A Lyric Essay of Personal Reflection

*Author’s Note: This lyric Essay contains mentions of mature topics and themes while recounting personal stories and experiences of my time in college.

I remember the first time I saw the “The University of Kansas” granite sign outside the old KU Welcome Center. I was in the gold Toyota, the engine so loud that people miles away were aware of our presence. I remember looking through the back window, but I don’t remember if it was the one covered in Duct Tape. I do remember smiling from ear to ear. Feeling giddy. Shaking with joy and with fear. Not knowing what lay ahead of me but knowing- believing- that it would be better than what lay behind me. 

If only I knew then. That yes, in fact, it was going to be better. And worse. That I would learn new types of joy. But I was also going to explore pain and new kinds of rejection and loneliness. That my memories four years later would be cloudy, made of regret and hard lessons learned. That I would carry burdens I never expected to carry and I’d collect many stories I wish I didn’t. That at the drop of a hat, I could name several people who really don’t like me, names that bring pain and rejection instantly. Pain for myself too, and the ways I acted. 

There are some memories that are angry and hard to remember, full of embarrassment and the feeling of being taken advantage of. That in the end, even the people closest to me would become complicated. Beneath the happy surface, there would be true pain. And worry. And hurt. And the kind of darkness that simmers over time, fueled by an ever-growing list of insecurities and fears. That labels like “anxiety” and “depression” would shape the experiences I lived and cement changes within myself- dark changes. 

I remember sobbing. I remember being curled up on my bathroom floor between the wall and the sink crying uncontrollably and doing everything in my power to keep myself quiet. I remember running away when things got difficult- physically getting in my car and driving for many hours, late into the night, avoiding the things that make me happy. Not wanting to admit that I was struggling. Not wanting to feel like a burden. Aching with uncertainty and listening to the sounds of despair ring through the quiet night. 

Who is going to tell that smiling girl in the loud gold truck that she’ll hurt people? She’ll hurt many people. Good intentions be dammed, she causes pain and rejection of her own. Who’s going to let her know that she’ll carry proper nouns with her as scars? Proper nouns that evoke silence, as the moment she remembers them she’ll have no words- just empty feelings, sullen thoughts, and lonely guilt. The harsh realities of the world will fall upon her like dominos, each landing a blow as the chain will continue to fall, again and again and again. 

Who is willing to warn her that she’ll get lost in the darkness of life? That certain people will say kind things to her face but venomous things behind her back. That certain people will take advantage of her curiosity and energy. That some will not remember the circumstances of the night, but rather count her body and move on, reducing her down to a number, a moment, something replaceable. 

Not even her academics are free from the struggles, and along with them come tears and failure, pleading and begging, anger, frustration, and true hate, triggering drop-out thoughts to float through her subconscious. To question if the hundreds of thousands of dollars for a college education is really worth it. That those moments become uncountable. That the urge to give up becomes so strong that she’d actively be making backup plans. That the justifications to stay would become incredibly feeble against the relentless tidal waves of “You can’t do this,” “It’s impossible” and “You’re not good enough.” And that rewriting it all now, admitting it happened and reliving the pain she’d forgotten about hurts equally as much.

Who’s willing to break that young girl’s heart?

Who’s willing to remind her why it didn’t?

To remind her of the depth of joy she’ll find, and the new levels of achievement she will reach. That the person she meets on the first day in the dorms she’ll graduate next to, after four years of close friendship, two years of roommate shenanigans, and too many memories together to count. To that the girl she’ll meet five minutes before her first-ever college class will remain at her side through complicated expectations and conditional relationships. 

And the girls won’t be alone. There will be many, many, many more friends to join in the adventure. That their world will rapidly grow through chance encounters and risks taken. That the fear in the girl’s stomach will never really go away, but she’ll learn how to act with it and live despite it. 

Who wants to be the one to let her know how many new things she’ll try? That she’ll dance on Nashville rooftops and in frat house basements, that she’ll always be exploring, in the backseats of crowded cars, in the minds of the brilliant people next to her, through the pages of textbooks that will teach her things she didn’t know she needed to learn; in between the steam whistle’s cry, in the eyes of her friends, in the quiet moments of peace, in the trill of shockingly loud laughter cutting through the air and glorious grins pasted on her face. 

