Alexa Babin

May 19, 2021

My phone buzzed with a text from my friend Courtney this morning. It was a photo of us right before we walked the stage to graduate from The University of Texas at Austin. “4 years ago!!” her message read.

Four years ago. I finished a season, and in a way, it feels like I’m about to finish another one now. I’ve been out of college just as long as I was in it. I’ve been a graduate for the exact amount of time that I was a student. It’s a weird time warp. I’m afraid if I think too hard, my brain might explode into a million little pieces. Or maybe it’ll be my heart.

The last four years have been both inexpressibly good and deceivingly hard. From my social media feed, one might assume that it’s been pretty sunny in my world. This is California, after all. But there’s always more going on than what the surface will show. It’s like looking at the ocean, admiring the way it reflects the light without considering the dark sand being stirred below. People have a hard time unearthing those hidden things—yet they are the very things that remind us we’re in this together, and no one has figured it all out yet.

I let myself do something this morning that I don’t always indulge in, for fear of running out of time—I reminisced.

I found myself sitting at my kitchen table, scrolling back to the post I made on Instagram the day I graduated college. Four years ago today. I had to see the date to understand it was real. Courtney wasn’t joking with me when she sent that text. We’ve been out in the world, finding our way for four whole years. Who could have known what would come?

When I consider what my post-college life has been, I am overtaken by a number of thoughts. They’re all jumbled together, and consist of things like gratitude, joy, frustration, fear, growth, dreams, anger, disappointment, and grace. I see each of these in abundance, and I can’t fathom how I could untangle them all, even if I spent the rest of my life pulling strand from strand, searching for the place they all connect.

At graduation, we walked across a stage. It signified crossing over from one chapter of life to the next. I remember waiting in line for my name to be called. I had my gown, cap, stole, and cords. I was ready. But I also wasn’t. It felt right and wrong all at once. My four years at UT Austin were among the best of my life. I wasn’t ready to let go, say goodbye. I remember the tension of graduating being so hard to manage because it was a major life change, and I didn’t know how to take it in stride.

I was excited to see what life had next, but I was scared that I wouldn’t find my way. Amazingly, I find myself within this precise tension today. I’m thrilled at the possibility that something great is headed my way, but I’m terrified I won’t be cut out for it.

When my name was finally called, I did my best to walk with poise and purpose across the stage in my heels. I smiled big. Exuberant and nervous. A photographer snapped my photo just off the end of the stage, and every time I look at it, I laugh at how big that smile is. The act of walking across the stage in front of friends, family, and fellow classmates was a ritual. It wasn’t required, but it was a physical act to demonstrate the completion of a season. It felt wrong not to participate—I wanted the world to know I was coming. I was being sent out from one home to build a new one.

This week has been a little all over the place. At the core, I’m facing some fears about my dreams. What if I’m not good enough? What if I never meet the right person or get that chance to find my place? What if I heard God wrong and this isn’t it?

It’s here that I find myself.

My name is being called and I’ve got to step out on the stage.

To get anywhere that’s ahead, to discover what’s in store for the next chapter of my life, I have to strap those proverbial heels on and cross over. The stage is right here. It’s my turn to move forward, even without knowing what’s waiting after my walk across. Maybe it’s as simple as an Italian dinner with my family like we had on graduation night. Or maybe it’s as hard as saying goodbye to friends, not knowing when I’d see them again.  

Four years ago, I crossed over. I accepted the unknown with excitement and chose to let it push out fear. Here, today, I’m letting the 25-year-old me fight to do the same. The crazy thing is that I’ve already become much of who I wanted to be back then. At 21, I had dreams for myself, my life. And while life at present isn’t what I’d have thought, I’ve found a lot of good in the last four years.

In place of a pep talk, here’s my attempt at taking inventory. A list of things I wanted for myself that have become my reality since that day on the stage in my cap and gown.

I’m learning to surf. I go backpacking and camping. I have the beach and the mountains within very close distance. I am an active part of a church I love. My friends are insanely great people, and many are very different than I am. I’ve worked on nearly a dozen television productions in some capacity or another. I’ve made friends with writers and producers and directors. I’ve written scripts. I’ve formed opinions on topics that used to scare me. I’ve taken road trips. I’ve flown to weddings. I’ve worked at a coffee shop and taught swimming lessons. I go to the beach regularly. I am active because it’s fun, not because I feel the obligation. I know of great bars with lively dance floors. I’m always reading something. I can cook gumbo from scratch. I have hilarious dating stories. I feel known deeply. I pay my bills. I’ve made money off of my art. I value honesty over lots of things. I live more in the moment than I ever have.

As for what’s yet to come, I’ll wait. I’ll keep growing. I’ve proven to myself that I can do it. The last few years are evidence if nothing else. It’s time to embrace both the reflection of the sun on my surface waves and the deep, dark moving of the cold sand below. Ready, but waiting. Not ready, but receiving. Eager, but anxious. Fearful, but stepping forward.