I was going about my day, minding my own business, when it hit me: Crap! I haven’t written anything for my blog in ages. At first, I felt guilty, like I should have been documenting every thought, every little victory. But then I realized why I haven’t been writing: I’m finally living fully in the moment. I’m enjoying life in a way that makes chronicling it almost secondary. And maybe that’s okay. There’s something profound about being so present that you forget to record it—the way sunlight catches on leaves, the laughter spilling over on a late-night call, the quiet relief of finally letting go of something that used to weigh you down.
To start the summer or rather, to close the school year, I finished my finals, and the relief was almost physical. I got an A in math, a subject that once felt like an insurmountable wall. That statistics course was a battleground for me: hours spent camped outside my professor’s office, countless nights wrestling with formulas and concepts. And yet, when I finally understood, it wasn’t just about grades. It was about realizing that persistence, patience, and belief in my own capability could move mountains, or at least, make me good at something I never thought I could master. That lesson extends far beyond math: I can grow, I can challenge myself, and I can succeed, even when I’m afraid I can’t.
Friendship has been another profound lesson this summer. I’ve come to understand that friendship isn’t just companionship—it’s culture. It’s a language, a ritual, a shared world built from countless small interactions. I spent hours on late-night FaceTimes, shared casual dinners, and spontaneous adventures, and each moment was a thread weaving together a tapestry of connection. Emily, Naya, and Gracie—I owe so much of my wellbeing to you. From playing Minecraft on FaceTime to running into the ocean at sunset, you’ve reminded me what it means to feel supported, seen, and celebrated. And I’ve also had to accept that some friendships naturally shift or fade. That doesn’t make them less meaningful; it simply reflects that life moves forward. Sometimes absence makes the heart recognize value more clearly.
Then there was midsummer, which felt like the perfect encapsulation of my summer’s ethos: joy, chaos, connection. A day at the beach, an evening of drinking, dancing, laughter, and shared stories. It wasn’t the wild party I imagined, but that didn’t matter. Being with my friends, all in one place, made it electric in its own way. The weekend had its messy moments (like throwing up in the Starbucks parking lot) but those moments, messy as they are, are part of life’s texture. They are proof of living fully, without restraint or fear of judgment.
Growth also came quietly and introspectively. My therapist has been instrumental in this process, helping me untangle anxiety and learn to protect my energy. This summer, I made a deliberate effort to let go of things and people that no longer serve me. That conscious choice to prioritize my wellbeing has reshaped who I am. It’s the reason I feel different from the girl I once was: more grounded, more present, more honest with herself.
Even the everyday moments held significance. My journalism internship wasn’t just about work; it was about listening deeply, honoring other people’s stories, and finding my own voice in the process. Writing for my school newspaper now feels like more than a personal achievement; it’s a way to connect, to influence, to create meaning beyond myself. Babysitting Emma, a spirited four-year-old, offered yet another mirror. Through her playfulness, curiosity, and energy, I remembered how much I love teaching and guiding others, and how joy can often be found in simplicity.
This summer was, above all, a meditation on presence, growth, and human connection. The little victories, the laughter, the moments of insight—they all add up. They remind me that living fully doesn’t require grand gestures or extraordinary adventures. Sometimes it’s about showing up, being present, and recognizing the quiet beauty in ordinary days. And this summer, I showed up and I lived.
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