That she’s about to embark on a quest that will be full of things she won’t ever be able to forget, like the day around the fire that turned the backyard into a marshmallow battleground. Or the night when five girls snuck onto an elementary school’s playground after sunset decked out in glowsticks, with only childlike joy as their concern, despite the perplexing pandemic world around them. She’ll remember the nights she’d laugh until she cried and smiled until her face was numb. She’ll help people too, help them get home after a long night, help them carry burdens of their own, and help remind them to live when they want to sleep. 

Who’s going to tell her about the world that waits for her? In basketball stands under a paper confetti rain, between football endzones, and while running through the closed-off streets of downtown Lawrence to celebrate a National Championship Basketball Title and two Kansas City Super Bowl wins. In the midnights when they will run through campus- sober enough- laughing and telling stories, playing music on their phone and staring at the stars winking at her from the sky; at the backyard parties of people she won’t know and in the songs she and her friends will scream in an apartment as the clock hits 2 am. In the objects she’ll choose to keep, like the shot glass she’ll steal from a local bar or the Jayhawk Pillowpet a friend with much better judgement convinces her to buy. How she’ll look around and see the joy she collects as valuable, irreplaceable, and be utterly grateful for it. 

And she’ll learn too. Learn about the world and it’s shortcomings, but also the indisputable kind nature of people. She’ll see the world differently in newsrooms and imagine the world differently on stage. To feel new things and grow through the pain- in spite of the pain. That each street she passes will carry memories, from running in the rain and the cold, to midnight drives with her best friends at her side. From human pyramids to frisbees slicing through tree branches. From a “Cheers!” over a happy hour margarita to a “Love you!” to her best friends as she walks out the door for the night. She’ll split sugar cookies while sitting on her counter and split hairs while amid a passionate argument she’ll later forget the subject of. Inside jokes will build, friends will change and she’ll change right alongside them; hoarse throats will be reminders of a great time and light will be found in the darkness. 

But playlists must end and the buzzer must sound. 

And then, silence. 

Then comes the silence where the flood of memories will start to pour in and she’ll find herself sitting and thinking and reliving it all. The highs, the lows, the moments of anger and despair between moments of elation and vibrant life. The silence promotes reflection and hindsight logic starts to kick in. She’ll find herself wondering what she learned- because it surely wasn’t short and concise writing. 

Well, she learned about love. How there are many different kinds, even in friendships. And how powerful love is and how much she has to give the world. 

She learned about loss and the cost of staying true to herself and her values. 

She learned about laughter, the aching pains in her stomach when her muscles seize- physically experiencing too much joy. 

She learned about lies, broken promises and dreams lost, what it’s like when it just doesn’t end up working out. 

She learned about literature, collecting a fraction of the world’s knowledge in notes and lessons fueled by her passion for curiosity and exploration.

She learned about listening and how to deeply connect with the people around her. How not to impart her own judgments but rather to remain open to the stories they each have to tell. 

She learned about lotteries, the risk that comes with life and the way that nothing is ever really guaranteed, the value of hard work and kindness, and how it’s worth the gamble in the end. 

She learned about lucidity, the need to communicate, to understand and engage with the world around her, and the incorrigibly irritating way that the world remains unpredictable.

But mostly, she learned about life, how much she wants to live it, and how exciting it is to live. 

And I still remember the first time I saw the “The University of Kansas” sign outside the old KU Welcome Center and the ear-to-ear smile on my face. I don’t think anyone has to tell that girl anything about what’s going to happen. She needs to learn it for herself. And then, she’ll become me. Me, right now, right here, wondering how to explain it all. But I believe I have explained it as best I can.

Quite honestly though, it’s hard. The urge to give up is still there, whispering in the corner of my mind. 

I trust in the people around me and I trust in myself. I am not perfect, nor have I ever pretended to be. But I am a stubborn optimist, I will carry these memories and lessons with me, and I will keep the things I learned close to my heart. After all, my education is the one thing no one can ever really take away from me. 

I think the only thing I’d tell that young girl in the loud gold Toyota truck is this: In the wonderful words of Adlai E Stevenson, “When you leave here, don’t forget why you came.”

– Anika Kieler, May 2024