Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” has quietly become the soundtrack to my days. It’s one of those songs that feels like it understands you before you understand yourself: gentle, reflective and honest in a way that doesn’t demand attention but stays with you long after it ends.

My first spring at Yale feels surreal. The cherry blossoms bloom, people sprawl on Cross Campus for lunch and there’s that buzz of anticipation in the air. But beneath all the brightness, there’s something more complicated, a soft undercurrent of transition. Classes are winding down, seniors are preparing to leave, summer plans are solidifying. The rhythm of life is shifting.

This year, I’ll be studying abroad in Athens and Naxos in Greece for the summer, something I’m thrilled about but also still processing. I keep imagining the light there, the sea, the unfamiliarity of a place that I’ll soon be calling my temporary home. I wonder who I’ll be there. Not just what I’ll do, but how I’ll feel, what I’ll carry with me, what I’ll shed.

That’s where “Landslide” meets me. The lyrics move like a quiet confession: “I’ve been afraid of changing, ’cause I’ve built my life around you.” I think about the routines I’ve settled into at Yale — the morning walks to class with coffee in hand, the comfort of spontaneous dinners with friends in the dining hall, the quiet corners of libraries that have become my sanctuaries. These little anchors have grounded me more than I realized. And now, as I prepare to leave, even temporarily, I feel a tug. 

I’m excited for Greece — for the open sky, the slower pace, the chance to immerse myself in a language I’ve only just started to know. I imagine long afternoons filled with sunlight, conversations with strangers who might become friends, and a version of myself that feels a little lighter, a little freer. But there’s something bittersweet in knowing you’re about to grow in ways you can’t predict, knowing that by the time you return, you might not fit into your old rhythms quite the same way.

Fleetwood Mac doesn’t offer solutions. “Landslide” doesn’t rush you out of your feelings or push you to move on. It sits with you in the uncertainty, in the quiet ache of becoming. That’s what makes it such a perfect spring song, not just for the season, but for the mindset it brings. It honors change, but gently. It gives you space to mourn the person you used to be while opening a door for whoever might be next.

I’ve listened to it on rainy walks back from Sterling, on sunlit mornings when the Silliman Courtyard smells like new beginnings, on nights when I feel the weight of everything ending all at once. And each time, it steadies me.

If you spot me on campus with my headphones in and a faraway look in my eyes, I’m probably somewhere between New Haven and Athens, between who I’ve been and who I’m becoming, and “Landslide” is playing quietly in the background.