There are places in life that become more than just locations; they become extensions of our souls. For me, it was the towering halls of my beloved college, the stone walls that whispered history, the wooden shelves lined with books that felt like old friends. In the heart of that place stood the library, my sanctuary, my second home in a city that once felt foreign but grew to cradle my deepest aspirations.
I remember the first time I stepped through those doors, the scent of parchment and aged ink filling my lungs with an almost sacred reverence. It was here that I buried myself in pages, lost in texts both ancient and modern, tracing the footsteps of thinkers who came before me. It was here that I spent my nights, pouring over words, my fingers tirelessly type, my mind alight with curiosity.
I had believed, perhaps naively, that dedication and love for learning would carve a permanent space for me within those walls. I envisioned myself forever entwined with this institution, first as a student, then as a scholar, perhaps even as a professor who would one day guide others through these same aisles of knowledge. But dreams, I learned, are fragile things, easily shattered by forces beyond one’s control.
The shock was not sudden. It was slow, creeping in the form of subtle dismissals, of opportunities denied, of doors that once stood open now sealed shut. I had given my best, my unwavering devotion, yet when I needed them to stand by me, they turned away. No formal rejection letter could wound as much as the silence that met my pleas, the absence of a recommendation that would have been my bridge to a future I had long envisioned.
But the deepest wound came not just from the institution itself, but from those I admired most. The very hands that once guided me, the voices that spoke of knowledge and healing, became the ones to wound me the most. How does one reconcile the heartbreak of being cast aside by those who taught of integrity, of mentorship, of opening doors for others? The ones who inspired me to pursue this path were the same ones who burned the bridges before I could cross. The dissonance was unbearable—the knowledge that those I held in the highest regard could so easily discard me, reducing my devotion to insignificance.
And beyond individual betrayals, I saw the deeper flaw within the community I had once revered. It prided itself on inclusivity, on open-mindedness, on being a sanctuary for different voices. But behind the slogans and the well-crafted mission statements, there were closed circles, unspoken hierarchies, and walls invisible to those who had never tried to push through them. There was a mold to fit, a role to play, and those who did not conform—those who were different—found themselves on the outside, no matter how deeply they loved the institution. I had believed I was part of something greater, but in the end, I was just another outsider who had dared to dream beyond the lines drawn for me.
And so now, when I look upon the college I once loved, I do not see a sanctuary but a haunting relic of misplaced trust. The very walls that once embraced me now feel suffocating, their shadows stretching long with the ghosts of my past hopes. What once seemed like the greatest decision of my life now looms as a painful reminder of betrayal, a wound carved into the fabric of my memory.
Yet, despite the pain, I cannot bring myself to forget the beautiful moments I lived within those walls. The friendships I forged, the laughter that echoed through late-night study sessions, the camaraderie of shared dreams—they are mine to keep. No betrayal can erase the memories of the people who stood by my side, the mentors who truly cared, and the adventures that shaped me into who I am today. The long walks through campus, the endless debates over coffee, the sheer joy of learning for the sake of knowledge—these, too, are part of my story, and I will cherish them always.
Even in this sorrow, I refuse to be erased. My name may not be etched into the history of that place as I had hoped, but the knowledge I gained, the passion I nurtured, cannot be stolen from me. Though the institution turned its back, it cannot undo the scholar I have become.
Perhaps, in time, I will find a new home for my dreams. Perhaps I will build my own library, where no eager mind is turned away. And though my heart aches for what was lost, I carry forward with the unshaken belief that learning, like truth, will always find a way to flourish—no matter the walls that try to contain it. And even in the darkness of this disappointment, I trust in God’s greater plan. For He, who holds my future, will lead me where I am meant to be. His wisdom surpasses human rejection, and in His time, He will restore what was taken. I will rise again, not because of an institution, but because my hope is rooted in something far greater—His divine calling and purpose for my life.
February 14, 2025.
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