Farewell column: This is how you start to let go

I’ve never been good at goodbyes. I much prefer a quick hug and a “see-you-later” to a drawn-out adieu. It’s not because I’m not emotional; on the contrary, it’s because I’m afraid I’ll start to weep as soon as I meet your eyes with that “Well, this is it” look we’ve all seen before.

But I’m not looking to make this column a French leave or an Irish exit. In keeping with the tradition set forth by current and former staff members at The Alligator, I present to you, in roughly 600 words, my farewell column.

This is how you start to let go. You look around your college apartment with the tapestries on the walls, the empty wine bottles on the cabinet tops and the cheap, plushy chairs in the living room. You walk with a little less urgency as you pass Century Tower. You look up and around you a little more, breathe a little more deeply. You smile a little more to yourself.

This is how you start to let go. You mind a little less when someone catches you on Turlington Plaza with a flier. You print your essay with borrowed paper and realize only after turning it in that it’s the last one of your undergraduate years. You chuckle like the seasoned student you are while everyone else registers for classes next year.

This is how you start to let go. You say “yes” a little bit more. You say “no” a little bit more, too. Your throat tightens when you notice the milk expires after graduation. You shake your head because grocery shopping shouldn’t induce this much emotion. You cross the days off the calendar until the rest of the semester is staring right back at you. You don’t know whether to smile or shudder, so you do both.

This is how you start to let go. You go to Midtown with your friends on a weekday and stay in with your roommates on the weekend, just because. You show up to your final exam without a pencil. You end sentences with “...before we all …” and trail off without finishing the thought. You walk through campus, through Midtown, through downtown and the memories flood back. You let them.

This is how I’ve started to let go. I’ve reflected on the experiences that have made me, me each year I’ve been here. I’ve remembered the veteran members of my extracurriculars and classes who welcomed a frightened, confused teenager into their ranks. I’ve thought of the friends, new and old, who pulled me close and said, one way or another, “You have a home here.”

This is how I’ve started to let go. I’ve felt nostalgic for a place I haven’t even left yet. I’ve begun to write it all down. I’ve hugged people a little tighter, and honestly, I’ve studied a little less. I’ve said “thank you” in my head more times than I can count — and I know it’s time to start saying those thank-yous out loud. But you’ll have to excuse me if the tears start to flow.

Letting go is a process of loving, even though you know it’s time to leave. For me, it’s just about that time. I will never forget the memories I’ve made, the lessons I’ve learned and the folks I’ve shared the time with along the way. I am, and always will be, grateful for this university, for this town and for these people. Good luck to all of you, no matter where life takes you in the future near and far.

This is how I’ve let go.

Mia Gettenberg is a UF criminology and philosophy senior. This is her final column.