NOBODY REALLY talks about the ride home after graduation.
The one where you’re in the backseat, staring out the window, watching the place that held four years of your life disappear in the rearview. The one where the weight of it all finally sinks in—that it’s over, that this chapter you swore would last forever has come to an end.
I still remember the morning of my first day back on campus after the pandemic—hands clammy, sitting in the car—my mom texting me, “Good luck on your first day!” But nothing felt familiar. Walking through hallways I had only seen through a screen, making small talk with people I had been in breakout rooms with but had never really met—it was like stepping into a life I was supposed to know but didn’t.
And yet, somehow, it became home.
No one tells you about the moments that make you question whether you belong here—the sting of a half-folded test paper handed back, knowing you failed. The weeks blurring together in a cycle of deadlines and disappointment. There were moments I wanted to quit; moments when the dream of Ateneo felt too heavy to carry.
And yet, somehow, we stayed—through the 3 AM breakdowns and the 8 AM exams, through the fear of failing and the pressure to prove ourselves. We stayed because, despite everything, there were the little things—the lunch breaks that stretched too long at JSEC, the stolen naps during class, the late-night walks after an org meeting. The laughter that made the stress bearable. The people who reminded us why we wanted to be here in the first place.
But now, in a few months, I’ll be taking another ride—one I now dread: The drive home, when everything familiar suddenly becomes a memory.
No one prepares you for the moment when “See you tomorrow” turns into “Take care out there.” The silence in the car as it sinks in—you’ll never sit in the same classrooms again. That the people who filled your everyday life—your seatmate who always saved you a spot, your orgmates who kept you sane, the friends you made spontaneous after-school plans with—are now scattered in different places, pulled into the currents of adulthood. Some have already started working, others have left the country, and some, for reasons unknown, have simply drifted away.
Indeed, the world doesn’t pause for anyone, and this ride home is a harsh reminder that youth is fleeting and the future waits for no one.
I always thought we had more time—another semester, another school event, another meal at our go-to spot—but we don’t. It ends. And what terrifies me the most isn’t just the parting itself but the unknown that follows.
What happens when the place that once felt like home is no longer ours to return to? What happens when the people who shaped these years become mere voices on a screen, updates on a timeline?
But maybe, that’s the beauty of it all. For a fleeting moment, we were part of something greater than ourselves—woven into a place, a group of people, a time that felt like it would never slip away. We found family in each other, shared laughter that echoed through SEC walk, survived that friend group during freshman year, pulled all-nighters at Matteo Ricci, and carried each other through the chaos of org work and academics. And even if our paths never fully cross again, I know a part of me will always be tied to this place, to these people, to this life we lived so fully.
So when the time comes, I’ll take that final ride. I’ll let the weight of it sink in. I’ll grieve the end of a chapter, and then I’ll look ahead—because every ride, no matter how bittersweet, always leads to another destination.
For now, I’m holding on a little longer.
Fin is a Health Sciences student set to graduate from Ateneo de Manila University in 2025. Committed to promoting equitable, quality healthcare, she harnesses her passions for science, journalism, and people management to drive meaningful change.
Editor’s Note: The views and opinions expressed by the opinion writer do not necessarily state or reflect those of the publication.
