Four Years Later: The Beauty of Becoming

There is something strange about standing at the edge of graduation.

For years, it feels impossibly far away, a milestone reserved for some older, more put-together version of yourself. And then suddenly, it is here. The assignments are finished, the caps and gowns are ordered, and the life you spent four years building begins quietly turning into memory.

For many people, graduation feels overwhelmingly sad, and I understand why. There is grief in knowing the ordinary rhythms of college life are ending. The spontaneous late-night drives, the walks across campus just to see someone you love, the ease of living only minutes from the people who have become your home.

That part is hard.

And yet, if I am honest, what I feel most is peace.

Not because these years were easy. Not because I am fully ready to leave. But because there is something grounding about closing a chapter that held both the best and hardest seasons of your life. College gave me joy I will carry forever, but it also challenged me in ways I never expected. Somehow, that tension makes leaving feel less like loss and more like gratitude.

Learning to Let Go of the Plan

When I came to Oklahoma State, I was extremely Type A.

In high school, life felt structured and predictable. I was used to having a plan, following it carefully, and believing that if I worked hard enough, life would unfold exactly the way I imagined. I thought success was about checking the right boxes in the right order.

I carried that mindset into college convinced I had everything figured out.

I thought I would go to dental school. I thought I would be engaged by graduation. I thought life would follow the neat timeline I had built for myself.

That illusion did not last long.

By the end of my first semester, I realized dental school was not my path. At first, it felt like failure. I had tied so much of my identity to a future that suddenly no longer fit, and letting go of it felt like losing direction entirely.

But over time, I began to understand something I desperately needed to learn. Prestige is not the same as fulfillment.

That realization changed me.

It made me less rigid, less controlled, and more willing to trust what felt meaningful instead of what simply looked impressive. For the first time, I began making decisions based not on appearances, but on purpose.

College taught me that life is not something you can perfectly plan your way through.

It is something you grow into.

Being Humbled by Growth

Growth rarely happens comfortably.

Freshman year humbled me in every way. I made mistakes, some small, some large, some costly. I was immature in ways I could not yet recognize, and college quickly showed me that good intentions are not enough to protect you from difficult lessons.

It was also the first time I experienced what it means to choose the wrong person while, deep down, knowing something was not right.

For a while, that experience felt like it had damaged something in me. I worried it had made me more guarded, more uncertain. Looking back, I see it differently.

Sometimes God shows you what love, alignment, and respect are meant to feel like by first showing you what they are not.

That lesson hurt, but it refined me.

Learning How Healing Actually Happens

As mentioned before, sophomore year brought my first real heartbreak, the kind that leaves no ambiguity and no possibility of going back.

The truths I had ignored began unraveling. There was confusion, disappointment, and the kind of emotional weight that feels consuming in the moment.

What surprised me most was how healing actually happened.

It was not dramatic. It was not immediate.

It happened slowly, almost invisibly.

One day the anger softened. One day the questions stopped replaying. And eventually, I found myself in a place I never thought I would reach, peace.

Even gratitude.

Not for what happened, but for what it taught me.

That season also showed me something else, the depth of true friendship.

The People I Never Would Have Chosen

One of the most unexpected gifts of college has been friendship with people I never would have chosen for myself.

We come from different backgrounds, hold different perspectives, and see the world in ways that often contrast sharply with my own. On paper, there is very little connecting us. And yet, those differences became the very thing that made our friendships meaningful.

If God had not intentionally placed these people in my life, I would have missed them entirely.

That thought humbles me.

They challenged me, shaped me, and expanded my understanding of people in ways I could not have created on my own. They were there on the bedroom floor nights when no one had answers and all we could do was sit in the heaviness together. They were also there in the laughter filled nights that somehow healed just as deeply. The sixteen hour drive to Florida. Getting kicked out of Coyote Ugly and laughing about it later. Chaotic Uber rides home. Hometown visits where strangers felt like family. Football games, brunches, Chico’s runs, late night conversations, and sleepovers in a best friend’s room.

None of it was perfect, but it was alive. And those moments became part of a story I would not trade for anything.

Redefining What Matters

College changed more than my plans. It changed the way I understand beauty, success, and what makes a life meaningful.

I used to think beauty was external. Appearance, status, money, achievement, followers, polished perfection. Now I know better. Beauty is not found in what someone has, but in who they are. It is in the way they treat people when no one is watching, in humility, kindness, faithfulness, and the quiet ways they show up for others.

That shift has changed how I see everything.

And because of it, senior year has felt different.

Instead of constantly chasing what comes next, I have found myself trying to slow down enough to fully experience what is already here. Ordinary moments feel sacred now. Simple dinners, late night conversations, walking across campus, laughing over nothing.

There is something about knowing a season is ending that makes even the smallest moments feel more alive.

The Constant Through it All

Through every changing plan, every heartbreak, every friendship, every uncertainty, one thing has remained constant: my faith in Christ. It has been the grounding force through every season, especially the ones that made no sense at the time.

That is not to say I have lived these four years perfectly. Far from it. I have failed more times than I can count. I have made choices shaped by pride, selfishness, fear, and immaturity. There were seasons where I drifted, moments where I knew better and still chose poorly, and times when my faith was something I claimed more easily than I lived.

College has taught me that being a Christian has never meant being flawless. It means falling short and returning to grace anyway. It means allowing conviction to refine rather than define you. It means recognizing how deeply you need God and letting that dependence reshape you.

If anything, these four years have shown me just how much I need Him.

And through that dependence, my sense of purpose has become clearer.

When Success Changed Shape

For a long time, I thought ambition meant building something for myself, a life defined by achievement, recognition, and carefully measured success. But these four years have reshaped that understanding. I have come to believe that true purpose is found less in what we build for ourselves and more in what we faithfully steward.

I remember this becoming clear during a portfolio presentation in one of my classes. After presenting my work, my professor asked where I saw myself in four years.

The question should have been simple, but I remember my face flashing hot with embarrassment.

Around me were peers with polished, impressive answers. Corporate roles, big city careers, and ambitions tied to recognition and prestige. For a moment, I felt almost ashamed that my answer did not sound like theirs.

Then that embarrassment turned into something else, pride.

When it was my turn, I slowly explained that I hoped to one day build a family and use my journalistic skills to advocate for a simpler life, whether that meant stewarding my family’s ranch or wherever my future family’s path might lead. I wanted to use writing to preserve the values, stories, and way of life that shaped me.

I remember bracing for judgment, worried my ambitions might sound too small.

Instead, I was met with encouragement.

My professor told me how authentic my answer was, and how proud he was that I had the courage to be honest.

That moment stayed with me because it confirmed something I had been learning all along. Purpose does not have to look prestigious to be meaningful.

That is why my desire to one day build and serve a family feels so significant. It is not rooted in perfection or a fixed timeline. It is rooted in the belief that there is deep meaning in pouring your life into something beyond yourself. There is beauty in creating a home marked by faith, love, and steadiness. There is beauty in serving through the quiet, everyday work of building something lasting.

And that same idea of stewardship shapes everything else for me too, writing, agriculture, storytelling, and the desire to preserve what matters.

Looking Ahead

If these four years have taught me anything, it is that life rarely unfolds the way we expect.

Plans change. People leave. Dreams shift. What once felt like success often fades, making room for something deeper.

And maybe that is the beauty of it.

We are not meant to have everything figured out. We are simply meant to keep growing, keep trusting, and keep moving forward with faith in the One who already knows what comes next.

So as this chapter closes, I leave with gratitude for all that shaped me and hope for all that is still ahead.

The future may be uncertain, but it is full of possibility.

And sometimes, that is even better than having a plan.