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The Dartmouth
June 9, 2025 | Latest Issue
The Dartmouth

Two Graduations

One writer reflects on her brother’s graduation, the slow arrival of her own and the daily rituals that anchor her in a moment of change.

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This weekend, while the Dartmouth campus largely let loose in sandy, flower-strewn and muddy backyards, I took a flight back to Florida. My little brother decided to graduate from college in a hasty three years, while I took a gap year. Despite our two-year age difference, he graduated a month and two weeks before me. 

Florida State University’s commencement felt a bit different from how I imagine mine will be. Over 8,000 students graduated, twice the size of our school in only one class. They hold five separate graduation ceremonies. My brother’s was at 2 p.m. in the basketball arena. I was glad to get out of the heat — it was 87 degrees, and I could feel my sundress sticking to my shoulders. I sat listening to the vice-something of J.P. Morgan, introduced by the university president as someone who manages over $100 billion in funds. My mom leaned over to me and whispered, “They’re playing games,” gesturing her head towards the couple seated in the row to our left. I looked. Indeed, they were both playing Candy Crush.

By 4 p.m., we were back in St. Pete and I was deliriously tired. On campus I’ve been daily dipping in the Connecticut River, and I wanted to stick to my routine in the warm waters of the Gulf of Whatever-You-Call-It. I genuinely don’t know what we’re calling it. I thought about how I wrote my first article for the Mirror about the Daily Dip during my sophomore spring. Back then I was happily listless, ready to respond to whatever gust of wind carried me across campus that day. Now I’m graduating, and I’m still trying to find a purpose or a passion.

Professors, relatives and even ’24s remind me to take my time. Sylvia Plath’s fig tree from  “The Bell Jar” comes to mind. I worry that my inaction, my indecision, my inability to plan and predict the future will halt me until all of the figs “wrinkle and go black… plop… to the ground at my feet.” My little brother figured it out before me. He’s going to graduate school next year in Tennessee. Most of my friends have figured it out. They’re moving to cities, getting apartments. The most consistency I have found is in a dip each day. 

In the lukewarm waters of the Gulf, with my little yellow lab by my side, I thought about resetting the clock. I’m not that sophomore anymore. Now, nearing the end of my time at Dartmouth, life doesn’t feel so light. Back in Hanover, we don’t dip off Ledyard Dock anymore. Now we drive across the river, jumping from Vermont into New Hampshire. The view has shifted. I’m no longer looking out from campus — I’m looking back at it.

I will graduate from Dartmouth College 39 days after this piece is published. Beyond September, my plans are blurry. Maybe someone’s younger siblings will be playing Candy Crush as Sandra Oh speaks. Maybe it will be unbearably hot. I don’t know. But I do know this: I have 39 days to be here. To see this place. To look my friends in the eyes. And to say goodbye, differently, intentionally, every day.