Our strings attached is a recurring column written by me, Opinion Co-Editor Olivia Langlan. Last semester, I created this column to unveil common ground in the college experience. I explored one of the most fundamental parts of humanity: connection. This semester, I intend to share my honest insight as I prepare for life beyond college. Only 21, I feel extremely naive and unprepared as I navigate this life. This feeling is not unique, but I hope to share valuable experiences and exploration from the eyes of a peer.
This summer felt like fiction.
My reality was dreamlike, one that I could never see for myself until I was living through it.
Each day was so full that I didn’t have time to reflect on the impact everything was having on me. For the first time in years, I was living — really living — rather than spending my time tirelessly thinking.
I grieved the loss of my grandfather, this grief recently reignited by the loss of another soul. I ventured to Italy, visiting two amazing friends and collecting crazy solo travel tales. I soaked up my last Burlington summer, sunsets and slow days.
With a grand finale to the summer, visiting family on the Greek island of Corfu.
While I was in Greece, the start of the fall semester loomed on the horizon. On the last night of the trip, my uncle inquired about my feelings about the upcoming school year. I was three days away from starting senior year.
Truthfully, I felt no excitement. I feared the uncertainty, anticipating this new phase, holding heartbreak and hell instead of rising to the challenge of change.
The thing I feared most, which I don’t yet feel comfortable sharing, consumed me. This fear has since come to fruition, leaving me in an emotional state that has temporarily stapled shut the walls of my now fragile heart.
During that dinner in Greece, I shared the doubts with my family, voicing them out loud for the first time. Upon voicing them, I felt no relief. My fear of loss and lack of direction was now tangible.
My uncle and aunt listened through this waterfall of worries. I prepared myself for a code or a lesson or at least some wisdom.
Instead, my uncle and aunt gave me advice that I’d heard so many times before. Coming from them, though, it felt completely different.
They are people who stop at nothing to achieve the life they want.
Their life on Corfu began with a breathtaking plot of land they saw on vacation there a decade ago. It sat on a cliff, overlooking the Ionian Sea. At the time, the plot of land wasn’t for sale, but my aunt trusted that if it was meant to be, the land would someday be theirs.
Years later, they bought the coastal plot, quickly building a villa and other properties around the island. During the height of the pandemic, they toggled between Israel and Corfu.
A year and a half ago, they moved away from Israel for the foreseeable future. I realize the privilege that allowed them to completely transplant their life, but still I admire them for making such an enormous change.
To them, uncertainty wasn’t worrisome; it was just the possibility of a life that hadn’t happened yet.
My uncle elaborated that remaining open to my surroundings and clearly defining my hopes and intentions meant that opportunities, connections and events that shape my dreams would enter my life.
The story of unrecoverable loss, missed opportunities and close-mindedness that I convinced myself of would bring about a reality that continued to chip away at my dreams, welcoming additional negativity.
Back in the States, I decided I would attempt to follow the advice. I would think in abundance, creating a dialogue that manifested the reality I desired.
Within the first week of school, I learned that altering my thoughts doesn’t stop the fears from materializing. But it does change how I let them affect me and the ways I force myself to stand back up, collecting my shattered pieces.
I’m writing with a broken heart, but at least I’m writing. I’ll continue to write and live.
And I think this is what my aunt and uncle were implying. Uncertainty is never about the events themselves but instead the fear of how I will handle them.
I feared falling apart, which I did, and I may continue to do. However, I can now accept the pain of lessons, knowing that I will learn something from these losses.
This summer I was reminded of the complex nature of life, the ever-unfolding and unpredictable way experiences, people and opportunities enter and exit.
I learned that it was actually the things I didn’t expect that prompted the most growth and provided me with my most treasured memories.
For now, I’ll ride this wave, and when another wave crests, I’ll ride that one too. One day at a time.
Stay open-minded and open-hearted.
Peace, Olivia.
The Vermont Cynic accepts letters in response to published material, as well as any issues of interest in the community. Please limit letters to 350 words. The Cynic reserves the right to edit letters for length and grammar. Please send letters to [email protected].
