Four Years Later

As I restlessly tossed and turned in bed on the night before graduation, I felt the huge bags that took up almost three-fourths of my room stare at me with questions I didn’t have answers to. The big, imposing trunk—almost blocking the door—seemed to be asking, “Why do you have to leave now, just as you got used to your life here?” I turned to face the blank wall, and even the wall took the liberty to pose some serious questions: “Will you be able to persevere? Do you think you’re throwing away something perfectly fine just in search of a theoretical something better? Will you ever feel like some place is your home?” All questions I did not have answers to. I could see the cruel irony then.

Maybe to understand why I decided to leave, I need to think about why I came here in the first place. The move here was partly to get away from everything when things started to get tough. Expectations began to weigh on me. Love started to smother me. Small wins didn’t make me happy—and after a point, nothing did. Maybe I was lured into the Western propaganda of a glamorous life with glamorous things curing me of this perceived existential pain. Nothing ever seemed to last—friendships, relationships, careers—and I can keep the list going. So I thought about the point of it all. And maybe I decided all my questions will be answered if I move to New Brunswick, New Jersey (which is just about the most ridiculous notion I’ve had, and I have a lot of those).

The first year of college was me being everywhere, trying to do everything, and failing miserably. I thought of myself as in my winter arc or whatever the kids call it these days. I tried to make things happen, thinking I could change my life in a few days. But everything I thought would cure me just seemed to make the anhedonia worse. I did make a couple of good friends, though—and as we got comfortable, I didn’t feel the need to put up an act. I saw a lot of kindness that year—kindness without which I would’ve been back home on the next flight out of Newark. Old friends of my mother, fellow travelers, Uber drivers—they made me realize it’s truly a gift to make a homesick person not miss home. Saying thank you now feels too little. It was also the year I decided to get the help I needed—and that made a big difference.

By the second semester of my second year, I had made the unfortunate discovery that I would rather put my head in the oven than study engineering. Being plagued by questions about existence and meaning and connection rendered the study of Fourier transforms rather pointless. Everyone said it was okay to change majors. I wasn’t passionate about anything to really switch majors, though. If nothing appeals to me right now, I’ll stick to what I started with and maybe throw in a little bit of other things—I thought. And slowly, I started to get out of the bubble I had quarantined myself in when life felt overwhelming.

I got more involved on campus. I met people, had good conversations, and that often kept the homesickness at bay. I started seeing the sheen again in things that once defined who I was—maybe not in the same way. I craved to express, to create, to connect. And this time, I acted on those desires, one step at a time. Even during occasional visits home, I realized I’m a lucky guy—but that didn’t make me less miserable. Or stop me from making those around me more miserable.

By the third year, I realized everything requires effort. That 4.0 GPA I wanted that semester meant spending hours with books—not just showing up to class like I had done my whole life. I had to unlearn and relearn so many things. And somewhere along the way, I began to find meaning in the ordinary—maybe just to distract myself. Conversations, meetings, political discussions, daily commutes. And in between all of it, I found clarity about things, about myself, about what I really wanted from life—enough to make me want to return home after graduation. I didn’t see it as practical back then.

And in my fourth year, arguably the best year of my college life, those same questions kept gnawing at me. Looking back, I had built a little life that was warm, fun, and filled with the best people I knew. We had a shit ton of fun—badminton, hiking trips, trying restaurants, trips to the dining hall, movie nights, festivals (even the ridiculous American ones)—on both good and bad days. But that entrée of happiness with a side of belonging still didn’t make me content. It seemed I wanted more from life.

I was only half-joking when I told my friends I was leaving the US because they were all terrible jerks. Although, it is true that I decided to leave because of them—but not because they were jerks. Quite the opposite. They made a shy, closed-off, moody jerk feel seen. I knew I had to leave because they had restored my faith in humanity. Because they made me realize my life is nothing without the million lives that make it up.

So it may seem like I’m going back because I’ve figured out the answers to all the questions I’ve asked myself over the last 4–5 years. But the truth is far from it. I’m leaving because, after the last couple of years and a few amazing people, I finally feel what it means to be understood and accepted. I’m leaving because now, I have the courage to face myself—and the dreams I once left behind. I’m not scared to leave, because wherever I go and whatever I do, I know I’ll never be truly alone—as my friends and family have proven time and again.

I wish I could tell the readers who read all this garbage to find out techniques to find themselves that “I have indeed found all the things that will help you discover yourself. It's gonna be $24.99” and hand them a book, preferably with a not-so-ugly picture of myself, wearing a turtleneck and reading something that would make me look smart. But I can’t, even though my bank account desperately needs it.

Nobody asked for this, but I think I owe it to myself to share this much. To all the teenagers plagued by a quest for meaning, with their unease tormenting their parents, I would tell them this if I could: Things will be alright eventually. You will make and lose friends, and know the absolute horror of packing your life into big brown cardboard boxes. You will live in cities you hate, but eventually find people you love there. You will look forward to things again—may it be random walks you take with a friend, or trips to the same old restaurant where you complain about the lack of extra mayonnaise. The love for life you think you lost will find you again, when you least expect it to. You will eventually let go of your anger, your resentment, and you will forgive, forget, and ask for forgiveness. And in between jobs and college and relationships and all the noise around them, you will find something true. Most of all, you may not know who you are—and that’s okay. Maybe you won’t know anytime soon. But through all the unplanned trips, midnight food runs, and heartfelt conversations during long drives, you will—like I did—realize that this—whatever this is—is enough. And that, maybe, is what it means to be alive.

Four years ago I couldn’t care less about humanity. I was barely human, with a shitload of questions that made me want to rip my brains out late at night. Four years later, I still don’t have all the answers.

So, why did I really want to come home? Maybe the answers I want live in the kind of love that never tires—a stubborn, enduring love for humanity, and maybe even for kindness itself. Maybe changing the world is not about grand gestures, but in the way we return to ourselves—and maybe that's where true revolutions need to begin. And sure, maybe I can start this revolution from anywhere in the world, but it only seemed right that I go back to my roots, to the place where those questions found me.

And of course, for the weather and food—I swear it's just perfect.