9 months.
Is that a long time?
Someone could have traveled the world,
had a child,
studied for a certification,
renovated their house,
or just lived day by day, doing what needs to be done.
Technically, only two academic terms have passed…
because that’s how I’ve been counting time till now.
It’s been 9 months since I graduated, and this boundary I’m standing at feels like a liminal space. Liminal, from the Latin limen, meaning threshold. Not quite here, not quite there. The door is open, but I haven’t crossed it yet.
Liminal spaces are disorienting precisely because they resist definition. You can’t be productive in a doorway. You can’t settle. You can only pass through and the strange thing about this particular threshold is that I’m not sure I’ll feel it when I do. There may be no moment of arrival. Just a gradual realization, much later, that I’m already on the other side.
That’s what 9 months feels like. Enough time to have forgotten everything I learned, and enough time to have built something from it.
I clearly recall the beginning of my final year, watching the students who had already graduated and wondering: did they figure out what they wanted? Did it feel like this?
Hindsight is 20/20. Because standing in those same shoes now, I find myself asking the same questions they probably did and quietly realizing that not knowing the answer is part of the point.
Last winter, I wrote my design manifesto for one of my final courses:
“Design is the space you define.”
It felt uninhibited. To own space. To reimagine it.
You don’t need permission to change yourself or the world. You don’t need a new year, a milestone, or an occasion to begin again because transformation doesn’t happen from 0 to 1. It’s cumulative. You’re always only witnessing a fraction of the change in real time.
Now, as I look back at university years in a single glance, here are 9 things I’d tell any student still inside it:
- Think of life as an unscripted skit.
Some things will always be outside your control, and that’s fine. But the role you play within those circumstances is yours. A small shift in how you respond, the words you choose, the posture you take in a difficult moment, they all compound quietly.
The butterfly effect is not a metaphor; it is a method. Your dialogue has the power to change the scene. Any scenario will be exactly what you make of it.So, while you may not have every opportunity at your doorstep, how you orient yourself toward what you do have still makes all the difference.
A positive outlook is not naivety. It’s infrastructure.
Good situations are not your peak. Bad ones are not your fault, nor a punishment. I love to recall the recency effect and the difference between correlation and causation that I learned in my psych elective, and believe, even in uncertain seasons, that things are unfolding for a reason.- If you’re just starting out, become a little obsessed with what your university/college and city can offer you.
Read the newsletters. Go to the events. Talk to advisors and seniors. Many of the most valuable resources available to students go unused simply because the immediate value isn’t obvious to us in a completely new environment.
“But why bother?”
That is exactly why you need to.
The museum nearby, the tech startup down the street, the public library with the program your campus doesn’t have – just ask. You might be surprised what opens when you do. People might be scared of rejection, but honestly rejection isn’t so bad. What’s scarier is missing an opportunity that was right in front of you. - Cross the bridge between disciplines.
Knowledge is no longer advanced in silos, and the most interesting problems don’t live within a single field. Find out how you, perhaps a STEM student, can work with an English professor in their research, or vice versa. See what theatre majors and a tech club can build together. When you encounter people who use their minds in completely different ways, you realize quickly how small the box you’ve been in really was. - Master at least one receptive skill and one productive skill.
Read or listen well.
Write or speak clearly.
These four skills: reading, writing, listening, speaking, are the foundation of how we understand each other and how we are understood. No story is ever not needed. Learn to communicate so you don’t leave people behind, nor do you get left behind. - Know how you learn, not just what you’re learning.
Do you understand ideas through words or pictures? Through repetition or through application? When do you work best? Morning, noon, night? Where? At home, on campus, or at some third place? Teach a concept to a friend or record yourself explaining it. Observe your behavior. You’ll learn more about your own mind than you expect. - Find one grounding physical practice that has nothing to do with a screen.
For many, it is daily prayer, movement, or art. Something that doesn’t shift with the rest of your circumstances. When everything feels spontaneous and variable, you need one thing that consistently returns you to yourself. - Take at least one course outside your major and mean it.
Not to fulfill a requirement, but out of genuine curiosity. The courses that had nothing to do with my degree are the ones I remember most vividly, not because they taught me new techniques, but because they taught me to perceive differently.
Despite tens of lecture and project-based courses, my one studio course in fine arts had changed how I now see, think, and move through problems.Venture into new territories. Synthesize your findings.
You can’t discover what you’ve already mapped. - Keep some kind of record.
Time is going to move very fast and you won’t be able to recall it later unless you consciously note it down now. It doesn’t have to be beautiful.
If you write, write.
If you think in images, use your camera roll or draw.
If you want it quick, start a tracker.
For your mood, money, time, anything.Revisit it at the end of each week or term and ask:
what would I do differently if I could do it again?The answer will tell you things about yourself that no course ever could.
Nine months later, I’m not sure I’ve “figured it out.” I’m not sure if that’s even the right frame anymore.
What I know is that the marker I was trying to plant, not in the shifting sand, but somewhere steadier, has started to take shape. Less like an answer, more like a direction. A heading rather than a destination.
The next nine months will look different. Not because I’ll finally have arrived somewhere, but because I’ll be moving with a little more intention than I was before. And maybe that’s enough. To keep going, keep making, keep adjusting the dialogue, trusting that the cumulative change is already happening, even when I can’t see it yet.
The fraction we’re living in right now counts.