What If/Now?

I

Springtime again. Past 4 o’clock. It’s April 4th, 2025. I’m 21 years old, soon to be 22 in May, yet here I am, standing in “The Toybox” in downtown Amherst confused on how I play with the small toy in my hand.

“You fling it forward and it’ll expand,” the front desk person explains. They look like they could be a student like me—young and spending their Friday evening at a toy store. Except, they’re making money, and I’m not. I fling it forward, and behold, it expands from itself three feet in front of me. How fun! And how lucky I am a person wasn’t standing there. Standing here, flinging this toy back and forth, makes me realize I’ve forgotten that such toys still exist. With tablets and screens these days, it’s hard to live grounded in the present moment.

It’s all so tender, and a little bit vulnerable. I’m an adult now, for goodness’ sake. There are job applications to be sent, personal statements to be written, and that damn future to think about as a graduate in a month. Instead, I’m making my way to the children’s section, and I’m frozen in time when I see Calico Critters on display—how much I still adore them like I had as a ten-year-old. And instead, I’m making my way to the children’s book section, where I reread Goodnight Moon. How long it’s been since I’ve found pleasure in reading a book. Yet instead, the next book I pull from the shelf was Ashley’s, my freshman roommate’s favorite: Corduroy.

It was never read to me as a child, so I begin to read it out loud, in a tone as if I had a classroom of elementary kids sitting in front of me. Ashley is flipping the pages alongside my reading. And oh, how humbling it is to still stumble on words from a children’s book, but how easily entertained I am by the story—how unready I was to have the dreaded feeling of having to leave the toy store.

II

These September days have been turning the air into a fresh crisp at night. It’s a chance to put on a sweater and escape August’s lingering heat. Julia and I had just gotten off bus B43, being plopped in the center of downtown Amherst. In our sweaters and denims, feet squished in Converses and Air Force 1s, our plans are aimless. Left or right—we don’t know what to take, until we’re forced to before we run out of sidewalk. Straight, we decide. Then we’re led to an empty playground.

Right now, on this night of September 24th, 2022, we’re anything but grown college students. We are children, climbing the ropes of this man-made jungle. We are children, hysterically laughing as we spin ourselves fast around each other. We are children, figuring out this metal seesaw. We are college girls—with a shared history of being figure skaters, of going from friends to enemies, enemies to best friends, and through hell and back—remembering what it’s like to play and make memories like children. When an hour has passed and we decide it’s time to step back into our skins as dreading adults, we take a right exiting out of the playground. Past the traffic lights, we turn left into a straight walk. Then another right. There’s only so far you can get going straight before you must take a turn somewhere.

III

We hit a small wine store after purchasing a few pieces of candy from the toy store. The cashier greets us into the store with the kindest, “How are you doing?” and for a moment, my chest feels mushy and warm from his question. There was a hint of personal in the tone. I release a smile, say I’m doing well, and then throw the question back at him. A few minutes later, another customer walks in, and the cashier’s greeting is perfectly replicated. Oh, okay. I see then.

I’ve grown a small passion, and some taste buds, for wine this past year and recently got Ashley into it. Every weekend, we buy our “cheap” bottle of Jam Jar wine and pair it with some kind of arts and crafts. This store is not where we’ll find cheap wine, but bougie, with each bottle at least $35. Now, I’ve bought my fair number of wines. But I stick to our beloved Jam Jar for $8.00. It warms me in the perfect amount, and it slips like velvet across my tongue with a blend of red sweetness and the right amount of bitterness.

The cashier doesn’t know what to think of us as customers, I think. “May I show you ladies the non-alcoholic section of our store?” We’re college girls in a wine store who don’t know what they’re looking at, he must think. Or that we’re just underage—which I’m starting to take as a compliment these days. Well, I can tell you whether a wine is red or white by the name, and I know that if a wine has any geographical location on its label, it must have an appellation of origin. I know red wine tastes like crap if you add ice to it—if that defends me in any way.

