New year, new term, and new horizons
My New Year’s resolution was to start swimming again.
I never went competitive. I refused to do 4 am training. Instead, I was on the path to becoming a lifeguard or instructor. That path ended after I dealt with the consecutive waves of cancer and COVID. The first took me out of commission, with tubes poking out of my skin which couldn’t get wet, and energy so fleeting I struggled to walk down the street, let alone swim a 50-meter lap. The second wave hit just as I was regaining my strength, shutting down the pools where I could have practiced, or one day, worked. After that, life just moved too fast for me to get back into the water. I used to swim pretty fast. I had to. For the life of me, I could not dive. I knew the technique. I could picture the motion and position my hands well above my head, pointing down to the water, and then—my head tilts up. I always have to see what’s in front of me. To keep up with the best of my cohort, I gained strength in my legs and perfected my technique to overtake the hurdle of my emerging bellyflop with the speed of my laps. I haven’t swam laps since I was fourteen. That’s almost a decade ago, yet somehow I could swear it was yesterday.
The years shrink as they pass by. I remember the stretched days of my childhood, taking in so many new things that time itself slowed so I could enjoy all of it. Eventually, a rhythm takes hold. Class after class, and extracurricular after extracurricular. Yet just as I’ve found the right balance for university life, I must prepare for a new change: a life after school.
I am honestly excited to enter the regular world of work—to gain more stability, and pursue my passions without worrying about my GPA. To work a 9 to 5 instead of 24/7. Not only that, I’m excited for a new place to live. As I’ve had the privilege to stay in residence throughout undergrad as both a student and Don, I realised that I have not lived in one place for more than eight months since I was seventeen years old. I’m excited to have a permanent address, to accumulate decor, and even while renting, to feel that a place is mine.
My final year of high school had a sense of finality; I had done it all and was marching forward in my path. This year feels different. I haven’t done it all. I’ve learnt only a fraction of the knowledge stored in this institution. It feels less like I’m marching forward, but instead, as if the fence around me is coming down. There is no longer a forward path to follow onto the next thing, but paths open in all directions. I know my skills, and I know my passions, yet the gifts of possibility come with the cost of choice. Where will I live? What will I do? Who will I be?
Time does not wait for us to take it all in anymore. As the engineers blast their band into the midnight air, a new term has begun. My last term—should fate not swindle me into an extra year. I am excited for one last review of my syllabi with the same copy-pasted paragraphs in each class, one last race across the eternal stretch of Queen’s Park between lectures, and one last rant with friends about the essays we should be writing. I’ll find joy in the final all-nighters, study sessions, and exam jitters. I know an end is coming, but I don’t feel it yet. I hope it will at least creep up on me rather than just pass me by.
As we start the new term, the final sprint, I’m getting up on my diving block. Fingers gripping the edge. Not knowing what lays out ahead of me in the open waters, but accepting it. Waiting for the whistle. Ready to take the plunge.
