Where Does Your Spark Go When It Fades?

It’s been five months since I walked across that stage and accepted my two-hundred-thousand-dollar piece of paper, the one that was supposed to be a promise of everything I had ever dreamed of. But here I am, standing on the other side of all that work, still unsure what my dreams even are.

Leaving college is change, and any change is difficult. But losing a life you built is quiet heartbreak. The faces you knew fade into memories, the rhythm that carried you through each day disappears, and the version of yourself who always had a next step begins to dissolve. The loss doesn’t arrive suddenly. It arrives like a quiet wave, pulling pieces of you out to sea before you even realize what’s been taken.

And then there’s the scrolling. Endless, hypnotic and cruel. The stream of everyone else’s milestones, their new cities, their dream jobs, their glamorous beginnings. Their lives look cinematic. Mine feels like a behind-the-scenes reel that was never edited. I can’t help but wonder if I missed the train while everyone else found their seats.

My dreams feel far now, like stars I can name but will never touch. I keep grasping at constellations, hoping one will guide me home. I’ve tried to change things, to chase something new, to become someone else entirely, but somehow I end up back here. The same circle, the same stillness. It’s as if I am waiting for a sign that refuses to show itself.

No one warns you how quietly the spark fades, or how long the dark can last before you feel warmth again. You shed, you ache, you rebuild.

The real miracle isn’t finding the light, but realizing you have been glowing quietly all along.