School is back in full swing, and I’m not in it. For the first time in my life, I’m no longer a student, and I’m facing gargantuan life changes: In the months since graduation, I’ve moved, acquired a car, said goodbyes to friends, worked part-time jobs, and transitioned to a full-time position. None of which have an opening convocation. All of which happen without a peep on random Tuesdays.
I’ve realised I’d been swallowing two pills that have been pushed over the years. First: “College is going to be the best years of your life.” As someone who often finds herself gazing into the abyss of the unknown, asking, what then?, it seems like it all goes downhill from the minute graduation is over. College is full of bests and never-agains, and ensuing adulthood is a bleak scape of slaving away at some corporate nine-to-five. Graduation, made out to be this incredible milestone, simply came and went. Second: “The best is yet to come.” ….Okay. So, which one is it?
It’s not that I’m rejecting celebrations. It’s more that I reject the idea of bleakness after a mountaintop, the idea that the only way forward is down. Milestones feel an awful lot like checklists for life achievements. Once a box is filled, it’s on to earn the next badge.
Here’s a picture for you.
The basement flat I live in with my best friend, Mel, is small, but cozy, and when the hurricane of unpacking my earthly belongings subsided from the floor, we quickly realised we were in dire need of expanding our kitchenette.
Am I old if I get excited about cabinetry? Maybe. It’s one of the joys (and afflictions) that come with moving in. Measurements, ripping out trim. Ordering shims and choosing countertops. Mel spent a weekend staining the new cupboards, and we trundled out to Hobby Lobby (a dangerous place indeed) to buy knobs to fit onto our new drawers.
Mel and I have opposite working schedules with commutes in opposite directions—me, to Grand Rapids; her, to Holland. Which means she’s usually up at the crack of dawn while I’m still snoozing away, or she’s tucked in bed by 9 p.m., as I putter around the rest of my night with nothing on but my candle lamp. I started prepping my lunches by crouching frog-legged on the floor in front of the open refrigerator, assembling sandwiches by fridge-light, so as not to wake her.
Which is why, on the rare day our schedules eclipsed, when I found her crouched in front of the fridge in almost the exact same position, I laughed so hard I almost spilled the open carton of milk onto the carpet.
And then I remembered how she found me on the floor of our KE apartment, sitting in that silent awe that comes with endings, hours after graduation. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” How we cried, curled up on the rug behind our Facebook-Marketplaced coffee table. How the afternoon sunlight streamed in. How it’s that moment I’ll remember, over anything to do with my cap and gown.
It’s nice to know that milestones are often just that—no more than pebbles marking your journey. There aren’t always grand archways to step through, or big stages to walk across. More often than not, they look like crouching with your housemate in the light of the open fridge, making sandwiches and sniffing at the expired carton of chocolate milk.
Adult with me under the fridgelight. Know the best is not past, but right before us.
Chantale Shuāng Van Tassel (‘26) grew up in Hong Kong as an American-Taiwanese TCK and studied writing, linguistics, and Asian studies at Calvin. A lover of tea and aspiring polyglot, she enjoys cooking for her loved ones and tromping around big cities on a never-ending quest for dessert and the perfect pair of jeans.
