This Place Will Last.

Dear Vanderbilt,

First and foremost, let me put out there that I realize you're moving on. You’ve made it clear to me via an extended and anticlimactic series of speeches that you are ready to say goodbye, and that’s fine. I know you've found a whole new class of someone elses now, and this letter is not going to be a plea to take me back.

We've had a good run. I can’t honestly say that I’m ready to bid you adieu, but for the sake of my pride and my well being, I'd rather remember our relationship and all the amazing times we've shared together in a positive light than dwell on the fact that you're ready to be happy without me. So I'm telling you from the getgo--I'm moving on too. I won't Facebook stalk you and obsess over photos of you and yours, I won't text you at inappropriate hours of the day and night (although, as you may remember, during your farewell speech you encouraged me to do so if I needed anything, even money), I won't resent that your feelings towards me have changed.

The four years I spent with you have been the best of my life. You've made me laugh, you've made me cry, you've made me laugh till I cry and cry till I laugh. I never realized when I stepped foot on your campus (a national arboretum! Things I won’t miss: allergies) that I would be meeting the place I may want to spend the rest of my life with.

When I first opened the door to my tiny cinder-block framed Kissam room (things I won’t miss, part II: The Office of Housing and Residential Education), my initial thoughts included: “Ooh, a lofted bed just like in college movies…sweet!,” “Why is the chick across the hall in a sundress, full makeup, and cowboy boots to unpack?”, and “Mommmmm can I have money to buy things to decorate?” My wee freshman mind didn’t even ponder the realm of events that would, until I called said office of Housing and Residential Education whining enough to be switched to a room in Branscomb, unfold in the 10X10 space on the fourth floor of Kissam Hall. That inhumanely small space was where I fell in love with my first college boyfriend, met some of my best friends, shared memories I will never forget and some I will never remember (Momma B, I know you told me over graduation that you read my blog, so apologies in advance).

Sophomore year was an upgrade. Oh, Peabody Commons, with your glorious and spacious lawns, the Commons Center that could be utilized for everything from studying to eating to inconspicuously pregaming. Sophomore year brought me closer to my campus, my sorority house, my classmates, my friends, and myself. Days were spent gallivanting from HOD classroom to HOD classroom and from fraternity porch to fraternity porch, nights were spent consuming food and wine on the Vandy card, dancing around downtown, and often holed up in the reading room of the Peabody Library, which does have both a fireplace and a glorious collection of children’s books (spare me, A+S).

Junior year was a series of ups and downs for you and I. I became fed up sometimes with more of the same—didn’t you have anything to offer me but fun? Entertainment was good and well, of course, but I was ready to get serious and I wasn’t sure if you could make the commitment. But meetings with advisors, long talks with friends, and yes, gallivanting from HOD classroom to HOD classroom and from fraternity porch to fraternity porch and from honky tonk to honky tonk proved to me that you really did care about me, and were in it for the long haul. I took on an extra major, made the decision to spend a semester abroad, and was forced to choose between adventure and stability in the worst way possible. Nonetheless, I came out stronger, more sure of myself and my goals and values, and with a plethora of wonderful stories to tell.

And then we got to senior year. I’ve always believed that one can’t properly reflect on something without the passing of time, and it hasn’t truly been long enough for me to decide how I feel about senior year. All I can say is that it was the best of times and the worst of times. The most amazing things that have happened to me during my time with you occurred this year, as did the worst. What I can say with certainty and definity is that I don’t regret a single choice, a single night, a single element of the string of events that led me, and us, to where we are now. You told me on our last day together that “this place will last,” and I truly believe it will. So here’s to: A traditional called raging. Waking up at 8 am for tailgates. V-U(!). 903. Sunset Grill. Dan McGuiness. The Stage. Costume parties. Towers. Pregames. Postgames. Taking beach vacations at least once a month. Formals. Informals. The Porch. Speeches. Crawfish. Late nights in Peabody, Stevenson, and The Dungeon. Gordon Gee. Nicholas Zeppos. Dolla Beal. Kristin Torrey. Jay-Z. Being young forever. The pursuit of happy-ness. CMSB. And finally, me and you.

Thanks for everything, Vanderbilt. I will always love you. Maybe, in the future, when we’re both more mature, we can give it another try.

Until then, with love, yours truly,

NB