I Graduated Last Month and I Don’t Know What to Do With My Mornings Anymore
I’m sitting at my mom’s kitchen table right now, drinking coffee out of the chipped ceramic mug I got at the senior bar crawl last spring. It has my college’s logo printed lopsided on the side, and I grabbed it before I left the dorms because it was the only thing that fit under my dorm room coffee maker. The clock says 9:17am. Two months ago, at this exact time, I’d be sprinting across campus, backpack slipping off one shoulder, trying not to be late to my 9am creative writing lecture. I’d be re-reading my discussion notes on the way, mentally panicking that the prof would call on me and I’d say something stupid. Today? I’ve already done the only two things on my to-do list: fed the cat and unloaded the dishwasher. The rest of the day is just… open. That’s the empty part no one tells you about, I think.
My graduation day was fine, I guess. We had the ceremony on the lawn, it was 85 degrees, my sweat got the back of my gown all sticky. My parents took a million photos, I hugged my roommates and we cried a little, then we went out for dinner and split a bottle of cheap rosé. I posted the obligatory photo of me holding my diploma in front of the campus arch, got 132 likes, a bunch of comments saying “so proud!” “next chapter!” An hour after that, I was sitting in my dad’s car on the way home, picking at a leftover roll from dinner, and I felt nothing. No pride, no excitement, just this weird hollow spot in my chest that’s still there, most days.
I ran into my old high school math teacher at the grocery store three days ago. He retired a couple years ago but still comes in for cereal every Tuesday. He asked how post-grad life was treating me, and I froze. I mumbled something about “looking at a few options, taking it slow” and then I grabbed a bag of salt and vinegar chips off the display next to me just to have something to hold, and booked it to the checkout. I don’t even like salt and vinegar chips. They’re sitting in my pantry now, unopened. It’s so awkward, right? Everyone expects you to have it figured out the second you get that diploma. Like walking across a stage suddenly flips a switch and you’re a Real Adult with a plan and a 401k.
Last week I drove the 45 minutes back to campus just to walk around. I didn’t text any of my old friends who stayed for grad school, I just wanted to wander. I sat on the bench outside the library where I ate lunch every day senior year, watched freshmen haul moving boxes into the dorms for summer session. Then I got curious and snuck into my old creative writing lecture hall to see what it looked like now. Turns out there was a final exam going on. The TA walked over and asked me politely if I was lost, and I wanted to melt into the carpet. I mumbled an apology and walked out as fast as I could, and stood in the hallway while all these undergrads glanced up at me from their desks. I felt like a stranger. Like I’d already been erased. That’s when it hit me: I don’t go here anymore. I don’t go anywhere anymore. Not that I have to, not technically, but it feels weird to not belong to a place or a schedule or a group that expects you to show up every day.
I used to complain so much about college. I’d complain about 8am classes, about group projects where one person does nothing, about the cafeteria pasta that tasted like cardboard, about tuition bills that made my parents sigh over dinner. I couldn’t wait to be done, to not have anyone telling me what to do. Now I have that, and it’s not the freedom I thought it’d be. It’s just empty. For 18 years of my life, someone else built my entire schedule. Someone told me when to wake up, when to eat lunch, what classes to take, when to graduate. Then one day, that’s over. No more deadlines, no more syllabi, no more reminder emails sent to your school inbox. You’re just… out. And if you don’t have a job lined up that starts the next week, which I didn’t, you just have all this time. Too much time. I’ve spent whole days scrolling TikTok on the couch, getting up only to get another soda, and then I go to bed at the end of the day and wonder what the hell I did with 12 hours.
I have three friends from college who already started full time jobs. They post photos of their new desks, their company branded water bottles, their happy hour outings with coworkers. I’m genuinely happy for them, I am. But I also scroll past those posts fast, and I don’t text them back as fast as I used to. I feel guilty about that, but I don’t know what to say. “That’s awesome! I sat on my mom’s couch and watched 17 videos about folding fitted sheets today!” It doesn’t feel like a thing to say. My mom keeps telling me I should be proud of myself for finishing college, that the emptiness will pass, that I just need to be patient. I know she’s right, probably. But that doesn’t make the feeling go away right now.
This morning, after I unloaded the dishwasher, I put my shoes on and went for a walk. I walked down to the little bakery on the main street, bought a glazed donut that was still warm from the oven. On the way back, I saw a little kid learning to ride a bike without training wheels. He fell in the grass, got his knee all muddy, and his mom ran over, but he pushed her hand away and got back up and tried again. I stood there for a minute eating my donut and watched him. He didn’t get it on the second try, or the third, but he kept going.
It didn’t fix anything. I still don’t have a full time job. I still don’t know where I’m going to live in three months. The empty feeling is still there, sitting in my chest when I don’t have anything to distract me. But the donut was good. The walk was nice. The kid finally rode all the way down the block, and he yelled so loud his face turned red, and I smiled. That’s all I got right now, I think. Empty isn’t the end of the world. It’s just where I am, today.
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