Au Revoir: A Tale of Growing Pains
Graphic by Sophia Rascoff
As November swiftly passes and December takes her place, the coming of the new year awaits me. Every year, I vow to make one significant change in my life, with promises like cutting out sugar, exercising daily, stopping myself from procrastinating on assignments until four hours before they are due, and, finally, addressing the wounds of my past year. Yet every year, I joyfully demolish the cookies at Hillel, promise to get on the treadmill but never do, pull all-nighters, and continue to pick at the scabs of my internal and external blemishes.
Still, I believe writing this piece serves as a kind of accountability, both to myself and to those who read it. Maybe this time I will not consistently break my New Year’s resolutions, but instead commit myself to a constant state of attempted improvement. This is a journey I have chosen to embark on after a particularly challenging past year. There were so many moments when I felt my irritability rising, or my anxious thoughts keeping me up at night. I have been given so many gifts in my life, and my time at Harvard is one of them. Attending this institution is a privilege that I am constantly aware of. The people I have met in college have been some of the most wonderful people I have ever encountered, and the more time I spend around them, the greater the need to better myself is. Being the best version of Sidney not only makes me a better friend and daughter, but it also fulfills me. I owe it to myself and to all of the people in my life to be the optimal version of myself, or at least try to be.
Gossiping and jealousy—which I’ve combined because one rarely exists without the other. No gossip of mine occurs without a basis of envy. The impulse to speak ill of others, especially of those who hold something I desire, is a sickly feeling that leaves me feeling no better than before I opened my mouth. I’ve realized I don’t even need another person beside me to fuel my jealousy; instead, it simmers quietly on its own. My wish to be better disguises itself as something green-eyed, and it makes me feel as ugly as the words I let escape. There is a reason envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Britannica defines it as “resentment or sadness at another’s good fortune or excellence, with an often insatiable desire to have it for oneself.” I carry my resentment hand in hand with my grief, wishing to feel unburdened by my desire to mirror others and what they possess. I don’t intend to carry this weight upon my back, but to ease the burden of my words, on myself and on those who hear them.
Adhering to Diet Culture—an ever-present thought in my mind, calorie counting, and watching what those around me eat. TikToks showing “fat-burning” tricks or perfectly healthy bodies are marketed as “less than ideal.” My algorithm toggles between recipes and tutorials on how to fit into smaller jeans. I’ve learned to label foods as “good” or “bad,” but what does it matter? Is feeding your body not as simple as fueling yourself? By giving power to certain foods and labeling them as treats or rewards, we start withholding ourselves from sustenance and from joy. What I didn’t realize was how deeply this began shaping my own habits. Sometimes, meals were spent second-guessing every bite and wondering if I was eating “clean enough,” or gauging how many calories I had just consumed. Within, my self-confidence started to slip, and most meals spent with my friends became a game of comparing my eating habits to theirs.
On many nights, instead of sleeping, I stared at social media, wishing desperately that I looked like the people around me and on my Instagram. Slowly, desserts became a treat, and the hours spent scrutinizing my body in the mirror increased. With each bit of diet culture I consumed, I made more and more judgments on my physique and dietary habits. Slowly, toxic diet culture phrases looped in my mind as I chose my meals. With every casual and hurtful word haphazardly thrown, I move farther from being aware of my peers and friends and being kind to myself. I move away from the harmonious eating I grew up with.
At my childhood dining room table, food was served plentifully, and the bounty from our garden, farm, and labor was celebrated, not shamed. I refuse to bear the weight of diet culture, or let its rules poison my body, my mind, or the words I speak to others. I intend to be proud of my body and its strengths; I must remember how far these legs have carried me and how much weight my shoulders have supported.
Obsessing over academic perfection—a trait I thought I had retired in high school. Instead, it has returned in the form of self-ranking and debating the worth of my GPA. “Comparison is the thief of joy,” Theodore Roosevelt said, and it holds true. At career fairs or summer internship events, I measure myself against my peers. My GPA, not lackluster but far from earning me John Harvard scholar, is still something to be proud of.
When did I lose joy in the process of learning? In falling short and trying again? When did we begin calling Bs failures rather than signs of struggling and succeeding to grasp material? If we all began at perfection, we would have nothing to learn. Wrestling with content means we are at the threshold of understanding, not far from mastery but approaching it. I intend to find peace in my improvement and to offer grace to my own academic journey.
Postponing calling my family—a task that sits on my to-do list nearly every week. My grandfather’s voice has not echoed through my phone since early October, when he spoke to me quietly, telling me how proud he was of me. Even the gravel in his voice, from thousands of miles away, could not hide the emotion and love he so clearly has for me. My mother rarely sees my face except for in photos; I call her only on brisk walks to class. I rarely call my father unless I’m overwhelmed or need help falling asleep. What if they have begun to forget the curvature of my face? Have I hidden myself away to avoid their questions?
I am aware that my papa is in his 80s. When I hugged him this November, his strong frame shook more than usual. I am aware that my parents’ wrinkles have set in, and the grey in their hair is slowly turning to white. While I have been absent, their faces have been ever-present, on my desk, on my phone screen. Their names and memories carry me through exams, reminding me of one reason I am here: to make them proud. It takes so little to pick up the phone, to let their soft, worn expressions fill my screen. I know that one day I will wish for a few more minutes with them. I intend not to let time or tiredness widen the gap between us.
These are the parts of my life that I am saying a tender farewell to as 2026 approaches. Already at this point in December, I have begun to make the subtle change of accepting my flaws. I believe that before reformation, forgiveness and acceptance must come. Forgiveness for the moments I have acted out of turn, and acceptance for the path I am embarking on. I do not expect mastery, but these are tasks I can try to complete. I know the strength of my words and that they need not spill out haphazardly. I know jealousy is a part of me, but it does not need to impact my relationships. I do not need a drastic change or a rapid transformation; this might be a steady, difficult climb. I will stumble and scrape myself along the way.
And so I step into the new year with patience, tolerance, and care, keeping what serves me and releasing what does not. I fear that if I do not engage in this journey, when ten years have passed, I will have wished I did. I do not want to watch my life slip by me, idling in anxiety, jealousy, and self-doubt. I want to be an active participant in my life and in others’. In order to show real love to those around me, I have to value myself enough to take on these difficult changes. Even then, with every out-of-step growing pain, I am moving closer to who I hope to be and who the people I love see in me.
Sidney Regelbrugge ’28 (sidneyregelbrugge@college.harvard.edu)knows she has some work to do and is grateful for the journey.