Nostalgia

Tonight a thought occurred to me about how much has changed in the past four years that I've been in school in Provo. 

Maybe it's because I'm getting nostalgic—senioritis has officially hit like a brick wall and I cannot wait to leave Utah. 

But tonight as I drove home from a friend's house, I passed a building on University Avenue and I flashed back to a moment from my freshman year when my parents were dropping me off for student orientation. I was sitting in the back seat, leaning my head against the window, and we drove past that same building. Except that time, I was feeling lost and scared of being in such a foreign place, wondering why I decided it would be a good idea to move 2,000 miles away from home, to a weird little bubble in the middle of the rocky mountain craggy desert. 

I'm not that same girl anymore. I'm louder and softer and hopefully a little bit wiser. I'm braver and more open about my feelings, and sometimes mildly grumpy. I like to listen and be openminded but I'm not afraid to call people on their BS like I used to be. I care about impressing myself, not other people. And I'm friends with my parents.  It blows my mind that that girl riding in the back seat down a new street didn't know how many frames per second films were shot at and she had never pulled an all nighter. She had never done a lot of things.

And so, even though I am more than ready to graduate, I have decided that this weird little bubble, the one at which I roll my eyes more often then I should, holds a special place in my heart.

It's the place where I decided to become. To embrace my crazy. To be large and in charge and soft-hearted and grumpy and collaborative all at once. To be a goldfish mom and a filmmaker and friend. To be confident and strong and brave and fallible and fragile. To be an insomniac and a Roger Deakins fan club president and a manager and a set operations safety diva and a director of photography. 

So, Utah, I'm grateful. And you've got to deal with me until June.