Purple Trees & Bumble Bees
MAY 4
This morning I woke up late, possessed by an antsy feeling that made me want to check my calendar every five minutes. I ignored it and got ready for class — only, it got worse. I tried attributing it to my morning cup of coffee, but no, I have that every morning. Then, maybe it was because I slept in? No, not that either. I just kept telling myself: you’re having an off day, it’s just anxiety, you’ll sleep it off tonight.
My brain won’t stop asking me questions — what is everyone else up to? Why aren’t you there? What will happen next? What are you doing? What should you be doing? Etc. etc. By 6 p.m., I still couldn’t get it to stop. After even more thinking, I might know why.
Summer is coming.
Most students can’t wait for it — home cooked meals, a relaxed schedule, nice weather. I dread it. Not to sound like a downer, but I think the last time I genuinely looked forward to summer was middle school.
I like feeling busy. When I’m doing things, I don’t have the extra space to feel anxious or let my brain conjure up worst-case scenarios. Summer, to me, has always felt like a battle of comparison — who’s traveling further, who’s surrounded by the most friends, who’s having the most fun. Summer itself isn’t the bad part. It’s the anticipation that kills me.
What I don’t say out loud is that the comparison isn’t really about anyone else. It’s about the quiet. The unscheduled, unwitnessed hours where there’s no one to perform busyness for. Just me.
So while I watch the neighborhood trees bloom purple and begin to worry about bees crowding my lunchbox on sunny days — while I try to take it in and appreciate it — some seasonal bomb in my chest is detonating. It’s screaming at me: pay attention! Your life and everyone in it is about to break loose!
For about two months I won’t be on the same campus as everyone else, and my friends won’t be a shouting distance away. So today I’ve decided: I need to learn to let go.
This summer is already fuller than most. There are cities I’ve never been to waiting for me, new disciplines to stumble through, and stretches of time that are mine in ways I’m not used to. The people and places I’m comfortable with will still be there — just not right next to me.
Lately, my head has been on repeat: you’ll feel lonely, you’ll be homesick, everyone else will be together and you won’t be there. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Everything is out of control. But I need to learn to talk back. Because how could I complain about a summer like this — me, who hates anticipating and planning? Two cities I’ve never seen, on opposite sides of the world, in one summer. I need to tell myself — it isn’t chaos, it isn’t out of control. It’s an open door that I’m entering one way or another.
What if I spent the summer in my hometown? No special plans, no noteworthy adventures, none of my school friends nearby to keep me company? They would still be there come fall. The people worth keeping don’t dissolve over two months.
The last six summers I can remember were all the same: a whirlwind of anticipation and stress over nothing. And even when things didn’t go the way I wanted, the only accidents that found me were happy ones.
Maybe tonight, for once, I’ll stop checking my calendar.