I have been feeling highly nostalgic lately, perhaps because I’ve been listening to This Was Summer 1993, a playlist that has transported me to the summer after I graduated from high school. Ah, to be eighteen years old and full of brio! Back then, I felt I was already becoming a big-shot literary figure, mainly because I was the editor-in-chief of my high school yearbook and the literary magazine during my senior year. I was also riding high on having earned a full-tuition scholarship to the University of Chicago.
That fall, I moved into Burton Judson Courts, a neo-gothic dormitory on Chicago’s famous Midway Plaisance. As the first in my family to attend a four-year university, I was thrilled by the prospect of “living on my own” in the city. This idea is laughable to me now, because far from being independent, I was moving into a dorm room financed by my parents’ loan and located just thirty minutes from the suburb where they raised me. As the move-in day wore on, I was anxious for them to leave so I could officially begin my “adult” college life. Once I was settled in—my clothes folded in the dresser, the extra-long twin sheets stretched on the bed, the floor lamp assembled in the corner, and photos of family and friends taped to the wall—they left in the late afternoon.
As their footsteps faded, I closed the bedroom door and moved to my third-floor window, waiting to see them below. A minute later, I spotted them walking side-by-side. Suddenly I realized from her body language that my mom, who had been both cheerful and extremely bossy all day, was sobbing. I then saw my dad put his arm around her as they walked, and my mom leaned into him for support—another surprise, because they had divorced several years earlier and bickered quite bitterly whenever they were forced to reunite. From my vantage point at the window, it finally dawned on me how bittersweet my leaving was for all of us. That's probably why I hadn’t escorted them out but instead insisted we say goodbye in my room: I didn't want to cry when an independent city girl was supposed to be so brave.
This memory reminds me of how growth often begins with a lump in the throat. As we each step into new roles, new courses, or new challenges this coming academic year, I hope we do so with compassion for our students, our colleagues, and ourselves. Preparing for a new semester may not feel as dramatic as a college drop-off, but it is still a threshold. Let’s cross it with intention and a sense of wonder for what may be in store. Wishing you a restful, joyful remainder of the summer before we kick off Fall 2025.
Sincerely,
Magdalena L. Barrera
Vice Provost for Faculty Success
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