My Tree has Blossomed, Yet its Leaves Have Fallen
I know that I’m not alone in insisting on distancing my current self from my past selves. A tale as old as time, I can remember being nine years old and thinking my five-year-old self was a completely different person from the one I had become. Still, my most recent transformation has felt more finite.
I’m well into my second year of college, and I turn 20 next week. By the time this is published, I’ll have lived two decades on this Earth.
Even if I am young, I have this uneasy sense that this change may be leaving something behind for good.
My friends and I celebrating the last day of high school at the beach. Yeah, that’s me at the bottom right.
Image courtesy of Steffi Sarmiento Mena
In high school, my core friend group consisted of 12 girls. A slightly absurd number, I know.
I remember bonding with them over simple things like childhood TV shows and hallway gossip.
We spent every lunch together, laughing in a way that felt automatic.
“STEFFI YOU MISSED IT DURING LUNCH.”
There was a period of time when I experimented with sitting with different people during my lunch period. That was a failure.
In a collective of traditional styling and straight-leg jeans, I was the short mullet and a button-down shirt. Senior year was odd.
The two friends I related to most started dating. Coming as both a shock and an expectation, they became less present in my life. One is still my best friend, and the other, I don’t really speak to anymore.
After that, the need to morph into an acceptable persona consumed me. I developed a sense of placelessness, my core ripped from beneath me. Endlessly dramatic, I thought that the only way I could find my people was to embrace a set of characteristics that weren’t completely mine.
I fit the artsy mold well. I was the Editor-in-Chief of my school’s literary magazine — the one who drove the vintage convertible that had a tomato-red shine in the parking lot. I did things like get into a long-distance relationship that was characterized by snail-mail communication. Knowing that I had made essentially no mark on my high school, I rushed to develop some sort of reputation, leaving me in a state that was neither here nor there.
One of my most exhilarating experiences in high school was the feeling of pulling all-nighters to finalize my magazine’s design with our layout editor. Working so intimately with someone and achieving a headspace where creativity was truly untapped was something I never realized I needed. For one of the first times in my high school career, I actually wanted to devote all my time to creating something.
“GATOR NATIONNNNNNN.”
My friend made sure to remind me of in our group chat.
I used to comfort myself that I would go off somewhere far away in college, starting anew. I could make brand-new friends, people like me. I even thought I might pick up a new nickname.
The University of Florida wasn’t far away, and my old friends would be there, but it paradoxically called my name. I was still excited about the prospect of making new friendships while enjoying the comfort of my old ones.
To my dismay, my difficulties communicating with others shaped the way I built friendships. Once again, I was making surface-level connections with the people around me, and I was juggling how to maintain the relationships I had been trying to keep with my high school friends.
“HEY GUYS I’M GOING HOME FOR THE WEEKEND IN CASE YOU WANNA SEE EACH OTHER…”
My text went unanswered.
I would go home excited to see my friends from high school, but over time we had grown more distant, and I related to them less and less. They were kind to me, but fostering bonds is difficult when every conversation is substanceless.
We’d part ways, and I’d sink into my living room couch, curled up with my phone or a book in hand.
It became a cycle of humiliation. I’d beg to see them, just to end up with about a 50% chance of securing a meetup, and then just collapse.
Suddenly, this was home.
Image courtesy of Steffi Sarmiento Mena
After a summer spent with my best friends, the thought of starting my sophomore year of college felt like an elephantine task.
I was going to be living at Beaty Towers, a ‘60s-style, notoriously dingy dorm, with a random roommate and two girls with whom I had developed a relationship exclusively through going to the club the year prior.
The start of the semester was awkward for me. My roommates and friends were nothing but kind, but it can take me months to warm up to someone.
On Halloween night, I was struck by serendipity. Feeling defeated after a series of not-so-great parties, my friends and I piled into the very dorm I once dreaded moving into. As we chatted, I realized I felt genuinely comfortable talking to them, and they seemed just as comfortable with me.
I felt a shift in our friendship after realizing I needed to go out of my way to open up to others if I wanted to build real foundations for friendship. Since then, aspects of my life have aligned.
“LIVING IN A HOUSE FULL OF CREATIVES FEELS LIKE A MODERN PARIS IS BURNING”
As posted on my roommate’s close friends story.
I’ve surrounded myself with people who are embarking on genuine creative pursuits. Whether it’s playing instruments, creative writing, photography, or plain crafting, the constant cultivation of their passions keeps me inspired.
Every time I hear my roommate pick up her guitar, I am reminded that I have neglected my keyboard for far too long. Her consistency in learning the instrument motivates me to play the keys that I know all too well.
For the first time in my life, I feel as though I can wear whatever I want without being unnecessarily identifiable in a lineup. I still maintain my eccentricities. Alas, I don’t think I’ll ever give up my purple hair, but this time, I feel like a piece of a whole rather than a performer destined to unnecessarily stand out.
I’ve been suddenly thrust into this community of people who are all a part of creative organizations. My friends read my articles, and I talk to them about their projects. Engaging in this quid pro quo keeps me constantly stimulated and excited about my life.
Even at lunch, conversations can shift from easy laughter to honest comparisons about who we are and who we want to become.
“GOD BLESS, I’M GOING HOME.”
I accidentally said to my mother toward the end of winter break.
Her smile dropped.
The thought of going home filled me with dread. Talking to those girls always left me exhausted.
I spoke to my current friends, and somehow, I wasn’t alone. We’ve all shared these feelings. Wanting to leave our past lives as we embark on our journey of newfound friendship. I don’t think either party in my old friendships plans on maintaining these bonds in the future.
Despite the growth I claim to have achieved, I can’t help but hold onto a nostalgia toward friendships that no longer benefit me. Our bonds made sense in high school, and even though these relationships are still very much a part of my life, I have begun to mourn them.
What every day has felt like lately.
Image courtesy of Steffi Sarmiento Mena
I welcome the birth of my future, yet this is not the death of my past. My best friends will forever remain the three girls with whom I forged relationships in elementary school, and there are also people from high school with whom I’ve grown really close since starting college together.
No matter what, I can’t help but think of the beautiful blossoming tree that has become my life and feel anything but the purest form of excitement at what’s to come. Someday, I’m sure these petals will fall, too, but for now, I remain grateful for the fallen leaves that remain at the base of my trunk.
Strike out,
Writer: Steffi Sarmiento Mena
Editor: Francesca Jaques
Steffi Sarmiento Mena is a writer for Strike Magazine GNV. A creature of habit, you can find her chilling at Plaza most weekdays and dancing at UC most weekends. To contact her, shoot her a DM on Instagram @raspberrymilkchocolate or an email at steffismena@gmail.com
