Letter to my freshman-year self
Dear my freshman-year self,
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Dear my freshman-year self,
I’m 15 years old, and I’m sitting in my eye doctor’s office, learning how to put contact lenses into my eyes for the very first time. I’m practicing, yet I’m failing. My kind, patient eye practitioner says, “give it a drink” every time I fail, in reference to me soaking the contact lens with contact solution in order to make the process easier for my dry eyes. I chuckle. With every failure, I’m met with this same piece of advice. I try once more to place the lens into my eye, and once again, I fail. “Don’t worry, these things take time,” he says.
Growing up, I used to feel anxious before the Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur. The thought of spending hours at my synagogue on an empty stomach made me feel uneasy, and I always found the holiday to be a lengthy challenge that I just had to push through without question.
Last summer, while working with patients with Parkinson’s disease, I noticed one elderly patient who was incredibly nervous about her upcoming mobility test. Right before beginning her exam, she stared ahead at the large digital clock in the room. When she saw that the time was 12:14 p.m., she immediately relaxed her shoulders and let out a deep sigh. Tears gently welled up in her eyes as she became filled with emotion, radiating comfort and relief.
During my last week of studying abroad in Seville, Spain, I finally had the opportunity to go rowing in the canals of the Plaza de España, something I had been looking forward to for the entire semester. Even though I lived a five-minute walk away from the Plaza, I somehow hadn’t carved out the time to go rowing until the last possible moment.
My mom was younger than I am now when she moved from Brazil to the United States.
When I first landed at the airport in Sevilla this past August to study abroad, I felt an overwhelming weight on my shoulders. In addition to the sweltering heat and my exhaustion from travel, I felt immensely unfamiliar with my surroundings and didn’t know how I’d fit into the city.
Three hours and 36 minutes.
Checklists, bullet points and post-its cover my notes. Maps and pamphlets are sprawled out on the table. Sitting in Barnes and Noble with a yellow notepad in front of me and a stack of travel books to my left, I rapidly write down ideas for my upcoming trip.
I’m sleeping on a narrow twin-size bed with one mattress stacked on top of another, holding two thin polyester pillows and a singular bed sheet. The fan above me spins slowly, creating the slightest breeze to ease the humidity, and the morning sun begins to creep in through the reflective windows.
A few weeks ago, I woke up bright and early at 8 a.m. on a Saturday to attend the Waverly Farmers Market. I am usually tempted to sleep in and rest on Saturday mornings; however, this particular Saturday, my friend Reese and I were motivated to go to the Bramble Baking booth at the farmers market, which always sells out before 9 a.m.
Sitting on campus in between classes the other day, I looked out and saw a toddler chasing after soap bubbles. His grandma was sitting in a chair a few feet away, blowing these bubbles out of a circular wand, and there he was, running after them, vigorously trying to catch every single one before they popped. Each time he caught up to a bubble, he let out a giggle and a massive smile.
To celebrate this year’s Halloween season, I attended the “Buried Alive: Haunted Walk-Through Attraction” as part of the Hoptoberfest festivities.
Sitting at my grandparents’ breakfast table as a little kid, I once had the brilliant idea of taking one of the die from a board game and stuffing it up my ear. When I tried to take the die out, I counterintuitively pushed it farther and farther into my ear canal. Worried but embarrassed, I hesitated to tell anyone about what I had done, until my parents finally noticed hours later.
Whenever I think of the first day of school, I think of a specific photo of myself standing outside of my grandparents’ apartment in Rio. I’m 3 years old, wearing a school uniform, holding a clear backpack and grinning from cheek to cheek. My parents had put me and my sister in school in Rio during parts of July and August, and I was so excited to be able to attend.
When I was nine years old, I convinced my family to drive 3.5 hours to Hershey Park to see a Selena Gomez concert. As a huge child fan of the Disney show Wizards of Waverly Place, I was thrilled beyond belief to finally see Selena in person. As we found our seats on the bleachers of Hersheypark Stadium, I gradually noticed the clouds turn a dark gray, and I soon heard the rumbling noise of thunder. As a massive downpour began, the opening act exited the stage, and the concert came to a halt.
I recently stumbled upon a video of my 3-year-old self lying in bed, holding up a Fodor’s Washington, D.C. travel book with a confused look on my face. At the time, I couldn’t read yet, and I most definitely had not developed my passion for making travel itineraries, but I could pinpoint certain words and pictures that interested me. In the video, you can hear me excitedly yell, “I found the letter G! G is for Gabi...” in a barely coherent mix of English and Portuguese.
I’ve never considered myself much of a chef. Growing up, I only knew how to prepare the basics. From making Bisquick pancakes with my dad on Sunday mornings to rolling Brazilian brigadeiro chocolates with my mom in the middle of the night, I learned to cherish the time I spent cooking with my family, even if we were making the simplest of items.
My March 2020 began at midnight on the steps of a movie theater. My friends and I had just gone to see Parasite. The five of us sat huddled side-by-side with enormous bags of popcorn and candy, enthralled by every twist and turn the movie had to offer. We even chuckled when one of our friends pulled out a disinfectant wipe to clean her theater seat.
Was it a bummer having the end of your senior year taken away from you?