Isabella McNutt (she/her) ’27 is a government and history double major, and she is a member of Alpha Chi Omega. She loves traveling, reading and music. Email her at immcnutt@wm.edu.
The views expressed in the article are the author’s own.
There’s something uniquely disorienting about being a junior in college. You’re no longer new enough to feel uncertain about where you belong, but you’re not yet at the point where everything is ending. You exist in this strange, fragile in-between: grounded, comfortable and yet increasingly aware that the life you’ve built is temporary.
Half of my friends are seniors. The other half are graduating in the fall, already beginning to drift into whatever comes next. And then there are the few who are just stepping into their senior year, lucky, maybe, because they still have time, but also unlucky, because they’re about to realize just how fast that time disappears.
This year feels perfect in a way that almost doesn’t make sense. For the first year, no one is moving, no one is studying abroad, no one is missing from the routines we’ve built. For once, everyone is here, fully present, fully available. There’s an ease to everything; my friends come over without hesitation, filling the room with noise and laughter like it’s second nature. Plans don’t require planning. Someone suggests a sunset drive, and within minutes, we’re all ready. Someone mentions ice cream, and suddenly we’re on our way. It’s effortless, almost instinctual, like we’ve all learned how to exist in each other’s lives without barriers.
These are the moments people talk about when they describe college, the ones that don’t feel monumental at the time, but somehow become everything when you look back. Sitting on the floor, talking about nothing and everything. Late-night drives with no destination. The kind of laughter that feels like it could go on forever. It’s not just the big memories, it’s the ordinary nights that somehow feel extraordinary simply because of who you’re with.
And yet, underneath all of it, there’s this quiet, persistent sadness.
It’s hard to explain because nothing is actually wrong. In fact, everything feels right. But maybe that’s exactly why it feels the way it does. There’s a subtle awareness, always in the background, that this version of life has an expiration date. That the ease, the closeness, the spontaneity — it’s all temporary.
I can’t be the only one who feels like there’s a ticking clock on college life as we know it. Not just the academic timeline, but the emotional one. The countdown on living within walking distance of your closest friends. The countdown on being able to call someone at a moment’s notice and know they’ll say yes. The countdown on a life where your world feels small in the best possible way.
Yes, I have another year. One more year to do everything I’ve been meaning to do. One more year to fully lean into this place and the life I’ve built here. I can go to my favorite spots a hundred more times. I can take long walks in every season, watching how familiar places change with time. I can sit through sunsets that blur into one another and still feel new every time. I can say yes to things I would have once overthought or turned down.
But even with all that time, I know something won’t be the same.
Because it was never just about the places; it was always about the people. And next year, the people will be different. Some will be gone completely, scattered across cities and time zones, building new lives that no longer overlap with mine in the same easy way. Others will still be here, but things will shift. Schedules will get busier. Priorities will change. The effortless togetherness we have now will start to require effort.
“Come over” won’t always be so simple. “Are you free?” won’t always have the same answer.
That’s what makes this moment so bittersweet. It’s not just that it’s good, it’s that I know, in real time, how good it is. There’s no distance or nostalgia softening the edges. I’m fully aware of it while I’m living it, which somehow makes it more meaningful and more fragile at the same time. Being a junior means standing in the middle of something beautiful and already feeling the weight of its ending. It means holding onto moments a little tighter, staying out a little later, saying yes a little more often, not out of obligation, but out of an understanding that this is finite.
But maybe that awareness isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s a gift.
Because not everyone gets to recognize a good thing while they’re still in it. Not everyone gets to live a moment and know, this matters, this is special, this is something I’ll carry with me forever. There’s something powerful about being present enough to feel both the joy and the ache at the same time.
So maybe the answer isn’t to dwell on the ticking clock, but to let it sharpen everything instead of dimming it. Let it make the laughter louder, the conversations deeper, the memories more intentional. Let it push you to reach out first, to make the plan, to show up, even when it would be easier not to. Say “yes” to the sunset drive. Stay for one more song. Go get the ice cream, even if it’s late. Sit a little longer in the moments that feel ordinary because one day they won’t be.
Because the truth is, this chapter doesn’t lose its meaning just because it ends. If anything, it gains meaning because it does. And while it won’t be the same next year, and it’s not supposed to be, that doesn’t mean it’s over. The friendships, the memories, the version of yourself you’ve built here, they don’t disappear. They evolve. They stretch into new places, new routines, new versions of life.
So, instead of mourning what’s coming to an end, maybe the challenge is this: to live so fully in this moment that when it does pass, you don’t feel like you missed it. To let it be bittersweet, not because you’re losing something, but because you had something worth missing in the first place.
