I am full of fear, anxiety and hope. I am fearful of what my future holds, anxious to experience it and hopeful that I’ll recognize it when it “gets here.” But there is one thing that I have sought so desperately, so fervently, especially within the last two months. And this is the one thing that I seem to find so little of – answers.

Four is the number of years that I have mustered up the strength to attend classes, situating myself in cramped desks and listening to lectures in overcrowded classrooms.

Three is the number of unnecessary classes that I have paid for due to inadequate advising.

Thirty-one is the number of A’s I have earned within the last six semesters.

But there is one number that is more important, more frightening to me than any of these numbers. It is zero. That figure represents the number of answers I can conjure up whenever I am asked that reoccurring question, “What are you going to do after college?”

It is then that I realize, in the hustle and bustle of homework deadlines, final exams and papers that I have immersed myself so completely into, that I forgot to consider life after college

My mind is on shuffle and this question is like that one bad song that comes on the playlist at the most inopportune time. And much like any terrible song, try as I might, I cannot get it out of my head.

I cannot count how many times I’ve tried to evade this thought – to delete it indefinitely from my mental repertoire. But I can say, with great confidence, that zero is the number of times that I have succeeded in doing so.

So often, people will try to tell me that I am simply afraid of graduating, that I just have cold feet. They assure me that I’ll be fine once the ceremony is over.

But this is a misdiagnosis, and experiencing graduation is not the cure for me. I know what I am afraid of. And graduation is not what I am afraid of.

On May 7, 2011, the culmination of my worst fears and wildest dreams will occur.

I will walk across that stage, shake hands with administrators I have never before met and take possession of that document for which I have worked so earnestly for the last few years. That does not scare me.

On May 8, 2011, I will awaken to an identity crisis. I will no longer be a student. It will no longer be funny or socially acceptable for me to be broke – but I will be.

I will lie down a college grad and awaken a lost soul. This is what I am afraid of.

I am afraid of the fact that I have spent thousands of dollars to fund my education, but no amount of money can ever purchase answers.

Even if I were reimbursed for ever useless textbook I’ve ever purchased, there is no amount of money that will compensate for the fact that upon graduation, I will have more questions than answers.

So often, I have allowed myself to get so overwhelmingly consumed in mastering this whole “college thing” that I forgot to consider the true meaning of life.

Life for me has been homework and presentations and classes.

But life, defined by Random House Dictionary (dictionary.com), is the condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.

Growth, change, adaptation – these are the characteristics that best define our state of being, of existing, of living.

Life is one big transitory phase. It is perpetual.

No matter how rough or how fluid the changes, there is no question that they will occur.

So now, I liken my life to a train. But I am not the conductor.

I do not know the destination or the expected time of arrival. I am not even a passenger.

I am walking the tracks, standing in front of this locomotive that is my life, praying desperately that all 103 pounds of me will somehow locate the strength to counteract the speed of life.

I need a new strategy.

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