I bought my grad gown and cap this week.
It was weird. No parade, no confetti.
Just me and my dad standing under the fluorescent lights of the Wolf Shop, holding a plastic package with my height and future printed on a tag.
(Fun fact: You have to buy the tassel separately. It’s $9.)
And just like that, it felt real.
Five weeks left.
Five weeks until I leave the version of myself I’ve spent the last four years building — piece by piece, heartbreak by heartbreak.
I came into college with brunette hair, a dream I thought would stay intact, and the idea that someone else could write my story for me.
There were boys, sure — ones I loved and ones who left. Ones who made me feel small and ones I let see too much. And for a while, I let them shape me. I thought love was the thing that would fix me, or save me, or at least distract me from the weight of everything else.
But somewhere between falling apart and picking up the pieces, I stopped looking for someone to rescue me.
I became the girl who said “I’ve got it” before anyone could offer help.
The girl who worked five jobs and took pride in being exhausted.
The girl who didn’t cry in front of anyone.
I stayed up until 2 a.m. editing three different drafts for three different jobs, then woke up at 6 to write again. I told everyone I was fine because I thought if I admitted I wasn’t, everything would unravel.
And maybe it did. Maybe I unraveled.
But somewhere in that unraveling, I found God.
Not all at once. Not in some mountaintop moment with light streaming through the clouds. I found Him in the quiet. In the mornings I didn’t think I’d get through. In the silence after my phone stopped ringing. In the walk to campus when I didn’t want to go, but went anyway.
In the small, whispered prayers I didn’t realize I was saying.
I used to think I had to do everything alone. That strength meant surviving without needing anyone. But I was never really alone. Even when I felt like no one else showed up, He did.
And maybe that’s why, now, the version of me standing five weeks from the finish line looks less like a warrior and more like a woman finally learning to let go.
Let go of the idea that success has to hurt.
Let go of the belief that burnout is the price of worth.
Let go of the past versions of myself that were just trying to survive.
I feel full of things I haven’t said.
I feel full of regret for people I let slip away.
For every friend I didn’t text back.
For every class I half-listened to.
For every time I showed up physically, but was too burnt out to be there in spirit.
I regret how long I believed being chosen was the goal — instead of choosing myself.
But I also feel full of hope.
Hope that the soft parts of me are still there.
Hope that I can learn to rest without guilt.
Hope that my story isn’t defined by who loved me or left me — but by how I learned to love myself.
Someone once told me, if your heart hurts, it means it still works.
And mine?
It’s working overtime.
It’s grieving a younger me I don’t quite recognize anymore — the girl who thought the world would reward her for being good, the girl who thought love was supposed to hurt before it healed.
It’s holding onto the last five weeks of the life I built with scraped knees and trembling hands.
It’s terrified of starting over.
But it’s also softening again.
For the friends I want to stay in touch with — the ones who saw me at my worst and stayed anyway.
For the girls I once envied and now fiercely protect — because we were all just trying to be enough.
For the things I used to chase and now let go of with grace.
And for Blue.
Blue wasn’t part of the plan. He didn’t come wrapped in red flags or chaos. He didn’t storm in with fireworks — he just showed up, consistently, like the sun through the blinds in the morning.
He listens, even when I don’t know how to say what I’m feeling. He’s kind in a way that makes me wonder why I ever settled for less.
Blue is patient with the parts of me that are still learning how to rest.
He’s the first person who didn’t ask me to prove I was worthy of being cared for.
And maybe that’s what makes it so scary — because he feels safe.
And safety is new.
And new is hard when you’ve spent years expecting everything to fall apart.
But I’ve stopped looking for the exit. That’s how I know.
I’m not bracing for the goodbye anymore.
I’m just… here. With him. Wanting to stay a little longer every time.
I don’t know if Blue will be there when May ends.
I don’t know what version of me walks across that stage.
But I know this:
I survived more than I ever thought I could.
I held on, even when I had every reason to quit.
I stayed when it would have been easier to leave.
I worked when I had nothing left to give.
I changed, even when I didn’t believe I could.
I prayed.
I healed.
And my heart still hurts — which means it still works.
So here’s to the regrets.
To the ones who left and the ones I had to let go of.
To the memories I’ve outgrown but still think about when it’s quiet.
To the people who arrived when I stopped expecting anyone to.
To the chapters I didn’t want to end but needed to.
Here’s to the last five weeks of a life I once dreamed of — one I built with late nights, whispered prayers, and stubborn hope.
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
