I looked up today and found the finish line not far out of my reach. When did I get here? I can’t remember, to be honest. When I look back over my life, I become aware that most of my journey will live forever in my subconscious. I fall into a panic because this path, once the longest road ahead of me, has escaped me in the blink of an eye. My remaining thoughts just aren’t enough, and the void haunts me. It doesn’t seem like what little I’ve accomplished should be worth four years of my life.

I can’t say anyone knew what to expect out of the experience we shared in high school, but it certainly wasn’t what I thought it would be. I pictured myself being daring, bold, surrounded by friends, creating an experience I couldn’t help but remember. But it wasn’t so perfect. I found myself drifting off in the middle of sentences, pushing away people who cared, and doing anything I could to escape. I forgot most of every day, because each was identical to the last. What happened to the best time of my life?

In desperation for a memory to match my expectations, I’ve held on to what has stood out from the haze. I remember the “big” moments – the sports games, the fun classes, the awards I’ve won, and the friends I’ve made. Yet these memories don’t give an accurate picture of who I am.

Sometimes, if I try hard enough, I can remember the small things. I think of the arms that have held me, the people I’ve hurt, the chances I’ve taken, the moments that have brought me to tears. Then my mind begins to overflow with the beauty of my strife-ridden ride as if it had never disappeared to begin with. I think of how much has touched my heart, and of the moments, infrequent as they are, when I’ve felt a real connection with another human being. I think of the times when another person made me so incredibly happy that I couldn’t even sleep at night, when nothing could have gotten me to close my eyes.

When I look at the small things, I can finally start to see who I truly am – the breathtaking discovery of this whole life that has been happening behind the scenes. This life wasn’t created for me, but instead created by me. The teenager I’m going to remember in 40 years will be different from the one who was actually here. I’m going to remember the football games and school dances; perhaps I’ll even remember some of the people. What I’m not going to remember are the times sitting at my desk at 3 a.m., lost in my mind over how beautiful existence is and wondering why I deserve this gift.

I’m not going to remember being so young and feeling as if there was no other human being in the world as perfect as the one looking back at me. I’m not going to remember how painful it was to realize that everything I thought I knew was wrong, and I probably won’t even remember how scary it was to build, from the ground up, my own definition of “right.”

Maybe if I can hold on to the small things, I’ll be able to remember the incredible vitality of the past four years. Even if one day I feel as if I’m losing a grip on my memories, I’ll know that at one point in time, I was the person in them. Even if one day I can’t remember what it felt like to love someone for the first time, a part of me will still be that naive, helplessly lost teenager. I might not be able to recall them forever, but for now, and for the rest of my life, I’ll always be made up of the small things.