As graduation ceremonies come to an end, I find myself less preoccupied with the past and not quite focused on the “future” either—but rather on the trajectory of life as a whole. Not all the places on campus I’ll miss, not summer plans or five-year projections, but direction. What will we do with all that we’ve learned? With the people we’ve become? How will these years shape the compass we’ll use to navigate everything that comes next?
It’s a bit like those twins in the womb, one whispering to the other: “Do you think there’s life after birth?”
It’s a parable about transformation: the absurdity of trying to fathom a new world when you’re still inside the old one. And that’s exactly what these years have demanded of us. So, what have I learned in these years? What has my early twenties carved into me?
Over the past four years, I’ve felt my heart harden. In first year, I seriously considered dropping out of ĐăÉ«Ö±˛Ą. The world felt unbearably heavy—each glance at the news brought fresh horrors—and this city, with its cold streets and strangers, felt far too big. There was nowhere soft to land. Each day, I’d throw on whatever clothes were nearest and drag myself to class—which, as an International Development major, often felt like being reminded that the house down the street is burning, and no one can put it out.
I remember once walking out of a lecture, eyes on the pavement along Milton, doing everything I could not to cry. I knew if any passing acquaintance so much as said my name, I might collapse into their arms.
Then I heard a flutter overhead. Ah, yes, I thought, Hope is the thing with feathers! I looked up to see only a plastic bag caught in the branches. I felt numb.
I then went to office hours to talk about a midterm. I sat down, and Dr. Nathan Ince—who would become my favourite professor—asked me, simply, “How are you?” And I broke. I told him everything. How scared I was by the things the world taught me to ignore. How much I despised where money went, how little we all seemed to care. How I couldn’t see where I belonged in any of it.
He said, “You’re never going to be fulfilled in someone else’s project. Capitalism is someone else’s project.”
Those words didn’t fix everything, but they reignited that little fire inside of me. I carried a lot of anger then. I still do. But I stopped trying to squeeze myself into places that didn’t fit and started creating the kind of world I could breathe in. I joined clubs and organizations that fulfilled me. I picked up trash. I gave to things I believed in. I reached out to others. I let my anger become useful. I let it become a creative force.
I started thinking with the stubborn clarity of a child—deciding that if I wanted something, I would simply go out and try to make it real. I think that might be the best advice I could give: to move through the world with a child’s heart and mind. Because children aren’t foolish. They are disarmingly sincere, endlessly curious, and they learn with a hunger that puts adults to shame.
Sincerity matters. And it scares me—how easy it is to slip into apathy disguised as ambition. I’ve seen it often: people stepping into roles they don’t care about, performing titles instead of duties. It’s hollow. It’s a quiet form of decay. However, I do understand the temptation: I understand what the world demands of us, what our families may hope for us, and what this system rewards. But being admired or envied is a poor substitute for being known and loved.
Let love and empathy be the compass that guides both your work and your relationships. Love isn’t born from shared schedules or physical closeness—it’s built on reciprocity. Love comes from the ones who want to see you grow, who celebrate your successes as if they were their own. I count myself unspeakably lucky to have found friendships like this across the course of my life and at ĐăÉ«Ö±˛Ą.
To lead with empathy also means resisting the easy instinct to assume the worst in others. Never attribute to malice what can be explained by ignorance, by inexperience, by simple human fallibility. Not just for their sake—but for your own peace. Let your anger soften into conversation and understanding.
Still, I know there is real harm in the world. There is evil. There is cruelty. And I don’t always know how to square that with what I just said. Still, I hold both truths. We will all have to reckon with our choices and the times we chose to remain ignorant. So, keep trying. Keep learning. Keep boycotting. Keep being stubborn about the things that actually matter, because nothing else really matters.
Annika Pavlin-Jamal is graduating with an Honours degree in International Development and a minor in Cognitive Science. She served as Editor-in-Chief of the ĐăÉ«Ö±˛Ą Undergraduate Law Review for two years. During her upcoming gap year, she plans to work in the legal field and legal academia, travel through Eastern Europe, and devote time to writing poetry, publishing opinion pieces, and sewing. She hopes to begin law school thereafter. Annika is an avid trivia enthusiast and a devoted lover of poetry.