This article marks the end of a four-year journey—my time at the University of Virginia. From years one to three, I learned much about myself and the world around me. Everyone I encountered catalyzed my quest for self-discovery.

Some stayed; many didn’t. Luckily, the ones worth keeping stuck around.

My fourth year was marked by heartbreak, something I was truly experiencing for the first time. It's a story that's deeply uncomfortable for me to reflect on, one that disproportionately defined my self-perception and emotional experience as I neared the end of my undergraduate years.

I met him at the beginning of the summer before my senior year, and I spent the next several months (begrudgingly) falling in love with him. I had feelings and flings before, but nothing as emotionally significant as this. He was exactly what I thought I was looking for: smart, kind (sort of), and someone who saw me exactly as I was. I fell in love with the idea of him and the version of myself I became when I was around him.

My mental health had temporarily delayed my journey to romantic fulfillment, so I entered the situation somewhat blindly. Falling in love was terrifying, unpredictable, and unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was messy because I had no boundaries with my anxiety at that time, and it seeped into our relationship. Driven by fear, I approached the situation with a sense of lack and the false belief that someone outside of me could “save” me from my suffering.

The signals were mixed, affection was withheld—red flags I didn’t yet recognize—and I never knew where I stood. The emotional highs and lows were intoxicating, and I stayed stuck as my nervous system desperately searched for answers to a problem that should have never existed.

Looking back, I stayed emotionally invested for far longer than I should have. But when you’re 21 and falling in love for the first time, you don’t know better. (This is a conclusion I’ve come to now that my frontal lobe is almost fully developed.)

When it came time to be brave and share my feelings, I learned what it felt like not to be loved back. And it was deeply traumatizing. I had neither heard the term “unrequited love” nor given it much thought. The rejection was nuanced and layered with mental health struggles, but, plain and simple, he didn’t love me back. I was devastated. I remember the night after I shared my unreciprocated feelings, lying on my floor and sobbing. It felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach.

I hadn’t yet embraced the emotional realities of life, love, and loss. I felt like I was physically dying. I felt stupid for having feelings, misinterpreting so many moments, and not walking away when it was time. The pain was so intolerable I convinced myself I was the first and only person in history to experience that gut-wrenching sadness. I cried for days and turned on myself, blaming myself for our “failed” connection.

Now I understand that I took the wrong lessons from this experience. My mental health still wasn’t being properly addressed, and I shredded my self-worth. Everything was my fault, he was perfect, and I’d never find love.

Stuck in my pain and self-pity, I couldn’t see the vast opportunities for new love that awaited me in the coming months. I regret that still, but I cannot change the past. I had placed someone on a pedestal, someone I wasn’t even compatible with. And the thing is, when you put someone on a pedestal, the fall is much longer.

To wrap up that chapter: I got my feelings wrecked by someone I was anxiously attached to, stayed stuck in a mental cycle, and learned more about myself than I could have ever imagined. It was a terrible experience, but it reshaped how I saw the world.

Beyond that heartbreak, I also felt the sadness of my rowing arc ending. After spending a year teaching myself to row, the coach who recruited and worked with me transferred to another school to become a head coach. I went through a week of tryouts for the team at the beginning of September, only to be cut on the final day because I had effectively aged out.

I was sad, but also weirdly relieved because, honestly, I wasn’t sure I was interested in devoting that much time and energy to a goal that would only last a single year. The timing wasn’t right, but I did the best I could. And I got to be damn good at rowing.

Amid my heartache and disappointment, I leaned into my friendships as much as possible. I grieved, wrote, and did my best each day to focus on the things that could make me feel good.

I didn’t want my pain and self-loathing to diminish my college experience. After all, I was worth more than that.

Nothing much noteworthy happened during my fourth year beyond these events at the start (save for a nose piercing). Looking back, I’m angry at how much energy I wasted hating myself for my heartache. I never metabolized my pain; I choked on it for months.

I missed out on so many opportunities to love and laugh because I stayed stuck on the idea of someone I didn’t even know anymore. And, quite frankly, someone I didn’t even like.

Writing became my reprieve during this time, a blessing in disguise. I couldn’t articulate my pain aloud, so I wrote it instead. And that was the beginning of my literary journey. I got senioritis after submitting my thesis that winter. I focused on hanging out with my friends and trying to build my future after graduation.

As graduation approached in May, I knew I needed to finally make time to get my ankle reconstructed after leaving. I was disappointed, but the lingering injuries had demanded attention for years.

It was a terrible decision, but I chose the ability to walk pain-free in 10 years over the allure of starting my life after being released into the world, like all my friends. Leaving UVA was painful, but I no longer fit in there. It was time for change, and there were so many goodbyes I couldn’t keep track of.

And what a huge accomplishment it was to graduate from a school like UVA. I left a completely different person; someone who had metamorphosed in ways I couldn’t have conceptualized as an 18-year-old.

So, I said goodbye, uncertain of what lay ahead, but charging bravely into the unknown, trusting myself and my experience.