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happy one year!

Alexandra Hillenbrand

During my final round-up of my last few belongings in my bedroom, I sorted out my jewelry. Everything else was moved into a hard-fought-for apartment in Brooklyn, which my roommates and I charmed our way into beating eight other applicants for. I was trying to think about what else I might be missing - a pair of shoes I might accidentally leave behind, the perfect jeans, or my favorite gold hoops. Where were those hoops by the way?

Being scatter-brained, I sometimes forget about the opportunity to accessorize with different metals or try on statement necklaces and heart-shaped earrings. Even more often, I tend to lose jewelry. It's a half-funny running joke in my family, where I'm not allowed to be gifted anything precious or expensive, especially if it's going in my ears. As the saying goes, I'd leave the house without my head if it weren't attached to my body.

Criss-cross apple sauce on my floor, I dumped out every item of jewelry I've ever gotten in my life. Here lies the problem. In the pile were three different earrings without their pair. One a gift from an old friend, the other two from my parents. I winced, and began to search the pile for their other half, rather desperately. The perfect pit forming in my stomach. I thought about how silly it is the number of things we keep from from other people, even if we don't keep them.

A St. Christopher medal from a high school friend, a matching bracelet with 20 other girls of whom I only still keep in contact with one, a gold bracelet from my grandma, a locket, tarnished costume jewelry, a child-sized pendant I got for my first communion.

I experienced a sense of lost as I looked at these items, thought about all the pieces I lost in my carelessness, all the people who came and went similarly. I wondered why I spent so much of time living inside my head, fighting off negativity and sadness, when I was such a lucky person. I'm such a lucky person.

If my self-pity is a piece of a self-fulfilling prophecy, maybe my fate hasn't been sealed. The narrative I've written, one full of loss, told by an unsatisfiable voice inside my head, maybe it could be rewritten. No more reliving memories, searching for redemption in my rumination. I've been hurt the same way that I've hurt others. I ran circles around my own mental cage trying to run away from that fact. But, running away doesn't work anymore. New York is only so big.

I put on the gold chain bracelet from my Mom Mom. Then, I thought about how much time we wasted not breaking the barrier of reservation and distance between us. It was my fault, I knew better. I should have called more, but I didn't. Instead, I spent my time obsessing over gaining love from strangers, acquaintances, anyone other than the people who already loved me. I thought maybe it'd fill some hole of a all the people who didn't know what to make of me. But, I don't miss those people. I just miss her, the wink of an eye, and the squeeze of a hand.

If light is an overdone metaphor, let me add another ounce of cliche to my writing. This time last year, I was dark, as if someone did a charcoal rubbing on the night sky. I only looked in my peripheral, my rearview mirror, but never the front window. It was a sadness I'd been carrying since I was a child, and I could only ever look back to her. Freckled, and simple, and toothless. Three of those things are partially true.

A year ago today, when I published my first story for College to Couch, I was a miserable person. Just ask my mom! My dad will give you a nod of the head, and a clutch of his heart if he ever has to tell you, like he's told me, "We had no idea how to get you back." Well, tough love, deep talks, and kicks in the ass.

Somehow, over the course of a year, my parents became my best friends. I stopped picking fights with my sisters, once I started only ever needing their validation about 1/5th of the time. Then, they became my best friends too. My dogs slept in my room, and jumped over benches, and ate food off the countertop. I started having friends that felt more like sisters than anything else. I learned when I'm being crazy and when I have something to worry about, even if my body still can't tell the difference.

That hollow feeling in my chest might never go away, neither will the shaky hands in crowded rooms, or beet-red face when the attention turns to me. There will be countless times when I can't think of anything to say, and a similar amount of never being able to stop speaking. Or maybe none of this is true, and I have no idea what I'm saying. Either way, I think I'm done complaining about the cards I've been dealt. Or giving that nasty voice that lives in my head a second thought. I've been my own worst critic for far too long, and it's probably long past the acceptable amount of time for acting like I'm the only opinion that matters.

Since June 1st, the day that our lease went into action, I've been running back towards childhood, circling through all the past manifestations of me. That was the silly Alex. High school was the anxious, self-righteous, and then pious Alex. College Alex was a performer, pulling out every trick to make her seem interesting. Home Alex was sad, but chill? happy but discontent? insane, but healing?

All of these versions of me, just to find out, none of them ever existed. The first weekend I ever spent in my apartment, it dawned on me that I have no idea who I am. At least, when I'm not trying to be a version of myself for someone else. I felt like a fresh-from-scratch, unmolded piece of clay. That scared me. WHY?

Because, this was already a year of growing. With very intense, life-altering growing pains. I thought I was done! The truth, which I've been afraid to acknowledge, is that I haven't even entered the real world yet. I'm about to start my career, wake up at 7 a.m., and do it every day. After a year of upheaval, I can't even begin to imagine what will be important to me this time next year. What parts of myself will I suddenly find cringy and what moments will I make a mistake in?

College was scary. The Couch was safe. What does that make this next chapter?


I left the couch for an apartment with high ceilings and fresh paint. With it, I'm leaving obsessions and anxiety-spirals and wasting time on guessing what might happen next.

Because, really, I'd have to try impossibly hard to screw everything up.

Never say never!


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