I’m graduating soon…

And I have no idea what I’m going to do with this blog.

I don’t know that I’ll ever wipe its existence from the face of the internet — I’ve poured my heart out here, genuinely, during the best and worst of times. But I wonder whether it should be sentenced to become a relic of college.

Bear with me, because the rest of this post is going to be rather raw.

My four years at UNC have whipped by in a flash. This past semester and break were incredibly frustrating for me (feat: tough classes, a dream job rejection and an unexpectedly dramatic friendship breakup), but they also made me much more grateful for the support system I’ve built while at Chapel Hill.

When I’ve gone through the trenches, time and time again, my friends have stood steadfast by my side. Anjali, my new friends Dhruthi and Simone, a ton of other people and, of course, Cynthia, even though she is 3,000 miles away in Seattle. This holiday season, I was reminded of how much my friends care about me, and how much I care about them. That’s why I’ll always have a soft spot for this school, even though it sure has put me through the emotional wringer a lot.

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The night that the club dragged me — although I will not harp on the details too much — I remember sobbing to my RA, Spencer, in my dorm’s community office. It was midnight, and the dim yellow lights in the cramped room flickered above us. I asked her why all of these bad things were happening to me, and I told her that I felt alone at Chapel Hill, and that I wish I’d committed to a different school.

Instead of holding my hand and telling me everything was going to be alright, Spencer looked me in the eye, and, very bluntly, went: “Uma, no one is going to give a shit about you until you start giving a shit about yourself.”

She told me that I was responsible for taking control of my own life. If I wasn’t on good terms with one of my parents, then it was up to me to build financial independence and gain the freedom to do the things I truly wanted to do, without the burden of having to ask them permission. If I wanted to improve my grades, I needed to advocate for myself to my professors. And if I wanted to be happy, I didn’t have to be beholden to clubs I didn’t want to be a part of — I could forge my own path.

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My first real job was at my college bookstore. I spent afternoons after class second semester freshman year wrapping packages of textbooks with shrink wrap and shunting carts of orders from the basement to the third floor. By the time I’d finish, it would be dark outside, and the rolling winter clouds threatened to shed flurries overhead. Sometimes I wanted to pass out from all the physical labor, for which I made $10 an hour. I loved it. 

Working at the bookstore was about more than making money, though. It was nice that I was able to buy myself a latte on a bad day, or take my mom out to a Valentine’s Day lunch on my own dime. But more importantly, in the store, I wasn’t myself anymore — all customers saw was the persona I put on for them. They wouldn’t have known if I felt bad because my manager had criticized me, or that I’d gone to the bathroom to splash water on my face to keep my eyes open. 

I plastered a smile on my face no matter my mood and no matter the amount of homework that was stressing me out that day. Little things started to make me feel gratitude: the days when my boss was proud of me for organizing a shelf well, or the quiet moments I had in the bleak white break room. The relief of getting five assignments done on a rush of adrenaline after work was done. When my co-workers traded shifts knowing that I had a big exam to study for the next day. 

It was all stressful and laborious, and sometimes a really fucking huge burden. But it reinforced to me that I was the only one who could save myself. People around me could explain to me that I was cared about and valued, but ultimately it was the satisfaction of being able to establish my place  — to put in the effort to satisfy my bosses or customers —  in a space where no one really cared who I was or how my day went, that helped me feel like I earned my right to feel that I belonged. 

After a couple of weeks working that job, I found an internship with a research group on campus that better aligned with my academic interests. But I first experienced the joy of getting handed a paycheck that I earned all by myself at the campus bookstore.

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I started earning far bigger bucks sophomore year, when I became an RA.

RAs at UNC receive a stipend that can be used for room and board, but I was in the extremely fortunate position in which my parents had had a 529 account saved to pay off my tuition. Plus, I’d also gotten a new side hustle working for North Carolina Public Radio-WUNC, which was a massive dream come true for me since I’d been listening to the station since I was a middle schooler. I began investing most of my money into a portfolio of different mutual funds, and, for a 19-year-old, I had to say I was kindddd of rich.

Of course, I had to work to make all this money. And goddamn was that year one of the hardest of my life. I staffed in a freshman dorm where the freshmen were … freshmen, let’s just say that. The amount of times I called EMS my sophomore fall was in-fucking-sanely ridiculous. And sure, I got along with the residential staff that year, but our friendships were largely superficial.

I should mention Cynthia, my best friend, at this point, because she single handedly propped me up for most of my college career. Cynthia and I met in high school, and she went to school a bus ride away at nearby Duke University (a manicured hellhole.) She listened to my rants after every psycho EMS call that year and bought me food when I was feeling sad. She’d give me hugs and let me sleep over at Duke and heard out stories about my stupid crushes. TL;DR: She is my ride-or-die.

I also must mention Anjali, who similarly was a huge support to me sophomore year (and beyond.) We became friends freshman year thanks to a series of circumstances that deserves an essay of its own. After my Monday shifts at WUNC, I’d drive over to Anjali’s apartment (I was super duper lucky to have a car and get on-campus parking as a sophomore), where we’d eat Indian food together and sleep over and hash out the exhaustion from our jobs and lives. We also took a trip to Montréal together, the subject of my first true post on this blog.

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I feel like I’ve chronicled most of what else has happened in my life since — anything that’s relevant to an online audience, at least — in my later posts. I’ve RA’d throughout college and have usually worked an additional job on top of that and classes. I’ve had a summer internship every year; my last one was at The Dallas Morning News (I drove all the way to Texas with Anjali last May for that.)

This year, I’ve been a little less active online thanks to a combination of job applications, friend breakups and the desire to savor every last memory I can with my still-friends (lol.)

Sidenote: in case you’re curious, the friends who I had drama with do not go to UNC and had only recently come into my life – they’re not long-standing friends, which slightly reduces the volume of pain but doesn’t ease it, per say.

When shit hit the fan earlier this year, Cynthia, just like she did when we were seniors in high school, held me in her arms by the lake in my neighborhood as I cried. But this time I also had more than a dozen other people consoling me, too. They — not work experience or a diploma — are the true gift UNC-Chapel Hill gave me. And whether I continue sharing them with the world or not, I’ll cherish the memories with my friends forever.