"May you live all the days of your life."

You know when something new and foreign to you suddenly isn't anymore? And how sometimes you only realize that when you're about to leave it?

Yesterday morning when I left my dorm, I crossed the lobby one last time--the same lobby I entered on the sixth day of January. I saw it through different eyes, but I could still remember exactly how I viewed it back then: a strange, gray, even unwelcoming place, a place that wasn't my home. But as I stood on The Antlers (the name for the rug with the college logo, which I all too recently learned) one last time, I realized how normal, how domestic it had become to me. My arms had adjusted perfectly to the absurdly heavy doors, my ear was attuned to the sound of the gate when it was successfully unlocked and when it wasn't. And on the 24th of June my attachment to this place hit me all at once, as the Warnock lobby looked back in dark and tranquil silence. I'd like to think it was as sad as I was to see me go.

When you find yourself at the very end of an experience like this, about to ride the wave into the next movement of your life, you can't help but reflect on everything that brought you to that moment.

I nearly missed the application for the Oxford program. Although I knew of its existence and was intrigued by the idea of studying there, I remained wary and non-committal for the longest time. There was a whirlwind of misgivings that were holding me back: financial straits, the duration, my own competency. All in all, they were making me feel like I didn't deserve to be there. But in the middle of this inner turmoil, I (rather offhandedly) found out that the application was due in less than a month. Suddenly I found myself at a terrifying but all-important crossroads. I had to make a decision, and I had to make it quickly. If I decided to apply, there was no turning back; I would be committing to the unknown, with all of those previous worries still very much on my mind. But if I didn't, I would spend God knows how long brooding in my own regrets. It would be a forever unanswerable "what if," a potential path in my life that would permanently be closed to me. And it was those feelings that weighed heavier on my heart than any sort of self-doubts or insecurities.

I honestly couldn't tell you how I managed to get everything together in a few weeks. Essays, documents, countless trips to the Study Abroad office (#wmabroad) with Thanksgiving break in between--I don't remember the events as much as I remember constantly being out of breath, or working late into the night by the light of my laptop screen. The whole time, there was a little part of me that genuinely thought I wouldn't get accepted. In the back of my mind I prepared back-up plans, and then back-up plans to the back-up plans. But I also couldn't resist fantasizing about what would be ahead of me if I did get in; and it was a healthy dynamic of both extremes that I think successfully propelled me to the midnight deadline.

When I found out I was accepted, I was a whole new set of emotions. Shocked. Thrilled. Excited. Happy. Part of my happiness, though, was in an effort to match everyone else's happiness for me. Those old concerns came back, but in much fiercer force now that Oxford was very much a reality. Even though I saw the words "offer" and "welcoming" in the acceptance letter, I still felt woefully unprepared and inadequate for such a place. The love and support of my family and friends played a significant role in building up my fortitude and surety. Everyone around me believed so fervently in me, but I was struggling to believe in myself.

Basically, I had no chill at any point in this pre-abroad process.

I don't need to tell you what happened next. Everything from the abstract (my thoughts, feelings) to the concrete (people, adventures) has been chronicled in my previous posts. It was meant for you, to see what I've been up to and to chart my progress across the pond. And it was meant for me, so I could see myself from a new perspective and find the beauty in the journey.

While I think my mind has fully processed what has happened and the fact that it's over, it's safe to say my heart has not. I woke up this morning expecting to see my dorm room and hear the ducks outside my window. I realized how long it's been since I've been in a shower without flip-flops. I know I'm back home, but a part of me still feels like I can turn the corner and be back in Oxford in a moment--that I can walk across the hall or down the stairs to see my friends. As much as I tried, I found myself unable to feel truly sad as people started trickling away. Sure, it may partially be because I was excited to go home, but it also felt (and still feels) as if I was not truly leaving them. I am fortunate that many of them go to the same school as me, and that even a few of them are not too far away for the summer. Perhaps that, and promises of future visits and keeping in touch, has lulled me into a sense of tranquil acceptance.

But how I came to love each and every one of these new friends is something that is non-replicable, irreplaceable. I had spent so much time with these people in half a year, that it became impossible to imagine a day without them or a time when I wouldn't get to see them again. It's safe to say that in the beginning, by the demands of time, distance, and unknowingness, we latched onto each other as the only semblances of familiarity we had. It was a dynamic founded on necessity, but one that flourished into a wonderful naturalness. I reveled in the normalcy of sitting down anytime and anywhere with them, talking about anything from the light-hearted to the pensive, but somehow always sprinkling laughter in between. They say friends are the family you choose--and maybe that's why I don't yet feel so sad, because one way or another you always find a way to make time for your family.

Or it could be that I'm delirious with jet lag and cannot process emotions yet.

On my last walk from my dorm to Hertford, I found myself taking pictures on every corner of what had become a mundane and sometimes tedious journey. The photos in this post are all from this walk. I had seen many mornings like that before: empty streets, universal quiet, a city just waking up to greet the day. It was just your average morning in Oxford, and that's what made it so beautiful to me. Even though I was leaving, it would still go on living--and someone, a little less than a year from now, will arrive on a chilly January day and get to partake in an experience not unlike mine.

It truly was a privilege to view a place as beautiful as this with the eyes of the everyday.

Now before anyone mourns the idea of no longer receiving wholesome/humorous content from me after this, I would like to assure everyone that the blog will not end here. I will continue posting for the foreseeable future--especially now that I have even more people I'd like to keep reaching. What will I write about? Who knows. But in the words of the academic (and Hertford/Hart Hall alum!) Jonathan Swift, I will be sure to live all the days of my life to find those things worth writing about. And in the words of Dylan Thomas, I will certainly not go gentle into that good night.

On to the next adventure.