My cat’s favorite activity is to jump onto my shoulders as I walk through my house. Sometimes I think it’s because he gets to see his world from a different perspective—maybe that of a bird, or, more simply, mine. But he closes his eyes and flexes his claws, holding on for dear life. I’m not sure he really even enjoys it. So, is he scared of the height? Is he afraid of falling? That doesn’t make any sense. A cat can withstand a fall from a much steeper height than that of my shoulders. Seems stupid, right? If I could just ask him, maybe I’d find out. Or, maybe he’d just brush it off like the rest of us do. “Well, it’d be inconvenient if I fell. I’m just playing it safe.” But enough about talking cats. The point is, he’s not unlike most of us—unable to enjoy something beautiful for fear of something dangerous.
I believe we live in fear of ourselves—of letting other people see our true fears, weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and passions. We spend so much time lying to ourselves about who we are that we lose sight of who and what we love. We build barriers around our soul, most times impenetrable even by our own selves. And we do this despite the fact that love can only survive within this fortress of self, ceaselessly burning at the center of our being. It is not by chance, then, that those I have loved and continue to love seem to me the most flawed people I know. And that is a beautiful thing.
Because these people feel real. They feel like love, like home—joyful, comforting, and painful. Sure, the barrier is still there. But we are offered glimpses inside—flashes of their values, stories, and weaknesses.
We live in fear of someone barging in and crashing through our walls, afraid they will be disgusted by what they find. So, we “play it safe.” But again and again, we find that what lies within is exactly what ties us so intimately with one another—it is what we each share, no matter how different we may appear from the outside.
Despite all I have said, I impart so many judgements upon many of you without really knowing you. I criticize those who I believe are “fake” without ever bothering to find out what would make them real. I pride myself on being transparently me until I realize that few of you actually know anything about me.
It would be a pointless exercise to try to fix that now. High school has been boxed up and stowed away with the rest of our memories. Instead, I offer an apology—and a celebration. Things that I hope you could reciprocate.
First, an apology for the lack of empathy we’ve spared each other, for all the times we’ve turned away instead of offering a hand. An apology for the bitterness and spite we’ve needlessly burdened one another with. An apology for the judgement we’ve carelessly given and the passion we’ve so ignorantly dismissed. And an apology for waiting until graduation to express it.
With that said, I believe there is due cause for celebration, as well. Together, we have experienced so much joy, connection, and pain. I urge you to celebrate the walls you’ve helped tear down, and take a moment to appreciate those who were able to pierce through yours.
It would be far too easy to fixate on either one—the mournful reflection of apology or the blissful ignorance of celebration. Both are necessary, and together both are difficult. But both are, in my opinion, almost identical. Each represents an acknowledgment of and a willingness to move on from the past—from the many acts of kindness and harm that we have given and endured.
Over the past several years, I have been lucky enough to have been surrounded by those who are unafraid of the hardships and devastation that are inextricably bound to love in all its forms. These people have wrapped me up and guided me through the most difficult and spectacular times of my life, as I have done to them.
These people, among others, have each stepped through my own walls and allowed me to see past theirs, for better or worse. I would be lying if I said I didn’t regret some of it. It’s easy to remember the hurt and forget the good. But for every ounce of pain we may have inflicted on one another, the joy and excitement persists tenfold. Our time may be waning, but please do not live in fear of love and true intimacy. After all, the only way to find out if you can fly is if you fall first.
I urge you to let the sun set on the past eighteen years of our lives. What’s done is done, and we cannot go back. But do not mistake this for dismissal—allow yourself to linger a little longer, and appreciate the joy, sorrow, and wisdom these years have given you. And before night falls and a new day rises, enjoy the view—because what a beautiful sight it is.
