs you receive from brand new, nervous suitemates. Not that those novel, defining experiences when you first start college aren’t beautiful in their own right. I can remember freshman year move-in day—freshman year as a whole—in the same way I remember the taste of my favorite home-cooked meals made by my parents, and the sickeningly sweet scent of ocean air coming off the waves at the tip of the island. These memories are ingrained, permanent, however fuzzy and fading in an attempt to zero in on them. I felt as though I’d remember certain moments forever, in fine detail, without considering that maybe humans remember things not because of the pervasive nature of those fleeting actions, but because of the feeling that was left behind, a feeling that cannot be replicated or reified or resurrected in the same way as it once lived. These memories may grow indistinct over time, but feelings stay forever. They wrap themselves around you and keep you warm, or possibly squeeze too hard.
In spite of true happiness and renewal, it is common for humans—specifically those still trying to understand who they are and morphing their identities—to long for what once made them happy and fulfilled, even if it would not do so in the new and improved state of their life. It seems that regardless of how satisfied humans are by the expansion and growth of their position in life, clinging to past feelings, memories, and places is still an undeniable occurrence. A new year in college brings new classes, friends, opportunities, living arrangements, ideas, and feelings that have progressed from the end of last semester until now. Looking back, I was aching for a fresh start, a revival of myself, and I couldn’t wait to experience a new dorm with ample space and a modern atmosphere. I see campus from various new angles now—my dorm location physically different from last year—and even though my eyes are clear and I’m relishing in an updated vision on my new routes to class, I can’t help but miss the cozy, crammed cave that once housed my roommate and me whenever I walk past McVinney Hall. I remember the room always being warm and sunny, our window lighting up the entire space with a soft, golden glow into the fall months, as summer slowly waned. The distant city skyline was decorated with bright lights and buildings all through the cold, dark winter, so even with the absence of sun pouring over campus, we still had something beautiful to look at. In my bed, I’d roll over and immediately see my roommate, my best friend, and we were so close in proximity that we could hold hands to fall asleep. We could hear each other snoring over the rickety fan noises and the wind whipping through the trees outside. We never closed our window, even when it snowed. Books strewn about, stacks of packages, shoes on each other’s sides, jackets teetering on doors, laundry baskets filled to the brim. Close, together, always.
I hold these fond memories near and dear to my being. I try not to let them cling in an overbearing way, and I try not to be saddened by the way I sometimes long for the past and those comforts, but I am only human. My mind, which is so familiar to me now, has skies filled with soaring memories, gliding and shifting to all places except where they can remain still. I’d like to find a blank sky, a blank slate, complete emptiness save for the distant trees. Those trees will have lanky, twisting branches. They’ll hold the nests for all the things that I know and all the things that I’ve felt. Inactive but present, and mine. To call upon when I want my skies to be full of life, trusting wings caressing the clouds and treetops. I don’t have complete agency over the clearness of my sky, and I can’t be certain that I can rest my memories on command, but I can alter how I live with them. I can reify their meanings and understand them to be all the wonderful, sorrowful, bittersweet, unfortunate, hilarious and undeniably joyful events that have incited the most progressive and necessary changes in my life and human self.
Let your memories shape you and heal you, as they’ve earned their residency in your skies and your strong, lofty trees. However, don’t give them the power to hinder the opportunities for transcendence in your life, even the basic act of moving on, moving forward, or simply trying to. If I could let my memories fly forever, I’d dedicate my entire sky to them, but to let them fly home is to let go of the feigned ownership we have of our past lives.