As the days until the end of the school year tick away, it’s still a little surreal that this is the end of high school, the final moments of my American K-12 education. Graduation is just a date on a calendar; the cap and gown are just clothes I wear; “graduating senior” is just a title on paper. I get the feeling that I’ll be turning the tassel and I’ll still be thinking to myself, “This is it? Really?”

But deep down, I know that “this is it” doesn’t sum up my last four years. After all, I still remember all the concerns that I had as an eighth-grader about the difficulty of the classes, or my grades, or the graduation requirements. Hindsight is 20/20, and those fears proved to be largely unfounded. And while the classes I’ve taken, the grades I got, and the knowledge I’ve gained are certainly important, looking back, I’ve come to realize my high school experience wasn’t defined by my academics. 

High school was lying on the counter of The Quill and Yearbook room, taking the dumbest selfies. It was watching my friends prepare for their math tests, writing on the massive windows of room A-213 with dry-erase markers. It was watching in awe as the painted ladies flew by on their annual migration. It was eating too much food at potlucks, tying up our classmates in Christmas tinsel to make them human Christmas trees, and inevitably shattering an ornament on the concrete. 

High school was making actual plans with friends, creating long spreadsheets to compare the Yelp ratings of all the food options. It was going on trips to Westfield Santa Anita and visiting the same handful of stores. It was browsing JetPens and MAIDO, saving long wishlists of completely unnecessary stationery and never buying any of it. It was getting MeetFresh, carefully constructing the perfect bowl of shaved ice that had all our favorite toppings. 

High school was spending entire days with my Science Olympiad team. It was sitting under E-Z UP’s, nearly slicing my fingers open on cheat sheets and binders. It was afternoon boba runs, post-awards Korean BBQ, and too many competition-day snacks. It was doing a headcount every 20 minutes in Santa Monica, filling my photo album with pictures, and running to catch the Metro. 

High school was these moments, snapshots in time where I could just enjoy life with my friends, feel for a short while as if I had no responsibilities, when I could slow down for a while. For the last four years, I feel like I’ve been running constantly. School, preparation for the next school year, summer, repeat. 

But at least thus far, it’s been relatively clear what the next step is. Honestly, I’m a bit scared of the future. Getting ready to go to college in the fall has been a bit like learning the flute for the first time. I’ve read the instruction manual countless times, but I can’t just pick it up and play because I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel. I’m an eighth-grader again, uncertain of what lies ahead. All I can hope is that in four years, I’ll be where I am now, looking back on my fears and able to laugh about my naivete. This is it, but this isn’t the end, and hopefully, I’ll be able to keep going.