It’s a cozy little nook in the back corner of the store. The shelves are fully stocked with fat, fancy-labeled non-alcoholic bottles, designed to mimic champagne or wine bottles. Not bad, until I look at the prices. $18.00 for a non-alcoholic, fake wannabe drink. I point out the price to Ashley, and her eyes nearly budge from their sockets. We cackle, then leave—onto the bookstore.

There’s some shame that welcomes me as I gaze at the shelves of Amherst Bookstore. There are many books I find appealing and think I want to buy, but then the stack of untouched books on my floating shelf strikes my memory. But there is one book that catches my eye, The Best American Essays 2024, and I gasp, turning to Ashley, “Oh, I’m reading this book right now for a class!” and proudly I boast that I’ve read more than half the book on my own. It’s a nonfiction book of personal essays from twenty-two writers. Not only am I learning about other people’s lives, but this book has been my model of how to shape my own writings, and I also simply love it. It’s a three-in-one kind of book. While I can admit this new copy is beautiful, I argue my beaten-up, crimped-paged version is even more beautiful—touched, seen, and loved.

But right next to the book is The Best American Short Stories 2024. When I go to touch it, it’s like there was a bond tied between us. It’s the only one left. I must take this as a sign, I justify to myself, then bring it over to the cashier. In the corner sits a lonely chair where I can start reading my new book while Ashley finishes browsing. The first page of every book is always intimidating yet thrilling—it’s the start of a journey. Although I don’t journey far from page one, however. From the corner of my eye were Ashley’s feet, ready to leave.

IV

All these turns led us to Amherst College's campus. The road is skinny and slanted. Julia is already trekking her way upward, so behind her, I follow. Only a few buildings sit at the top of this road where there is light. The closer we get to the center, the more beautiful and lively this campus becomes. Walking in the dark and seeing through lit windows has a way of revealing life more than in broad daylight. Everything is more personal—like getting a glimpse of someone’s decorated dorm and seeing a little bit of who they are.

“They look much nicer than ours,” I claim. She nods and hums in agreement.

And just like in downtown Amherst, we don’t know where to go. Left or right—we’ll decide when we have to. Eventually, we stumble across two lawn chairs in the distance. They’re alone and next to each other, like they’re meant to have Julia and me sitting in them. The grass has that fragrance—freshly cut. A relief is sent from my legs to the rest of me when I sink into the seat. It’s nothing but quiet here.

While being so small in this silence, the sky is clear tonight. If we look straight ahead, it’s a big empty field. If we look up, it’s a black void speckled with stars. From this height, the view of the field is grand. It’s scenic, beautifully empty, in this dark night. A chill runs down my exposed neck, where my short hair offers no cover. The light breeze brushes against me like gentle kisses, sending shivers down the rest of my body. But something enters, hanging heavy above me during this quiet time. Heavy, like thoughts.

What am I doing with my life?

This past summer, I switched away from my STEM major, which I thought would be perfect for pre-med. Kinesiology is the study of the body, but to be honest, I found something felt out of place in that major. I hated the absence of reading and writing. Knowing about delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) bored me. I wasn’t intrigued to learn that my professor’s family was a perfect example of every muscle condition we had learned about.

And I don’t know what this all means, if anything at all. Is there something hiding that I don’t know? What’s this subtle fear trying to tell me? Am I following my true desires? How long, and when/if, will I know that I am on the right path to my life? What if I’m too late? 

V

The bench we’re sitting on is old and wooden. It faces Quadrangle Dr, where two frat boys sit with handles of liquor by their feet and a big written sign: “You Honk, We Drink.” I know I must be doing something wrong in life if that ever becomes me (yes, I’m judging). And to the right of us are two older women sitting on top of their car hood, laughing and taking photos. Then in front of us are North Hall, Johnson Chapel, and South Hall, at the crest of Amherst campus.

