There is an unspoken promise that college offers: a fresh start, a clean slate, a chance to rewrite your story. People tell you that when you step onto campus, the past falls away like leaves from an autumn tree, and you can finally become the person you’ve always dreamed of. But what if your past refuses to let you go? What if it clings to you like a shadow that won’t fade, no matter how bright the future might seem?
I’ve been told, time and time again, that this is the moment to open a new chapter; to reinvent myself, to shed the skin of everything that’s hurt me, everything that’s weighed me down. But when the pages of the past are still stained with trauma, jagged and raw, how can I turn them over? How can I start fresh when every step forward feels like it’s tethered to something broken inside me?
College is supposed to be where we become who we are meant to be. A place to ditch the old versions of ourselves and step boldly into something new. But the truth is, the past doesn’t just disappear because you’re in a new place. It doesn’t quietly pack up and leave when you walk through the gates of a university. No—the past stays. It lingers in the corners of every new experience, it creeps into the quiet moments when you least expect it, and it shows up in the ways you stumble when you’re trying to stand tall.
There are days when I feel like I’m supposed to step into this new version of myself—confident, carefree, and full of hope for the future. Instead, I find myself weighed down by the remnants of what’s come before. The pain, the unspoken fears, the scars left behind by people who never took the time to understand. They shape the way I walk into a room, the way I interact with others, even the way I doubt myself when standing on solid ground. How am I supposed to flip the page when the ink from the old chapter stains my hands? How do I open the door to a new life when the key to it feels locked behind everything I’ve been through?
The trauma I carry doesn’t magically disappear just because I’m surrounded by new faces and new opportunities. It still affects me, lingering in the quiet spaces. It’s there in the moments when I can’t trust people, when I build walls before they can even ask to get close. It’s there in the way I freeze up when I’m supposed to move forward, in the way I push love away because I don’t know how to let it in. And yet, I’m told again and again that I’m supposed to be starting something new, to embrace the future with open arms, to be the person I’ve always wanted to be. But how can I when the weight of the past sits heavy in my chest?
The pages of my story haven’t been neatly written. They are torn, smudged with the stains of pain that I can’t quite scrub away. Each page turns reluctantly, reminding me that I can’t simply discard what I’ve been through. The hurt, the heartbreak, the fear—it’s all been woven into who I am, and I can’t leave it behind like an old coat that no longer fits. It’s not something I can just forget, not something I can outrun no matter how hard I try.
I wish I could wake up every day and feel like I’ve left the past behind. I wish I could step forward with nothing but hope for the future. But the truth is, the past will always be a part of me. It will show up in the way I speak, in the way I love, in the way I carry myself through this new life. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to completely forget the chapters that came before, but to learn how to write a new one after them; to take the pain, the scars, the lessons, and carry them forward without letting them define me. Maybe the story isn’t about turning the page so much as it is about learning to keep writing, even when the old pages are still with us.
The world may expect me to flip the page and dive into the new chapter with nothing but anticipation. But sometimes, the most profound growth comes from embracing the past, not erasing it. The pages may be worn, but they are still part of my story. And maybe that’s where the beauty lies—not in forgetting, but in finding the courage to keep writing, even when the past refuses to let go.