I sit on my twin bed in Danielsen Hall. My Snoopy blanket and warm lamp create a comfortable ambiance, perfect for falling down a rabbit hole of memories. The cars honk and zoom by outside, a sound I’ve become immune to.

As I’m scrolling through my camera roll, with my phone’s screen light illuminating older versions of myself, I reminisce.

I am suddenly back to junior year of high school when I first got my license, driving my friend group of five to Dunkin’ Donuts before class while they ask if I need more gas money. I am walking in the rain with Paula, as she convinces me to ask David 一 now my boyfriend of two years 一 on our first date.

Senior year comes around, and I spend it enjoying my last year of childhood. I wake up in the house I have always known and go to the school that has become home. I fool around in my classes with my friend Mikayla because our futures were already set. Every senior knows every rumor and story about each other, yet still share that weird kind of love that comes from growing up together.

I miss these times — not just the moments, but the person I was. Reminiscing ties me to my roots and makes me feel complete. But with it comes sadness.

The feeling is complex. While I mourn that era of my life, I also mourn that version of myself.

I was thrilled to go to college. It meant independence, fulfillment and pursuit of my interests. The idea of getting to learn so many different names, grasp new chances and shape my future intrigued me. The uncertainty of tomorrow was motivating.

But then, the first night at college hit. After being dropped off at my dorm, I sat in the empty room, wondering how to begin my journey.

I tried — I really did. But for some reason, I forgot how to interact with people. I went from being the most extroverted social butterfly to a shell of myself.

My thoughts consumed me. They ate me alive. I always knew how to make friends. I always talked to strangers and had the energy to pursue any opportunity. What changed?

When I talk to people, I hyperfixate on how I appear. How do I sound, look and act? I do not just get stressed anymore. Instead, my ability to breathe completely leaves me. All of my thoughts flood my head at once, suffocating me.

And on top of it all, I am so confused. Where did this feeling come from? What happened to the girl I used to be? I constantly long for the carefree, fun girl that I know still lives within me.

A lot of the time, I do not feel like myself. But then, other times, I wonder what that even means. Humans are fluid beings. Our unique experiences form who we are, and change is a part of growth.

But what if you do not like the way you’re changing?

Anxiety is like a monster under the bed — the one you’re scared of as a kid. Even if you want it to go away, it is lurking and waiting for you to get up so that it can grab your ankles. It waits to pull you right down to the darkness with it.

However, the beauty about the monsters is that they are not real.

When your parents would check under the bed, they would not find anything. They would assure us that there was nothing there.

We create the monsters. Therefore, we can work to get rid of them.

When I mourn the person I used to be, I fail to acknowledge the worth of the person I am becoming.

Living in the past prevents focusing on the future. Although she will always have a special place in my heart, I am not that high school girl anymore. I am someone more authentic and mature. By putting energy and love into myself today, the monsters will slowly disappear.

The truth: You can’t be who you were, but you can embrace who you are now. And when the thoughts become too much, remember the monsters are not real.

With a heart full,

Ava