It looks like spring has properly arrived here on their campus. Unlike at UMass, we’re still in the slush of defrosting. Our hard, bare concrete buildings blend in with the gray sky, puddles fill our potholes, and the trees are still missing their leaves. Most importantly, winter’s depression still hangs above us all. This campus looks nothing like I remember it being. There’s color in this evening sun—of red brick buildings, clean white trimmings, purple banners, and fresh green lawns and trees. Even the oak of these trees has a hint of orange in its rich brown. We sit there until another road seduces my wanderings. What’s around that corner?

The sun isn’t quite setting yet, but everything around me glows warm. Warm in that nostalgic way. Around the corner, we walk through a stone center, and when I reach the end of it, there’s a grand opening with a view of distant mountains. But then, standing at the edge is a drop down of a hill. And just looking out there—at this endless distance between me and the mountains—edges a feeling I’m familiar with, but it doesn’t quite fully enter. And it bothers me that we left so soon. This unfinished exploration of these feelings left hanging.

VI

Still springtime. Past 5 o’clock. Cold and cloudy. It’s April 11th, 2025––even closer to 22. The gloom blankets over the field I earlier learned to be Memorial Field, where I’m revisiting, sitting alone in this green lawn chair. But the other chair next to me—it’s nostalgic and empty. Julia sat here three Septembers ago. She is now, and has been, in Germany since that fall semester ended. I don’t know when I’ll see her again. Hopefully soon. The only things that are the same coming back are that it’s 45 degrees outside, and I’m still single. But this time, I’m a senior, soon graduating from UMass Amherst.

Ahead of me is a baseball game—the sound of swinging bats and teammates shouting. But here it is again. Yes, enter. That familiar feeling of being so small in life—the life of birds chirping, the breeze in my ears, and the chitter-chatter of strangers. And how old I am suddenly feeling as I sweep my long hairs off my face.

Wow.

Isn’t it funny how we continue to believe the myth that as we get older, we’ll understand everything? That we’ll know where our future lies, that we’ll feel secure. What a lie I am discovering this to be. So, I ask myself the question again: What am I doing with my life? But a woman in a trench coat interrupts the conversation with myself.

“May I take this seat next to you?”

“Of course!” Now I’m really alone as she drags the chair away from me.

But I still don’t know how to answer that question. What if I’m not supposed to know? Though I know two things: my revealed passion for healthcare law, and that my hidden fear was right years ago. Yet, I don’t regret it—spending the bulk of my college years chasing medicine. I believe things turn into what they’re meant to.

I could sit here telling my 2022 self that I’ve wasted my years, or that I’ve been lucky enough to have a diverse education—to stand at the intersection of two very different paths. Medicine has shown me structure, the rigor—it taught me discipline. It showed me a world where lives are on the line, where purpose drives every sleepless night. And yet, being part of that culture also showed me its cracks: the pressure, the burnout, the blind spots, the flaws in the system.

Although it looks different now, I’ve realized I still want to work in the same world—healthcare, where lives are on the line. Just not from inside a hospital room, but from the outside, using my voice to advocate for change. I want to listen to people, really hear them, and help carry their stories into the legal systems that so often ignore them. In a way, the goal hasn’t changed—I still want to help save lives. I’ve just found a different way to do it, one that feels more like me.

While I may have a clearer sense of my life, nothing is 100%. The future is important, but it’s also all hypothetical until you actually reach it. Often, we don’t even realize we’ve reached it until we’ve surpassed it. So maybe the real challenge isn’t chasing certainty—but showing up for today. Because somewhere, somehow, that’s what I must have done in the past. Some version of me once chose to be present, and that choice, in a moment that felt small at the time, is what led me here—closer to graduating, with a new vision for the life I want to live. But this is it. One more month left. My question is reframed: Am I ready for what’s next? To step into it, wherever it leads? Or to ask it more gently, what now?