I went home for Thanksgiving for the first time this year. My old bedroom, still filled with the scent of my vanilla-cinnamon candle, was covered wall to wall in my favorite paintings, poems and photos – a mosaic of everything and everyone I’ve ever loved.

 I had never felt so out of place. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. 

By the time I reached senior year of high school, I knew exactly who I was. My whole world was synchronized; any tweak in these constants I relied on for my sense of self would throw a wrench in my finely-tuned personality, and I was determined to keep that from happening for as long as possible. 

I always resisted change, but time reared its ugly head anyway. 

It started with clothing. My weight barely fluctuated, but age struck my form regardless. I slump and sag, skin etched with acne scars and dark spots. All I saw were dissonant features stitched on a barely-recognizable meat slab: my body had left me behind in pursuit of adulthood.

Change started to plague things I used to love. The notes of blackberry in my perfume of choice react differently to my skin. My favorite lip gloss, once a makeup bag staple, doesn’t sit right on my face anymore. Old friends started new passion projects that filled the gaps my absence created. I had become obsolete and there was nothing I could do about it. 

As a college freshman in the early stages of my second semester, I feel like I’m in personality purgatory: floating between two identities, neither of them mine. Who I am, once an incontestable fact presented in multiple-choice form, is left an unanswered, open-ended question. 

Hindsight is a double-edged sword. We reflect on our past selves with much kinder eyes, but lose perspective on the burdens we carried in favor of nostalgia.

Change doesn’t have to mean loss. I don’t wear cardigans — once a staple in my closet — because I don’t want to hide my arms anymore. My body looks different because I am taking better care of it. 

Sometimes, making room for better means deconstructing the good. Just because one thing doesn’t fit anymore doesn’t mean nothing will again. Aging out of what we used to love is a sign of growth. 

I am learning to embrace change because it will happen whether or not I want it to. I prefer sweaters these days since cardigans don’t keep me warm enough. I traded in my lip gloss for cherry chapstick.  The world as I know it was torn down to be rebuilt – a new normal has begun to plant its roots in Austin. Little by little, I am getting to know myself beyond the false-hearted character I presented for a majority of my life.

In December, I went back home for winter break. I ate my mother’s dishes, kissed my dog and listened to jazz in my dad’s car on the way to our favorite bookstore. I spent time with my three best friends and listened to the music I loved at sixteen as a tribute to getting older. Now, the memories that being in my hometown render serve as an encouragement of personal growth — not the haunting reminder of loss they used to be.   

Hosseini is an International Relations freshman from Sugar Land, Texas.