The date was in my planner for so long. As a bright-eyed high school junior, I chose my southern arts college with my one of my top factors being the quality of the study abroad program. I had my eye on an eight-week program in Lacoste, France. Two summers of jobs and anticipation later, I am ready. Today is the day, but I won’t be going.
When I opened my planner on my desk this morning and found that today marked as the day I had planned for, worked for, and looked forward to for about two years, my heart sank a bit. I used to think that doing this was the only thing that would make me happy. I was wrong.
Oh, I know about study abroad—how it’s great on a resume and how it broadens your view of the world. I know how great of an experience it is, how perspective-changing it is. Do you know how many days I spent researching every possible scholarship option and airfare possibility? It was my motivator; it was an aspiration for so long. I got so caught up in planning that I forgot what a sheer privilege it is to even be able to consider study abroad.
But, is it fair for me to spend a summer lounging in the south of France while the rest of my family stays at home and works everyday to pay the bills? Is it fair to myself to essentially take a vacation on loans that I’ll pay on until I’m too old to travel anymore?
Next year is my last year of college. I will never have this opportunity again. But I won’t be taking it and I’m not sorry.
When I first realized it wasn’t happening and cancelled my application, I was heartbroken. It was hard for me to listen to the talk of frequent flier miles and layovers in London-Heathrow. It was hard for me to accept the fact that while everyone would be jet setting off to their foreign locales, I would be doing the trek back up I-75 north to my Cincinnati suburb to stay until August or further notice.
But today is that day I waited for and I am not going. The flight—which price-checking daily had become part of a morning routine—will leave this afternoon shortly before I get off work. And I will drive the hour commute home from my internship in the city back home to the edge of my small hometown. And I will be happy.
I will be happy to spend one last summer with the people who have supported every one of my crazy endeavors in whichever way they could. I will be happy to spend one last summer with my brother who, by the passing of many time-lapsed days I regret to have missed while away at school, will be a senior in high school come fall. I will be happy to spend another summer baking pies with my grandmother who now sometimes leaves the oven on. I will be happy to spend one last summer in the house I grew up in. I will be happy to spend one last summer with my family and friends who made me who I am today. Perhaps that will be a far more valuable experience than 10 weeks of meticulously planned group excursions and pre-arranged stops at tourist attractions. Europe won’t close; France will always be right where it is. The life I have right now won’t be.
And so I will drive my car home today and remind myself just how lucky I am to have this one summer. I will use my planner note as a reminder to text everyone who is leaving one last time for the summer. I will not rip the page out, even though some jealous corner of my heart thinks it’s only satisfaction will come from that. I will not be going on my study abroad trip. And I will be just as happy this summer as I always thought I would.
