I didn’t cry when I graduated from high school.
Caps were tossed into the air, candles burned out, and people rejoiced in the supposedly “bittersweet” moment that marked an important chapter in their lives. While students excitedly embraced each other with tight hugs, I simply stood there—placid, perplexed as to why I couldn’t quite bring myself to shed a few tears of my own.
Initially, change unsettles you. It’s like a siren blaring in your head every time you walk into a new classroom, meet new people, encounter new teachers, or adjust to unfamiliar environments.
There are times when change arrives with a weight capable of upending your entire world. I’d like you to ask yourself the following question: What happens when you build your life around something that suddenly disappears one fine day? I was forced to confront this dilemma four years ago when I left competitive badminton after nine hard-fought years in the sport. From 5 a.m. alarms and morning fitness sessions to rigorous summer camps and strict diets, everything felt deeply nostalgic.
I felt so dejected after I stopped training that my heart would skip a beat every time I saw a small child sauntering confidently onto the court carrying a kit bag twice his size. The sport was ingrained so deeply into my life that adjusting to this change was more than just replacing a routine; it meant rediscovering my identity, rebuilding my mindset, finding another purpose, and attaining emotional stability when the world around me felt foreign.
Yet, while change can be deeply emotional and transformative, it can also be desensitizing.
Third grade was undoubtedly one of the best times of my life. Days were filled with morning mugs of Born Vita, movie screenings, “family-fun days”, and “cross-country runs”. I spent my first three years of schooling at one of Bangalore’s largest and most prestigious international schools, where everything felt expansive and lively. Soon after, I shifted to a school that felt starkly different. Unlike my previous school, this one had a surprisingly small campus with a culture rooted in academic rigor. I still remember how my hands would turn sore from hours of relentless note-taking in pursuit of something everyone around me seemed to want: academic excellence. But just when life began to find its rhythm, I changed schools yet again. And again. No, this isn’t a typo—my formative schooling years spanned across four different schools.
Over the past 12 years, I’ve experienced change in all its forms. From eating rice and rasam to pasta and pita bread for lunch. I gained a newfound interest in a subject I once despised. Outgrowing my tomboy era. Alternating between befriending and unfriending. Breaking free of the monotony that came with a jam-packed nine-subject calendar to one with just five. And finally reaching a stage where true freedom felt less like a 5-minute snack break and more like stepping beyond the confines of four concrete walls.
It was through these constant shifts in environment that instilled in me a sense of quiet detachment, only staying long enough to be simply present. But never enough to pause, process, or even reminisce. Memories began to take form but rarely solidified into something permanent. My life began to feel like a playlist on shuffle, with each song abruptly replacing the last, rarely allowing the melodies of the previous one to linger. Eventually, my brain got wired to these repetitions of novelty. I realized that I was no longer intimidated by the prospect of change. Instead, it had become something I’d simply grown accustomed to. My new sense of normal
So perhaps the reason I didn’t cry on Graduation Day wasn’t that I was emotionless or indifferent. It was because somewhere along this rollercoaster of a ride, I had learned to let go of places, routines, and even parts of myself I never thought I’d lose.
References
- https://www.hercampus.com/school/krea/change-without-novelty/
