I have a problem with fears.
I'm terrified of heights, to the point where I begin hyperventilating the moment I'm 20 feet off the ground, never mind putting me in an enclosed space on a plane.
I'm convinced snakes are the absolute spawn of Satan and refuse to go anywhere near snake exhibits in zoos because I'm sure they'll escape the moment they sense my fear. I even have a complex where the single utterance of certain words leaves me shaking with dread. I used to tense up walking down the baking aisle in a grocery store for the sheer number of cake mixes featuring the word "moist."
For much of my life, including my first three years at Duke, I gave into my fears, plugging my ears as I stayed on the ground away from snakes. But during the last year, I've become determined to set a few graduate requirements of my own.
So far I've made plenty of progress. I not only made it to the top of the Chapel, but I sat on the edge of a cliff at the Hanging Rock State Park hundreds of feet off the ground. At the Museum of Life and Science, I successfully made eye contact with a snake and didn't run away screaming. Of course, there's still not a chance in hell I'd ever touch one. And I can actually say the word "moist" without a single shiver. In fact, I've already written it twice in this column.
But the one fear that I haven't had the best of luck overcoming isn't nearly as cut and dry.
I'm afraid of change.
And not just in a "I refuse to try any other sandwich at Alpine because I've found the one I like" way. My friends had to practically drag me out of Cameron following the senior game as I tried to memorize every nook and cranny during my final night as a Crazy faded away. I became so attached to my dorm room freshman year I forced my parents to wait hours before I vacated Giles. And I may or may not have shed a tear or two after my final Tailgate, knowing I'd never get the chance to leave my house in the morning wearing such ridiculous clothing ever again.
And right now, with mere days until graduation, I'm terrified.
After today, my quasi career as a journalist is officially over and I'll never see my name attached to a byline. My makeshift family at Duke will soon be separated by hundreds of miles, only to reunite every five years for a weekend. And for the first time, I don't have a clear trajectory of what I should do next.
There are plenty of things that make me happy and slightly relieved about leaving Duke. I'll (hopefully) never have to pull an all-nighter again or make the trek from the back of the Blue Zone to the rest of civilization in the rain. And knowing I'll never receive another $40,000 bill from the Bursar's Office isn't hurting things either.
But I've become too accustomed to life as a college student. What am I going to do in a world where food points are obsolete, drinking at 8 a.m. for football is unacceptable and Journey is not considered classic rock?
Granted, maybe this change is a blessing in disguise. Now I'll be forced to become conscious of my spending habits. My liver won't shut down when I'm 30. But I'm still going to play "Don't Stop Believin'" every chance I get, for old times' sake.
And maybe fear is an even greater blessing. You might not feel it when you're nervously staring down a 50-foot drop, but the moment you walk away there's an undeniable rush of adrenaline and sense of accomplishment from knowing you did the unthinkable.
So even if these four years end up being the high point of my life, I might just be ready for something new. It's going to be terrifying to walk away from Duke, but I'm not going to let my fear dictate another second of my life. I want to feel the rush of walking across the stage knowing I have absolutely no plans for my future.
Or I could just stand at the top of the Chapel, snake in hand, screaming "moist" at the top of my lungs.
Madeline Perez is a Trinity senior and an associate sports editor.
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