Relief

They said I'd feel proud, that the gown and the cap would settle on my shoulders like some kind of crown, that walking across that stage would feel like arriving somewhere I'd always been going.

Instead I felt my whole body exhale, the way you breathe out after holding your breath underwater for too long, not triumph, just survival.

Everyone around me was crying happy tears, hugging their parents, throwing caps into the air like fireworks, and I stood there searching myself for the feeling I was supposed to have,

finding only the quiet click of a box finally checked, a weight finally set down, a held breath finally released.

Where was the pride they promised me? Where was the swelling in my chest that was supposed to prove I'd done something worth celebrating?

All I could find was relief, relief that the deadlines were finally over, relief that I wouldn't have to perform exhaustion as dedication anymore, relief that I survived without becoming someone I didn't recognize.

Maybe pride requires believing you did it for yourself, and I'm still not sure whose dream I just fulfilled,

mine, or the version of me everyone else was rooting for, the one who needed this diploma more than I did.

Maybe relief is just pride that hasn't caught up yet, still stuck somewhere behind the finish line, waiting for me to stop running long enough to feel it.

Or maybe some finish lines were never mine to cross with joy, only mine to survive, mine to be done with, mine to finally, finally put behind me.