This past year, Cross Campus has had the look of an unfurnished apartment. The school grounds were empty and unfamiliar, the grass grew taller; it had been months since students had last trod their feet on the lawns.

But the other day I was lying outside, and it felt like Yale was beginning to remember itself. I was surrounded by people, music was playing and frisbees were sailing. I had forgotten, but I was reminded now, love is a contact sport. Dogs and children collided. People were hugging. Some were even kissing. Yale was starting to feel like the place it was when I arrived here almost four years ago. And all of this made me think of who I was back then, and who I am now.

At this very moment, I am sitting in a coffee shop in New Haven. I have not showered. My heart is pounding; maybe because I took too much Benadryl, maybe because it was recently broken. I take Benadryl because of my pollen allergy. It also helps me sleep — when I close my eyes, I see my DUS using my thesis as toilet paper. This morning, I am in this coffee shop because I am ignoring my responsibilities. I have 1,527 emails in my inbox. I have 0 text messages. I am hungover because last night I went to a party. I hid in the bathroom and looked through someone’s skincare products. My face is always drier than I would like, partly because I forget to moisturize and partly because my mother is no longer alive to kiss it. You don’t need me to tell you that the year has been unkind and uncertain. Even the spring is acting noncommittal. Recently, someone told me to pray, but I cannot remember the last time I did. How would I even start? Maybe I could borrow from a recent text I sent my boss — “Hello. Please forgive the tardiness and brevity of this correspondence.”

This is not how I expected things to end up. Four years ago, I arrived at Yale with many plans and aspirations. I planned to go to medical school, I planned to go to church every Sunday, I planned to fall in love and I planned to be a size two. I planned to take the most challenging classes and ace every one of them. I planned to never smoke a cigarette, I planned to pronounce “Nietzsche” correctly. I planned to stop going on my high school ex boyfriend’s Facebook. I planned to apply to the best internships and to get hired for every one. I planned to join a society. I planned to make friends my first year and keep them. I planned to write a thesis so brilliant that Peter Salovey got a tattoo of its title across his chest. I planned to graduate with a 4.0. I planned to never hurt anyone. I planned to never be hurt. I planned to keep every promise I ever made to myself, to God and to the Yale Admissions Office. It occurs to me now, at the end of these four years, that I feel that I have failed. I have failed to keep my promises. I have failed to become the person I thought I would be. I am not that person, nor am I the person I was when I came to Yale. Sometimes I feel like a complete stranger to myself.

It is important, however, to remember why I failed to become the person I thought I would be. As little as I recognize myself now, I recognize with absolute clarity and conviction my reasons for failing and my reasons for changing. I failed because I wanted to find my purpose. I failed because I wasn’t afraid to try and I wasn’t afraid to be wrong in section and in job interviews, about others and about myself. I changed because as easy as it was to recognize the person I was when I was eighteen, it certainly was not easy to be her.

I know that we are preparing for the next chapter of our lives, and I wish us all every success. But I also hope that we will keep the courage to fail. And with each failure, even if we feel like we do not recognize ourselves, I hope we will find some blessing in this feeling. After all, the thing I have missed the most during this awful, extraordinary year, is the company of strangers.

Embracing failure and letting yourself feel like a stranger is a daunting task. Those of us who are graduating have been challenged to present ourselves to the world and say, “Hey! This is Who I Am!” But these words sound truer to me when they come in the form of a question. It is the end of college. It is the beginning of the rest of my life. I am not the person I thought I would be. I am not the person I was. Hey, this is who I am?