I’m listening to “Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?” by Arctic Monkeys as my eyes dart back and forth. I’m first watching the waves crash from below my balcony, harsh and unforgiving. I then look up to the line where the ocean and sky meet, steady and tranquil. The water is glittered by the sun; the birds think so too, as even they stop on a nearby tree to catch a glimpse. 

I’m wearing an outfit she wouldn’t recognize herself in, I have hair she would consider too short and too brunette and the internal calmness I’ve worked so hard to achieve would scare her away.

She is the old me, of course.

The 18-year-old version of myself is looking at the ocean right now, too. She’s sitting outside of Anacapa Residence Hall, on a bench isolated from other passersby. She is wearing jeans I can’t fit into anymore, wearing a hairstyle I’ve since retired, clutching a journal that is now filled to the brim with writing entries and more familiar with the feeling of anxiety than who she is as a person. She’s listening to “Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?” by Arctic Monkeys, too. 

That song reminds me of freshman year: uncertainty and darting eye contact. The smell of September; freshly mowed grass and salty air. Bees buzzing around my head, an external representation of what was internally happening. I queue that song when I need a reminder that I have, in fact, shedded past versions of myself and grown into new ones. I’ve grown into new jeans, too. It reminds me that I am not planting my feet into the same soil, but rather that I am transitory.  

I miss her, periodically — the 18-year-old version of me. I wish she knew that anxiety didn’t have to be the criterion for life, or that she would eat much better food than what De La Guerra Dining Commons serves. It wasn’t going to be all bad. 

I envy her, sometimes too — her ignorance really is bliss. I eventually had to stop avoiding what was actively hurting me (thus creating the eventual internal peace), yet she remains painfully unaware of what those things even are. And she’s only taking 12 units a quarter. Lucky her.

I think of her and she thinks of me and we will never meet — that is that. It is comforting enough to know that she would be proud of me, that through these growing pains, I am becoming the woman she’s dreamt of being. That I’ve met her fears head on and survived (and lived to tell the tale). That, above all else, if she saw me walking on campus, she’d think, “Wow, that girl is really cool,” and I believe that’s what life is all about. Impressing younger you.

We are the same, for many reasons, mainly because we are facing the same fact this September: something new is coming. For her, it was an endless path of “firsts”: the first day of class, first party, first dorm, first time exploring the campus. For me, it is the dead opposite. I am faced with the drearier, more depressing end of the path: the “lasts.” The last first day of school, the last party, the last night spent with my roommates, the last night living in the bubble that is Isla Vista. 

This is very sad for a nostalgic person like myself. Will every ending cycle become a huge ordeal for me? Probably. I prefer it that way. Why go through life without stopping to look back at your footsteps and see how long the walk has been? I find nostalgia in tangible items and I walk along past seasons of my life through memories and pictures. Items and songs. Clothes and seashells. Anything I can attach some sort of sentimental value to.

Songs behave like picture frames to me, holding different strokes of life in the lyrics and melodies. Hundreds of songs have gotten me through the first three years of college, all with their own memory bank and economy of desire. 

How lucky am I to watch myself evolve? To know that younger versions of me are watching with pride? And to be reminded of that when I listen to specific songs, or watch the waves crash like I used to?

Eighteen-year-old Kira wanted to know the answers to everything, so she could be prepared for any situation at any given time. I now have the answers, but I can’t give them to her. A younger, more naive version of me thought that if I could figure out exactly how I was supposed to go through college, then everything else would fall into place. The current version of me says that you cannot control your environment, only how you deal with it. 

Freshman year Kira would be impressed with how much I’ve evolved, and that is a beautiful thing. I believe that a good indication of positive self-growth is measuring how proud your younger self would be of you, or how much they would look up to you. It’s exciting to know that in another three years, I could be someone entirely different (with the same exact music taste. All versions of Kira, past and present, listen to Kevin Abstract and The Sundays). 

But in spite of that, I’m still comforted in the shared qualities I have with younger me. We share all the same morals, hold pencils the same way and prefer snacking over meals. I still feel more confident after I get my nails done, and my tranquility has always been and will always be found near an ocean.

Like when you walk into Home Depot and get a paint chip to bring home, I’ve always been doing things to see if I could stand it forever. Learning as I go, I don’t have ultimate answers about how I should’ve navigated college or if I should’ve taken that extra class winter quarter, or not. I know none of it. I only know to keep my dearest memories close and my friends closer. My love surrounding me, not my fear. 

Eighteen-year-old me is going to learn that very soon. And I’m excited for her.

I’m excited for her to cry and learn how to comfort herself. She’s going to learn that the longer you wait for it, the better it is when it finally appears. She’ll remember that she loves baking and will do more of it. She’ll learn the art of playlist-making (after she switches from Apple Music to Spotify). She’ll learn that minimizing herself for a guy is always lame, never cool … she’ll stop. She’s going to figure out which blush suits her instead of copying her roommate’s makeup routines. She’s going to become even more passionate about literature. She’s going to get smarter. She’s going to love. And lose. And love some more. 

I can only imagine what 23-year-old Kira will say about me, now, in this moment of ignorance. I will soon be the waves meeting the shore, harsh and unforgiving. I will also, once again, become the line where the ocean and the sky meet, steady and tranquil. And I’ll look at the ocean and remember how I brought myself this far.

Now, a Q&A with my 18-year-old self questioning and my current self answering:

Q: Do you have a boyfriend yet?
A: You need to become your own person first before you beg for the burden of someone else’s presence. But you’re going to love a lot of people you haven’t met yet. 

Q: Did you find friends?
A: Yes. They make you cry (in a good way), like Faye Webster sings about.

Q: Do you go out a lot?
A: I haven’t said no to a boot from Biergarten, but I also haven’t missed a single morning pilates class. It’s all about balance. I know you don’t know what either of those things are yet, it’s okay.

Q: Do you still like Steve Lacy?
A: Yes, he reminds me of you.

Kira Logan can be found at a bench at Anacapa Residence Hall, overlooking the ocean, listening to Arctic Monkeys and being nostalgic.