Congratulations, graduate. You did it! You double-majored and you got your pre-med requirements out of the way, achieving many of the goals you set for yourself when you first walked through Phelps Gate. You owe much to your friends, family and professors across any number of departments. As the graduation cards pour in, you bask in the shining grace of the “big end” you anticipated. I sensed this pride in our conversations last spring, before the pomp and circumstance of commencement converged into the shining star of a Yale diploma — which I hope you’ve framed. 

You already asked yourself what your time at Yale amounted to: you wrote, in the waning days of summer, about that feeling you had under Harkness Tower: “the thrill of meeting new people, the excitement of academia, of being dazzled by ideas, the sense that as long as I was in this place, surrounded by these people, I could never be unhappy again.” 

I am a senior now, staring down the same tunnel you did a year ago. The rhythms of fall are familiar. I arrived on campus the night before classes started, needing only a quick trip to Trader Joe’s and a few texts from the bookstore. I walked calmly under Harkness on the way to class, a friend’s question lingering in my mind, reflecting, just as you did, on a recent conversation. “What memory,” they asked, “do you cherish most from your first year?”

I answered that I cherished the walk towards Harkness Tower in mid-February, wearing a thick puffer jacket, icy tears of happiness running down my cheeks as I phoned my family to tell them I would be representing my country in international soccer the following month, the first woman in four generations of family athletes to do so. Looking back, it was an easy enough answer and a true one. But if I could answer again, I would say that what I cherish most are the many hours spent in the art gallery I was walking beneath on that frosty afternoon, learning from a favorite professor what it means to experience art and, for that matter, the world in a meaningful way. This course — and a lot of time in front of my now-favorite sculpture — taught me to ask who I am without that which I hold in my hands, without Yale, without a resume, without a history. Who does my conscience want me to be? This question lingers.

At Yale, it is often easier to imagine our futures than experience our present or remember our past. It is easier to strive than to stride, until the feeling in the air, that end of summer, senior fall feeling, so rich in purpose, finality and most certainly humidity — hits the soul. While I will always question what matters most in my own story, it is at this moment that I find myself slammed with its sudden primacy. I realize now that your words — and more importantly, your presence — helped pave the way for me to figure out exactly who I am.

So to you Pradz Sapre ’24, author of the “Growing Pains” column whose words ran in this paper for four years, my North Star in the undoubtedly grueling STEM and humanities double-major pursuit, Bombay native, forever proud Franklinite and newly minted New Yorker: you’re right. “There is no perfect goodbye.” But in the grand tale of Yale, I think there can be “perfect endings.” I looked up to you for three years; I hope new first years will read this piece and then read your column and perhaps look up to you, too. They should; the arc of time is both cruel and kind. How lucky am I — are we — to be able to quote you when we need to find words for how we feel: “You can move away from an orchard but the smell of roses may linger in your heart.” 

Thank you, dear Pradz, for everything you inspired us to become. In your words: “I hope that all of us will forever remain a part of each other.” Congratulations, graduate. I think your hope has a pretty damn good shot of coming to fruition.