The end of an academic year is always a curious blend of emotions, a bittersweet symphony that plays out in the hallowed halls of our college. As an assistant professor, I’ve witnessed this cycle repeat for nearly fifteen years – the eager arrival of fresh-faced students, their journey through knowledge and growth, and then, the inevitable farewell as they step out into the vast expanse of the world.
This departure, this act of saying goodbye, carries a weight that often surprises us all. Suddenly, the final year students, on the cusp of a significant life transition, become acutely vulnerable. The comfortable structure of college life dissolves before them, replaced by the daunting question of “what next?”. It’s during these poignant moments that they often seek out guidance, a listening ear amidst the swirling anxieties. And in those conversations, a profound truth often emerges: more than answers, they crave to be heard, their fears and hopes acknowledged.
It’s a bittersweet feeling for us educators too. We’ve watched these young individuals evolve, nurtured their potential, perhaps even offered a stern word or two when needed. Over time, a unique bond forms, a sense of protectiveness akin to a parent for their child. Releasing them into a world that feels undeniably harsher, less forgiving than the sheltered environment we’ve cultivated, can be emotionally taxing.
The last few weeks, the final exams, the farewell ceremonies – these become precious, almost sacred moments. Both students and teachers cling to this shared time and space, a tacit understanding that this particular constellation of people, within these familiar walls, may never quite align again. Perhaps it’s more than mere destiny that orchestrates these temporary unions.
The silence that descends after the final farewell is deafening. The once bustling corridors, filled with the vibrant energy of youthful chatter and hurried footsteps, now echo with a quiet emptiness. You walk past empty classrooms, each desk a silent testament to the laughter and learning that once filled the space. It’s in these quiet moments that the true weight of departure settles in.
You remember the small victories, the late-night study sessions, the shared anxieties before exams – fragments of a shared history that now feel like cherished relics.
You recall a student who struggled with self-doubt, their voice barely a whisper in the initial classes, who now stands tall, ready to face the world with newfound conviction. You remember another who overcame personal challenges with quiet resilience, their graduation a testament to their unwavering spirit. These are not just names on a transcript; they are individuals whose journeys have intertwined with your own, leaving an indelible mark on your heart. And as they step out into the world, carrying with them the seeds of knowledge and guidance you’ve sown, a silent prayer escapes your lips – a wish for their happiness, their safety, their success in a world that can be both breathtakingly beautiful and unforgivingly cruel. The letting go feels like releasing a part of yourself, a hope carried on their young shoulders, into the vast unknown.
My mind often wanders back to the day these students first arrived, barely seventeen, their eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and excitement as they navigated orientation or their initial counselling sessions. We’ve seen them blossom, their personalities take shape, their intellect sharpen. We’ve cheered their triumphs and offered solace during their setbacks. And now, we stand at the precipice of their next chapter, a silent hope echoing within us that they will carry fond memories of their time here, that we, their mentors, will hold a positive space in their recollections as they carve their own paths.
It’s a funny twist of life’s narrative when some of my former students, now parents themselves, arrive at the very same school to pick up their children, just as I do for my own son. It’s a stark reminder of the cyclical nature of life, and also of my own journey, having joined this institution as a fresh graduate, barely older than the students I now guide. I, too, have evolved within these walls, alongside them.
Indeed, goodbyes are hard. They tug at the heartstrings, leaving a lingering ache of what was. We latch onto memories, replaying shared laughter, inside jokes, moments of collective learning. Perhaps it’s our human instinct to resist change, to find comfort in the familiar. Yet, as the quote beautifully reminds us, “Sunsets are proof that endings can be beautiful too.”
The finality of farewell can feel like a loss, a closing of a significant chapter. It can evoke a sense of being adrift, like the poignant lyrics of Adam Levine’s “Lost Stars,” stating turn the page, may be we’ll find a brand new ending” – yearning for a guiding light in the face of uncertainty. Or perhaps, like the turning of a page in a well-loved book, as Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page” suggests, this ending is simply a prelude to a brand new beginning, an unwritten chapter brimming with possibilities.
There are moments that crystallize this bittersweet reality. The hesitant handshake from a usually boisterous student, their eyes holding a depth of emotion rarely seen. The quiet “thank you, ma’am” that carries more weight than a formal address. The lingering glances back at the college building as their cars pull away, carrying them towards an unknown horizon.
These are the instances that underscore the profound impact of our shared journey, the invisible threads that connect us even as physical distance grows.
And while a part of us mourns the ending, another part swells with pride and hope for the bright futures that await them. The cycle will begin anew in July, but the echoes of these goodbyes, the memories forged, will forever resonate within these walls and within our hearts.
