the space between a ring and a room
survival, celebration, and future furniture
“hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime” - kendrick lamar, greatest philosopher of all times. each of you means more to me than i’ve ever really said. and if i sent this to you that’s my way of saying that. this is just an honest piece about how hard all of ts has been, how much we’ve survived, and how lucky i feel to be surviving it with you. i love you all unfathomably, i don’t know how to say it right but i’ll try.
this past weekend i got my brass rat.
at mit, it’s a whole thing. it means you made it halfway somehow. there’s a ceremony, there’s noise, there are people comparing engravings, and there’s that specific kind of joy that only happens when you’re celebrating something you earned alongside people who also barely made it here. two years of accidentally skipping meals and crying in classrooms and figuring out how to hold ourselves together in buildings that never sleep.
and i was super excited. because for the first time in a while, i felt like i had just caught up to the version of me that has been trying to arrive. whatever that might mean to you, and honestly whatever tf that means to me.
and in that moment, while everyone was posting and celebrating and lining up for photos, i kept thinking about something really specific that cannot seem to find its way out of my already overstimulated brain: a couch.
not one that exists yet. not one i’ve ever sat on. not even one i’ve seen. but one i’ll own one day.
there’s this idea that growing up is a shedding of joy. that you leave behind spontaneity and silliness and trade it all in for structure. but after this weekend, i think that’s a lie told by people who grew up poorly. the people i admire most, the ones whose lives i want, didn’t give up wonder. they just learned how to carry it with more care.
when i was younger, i thought growing up meant big things. taxes. job titles. serious conversations. fancy dinners in black dresses where you pronounce “prix fixe” wrong and pretend you know how to pick wine. and sure, that’s part of it. but for some reason, this goddamn couch has been in the center of it all.
if you’ve talked to me even once about the future, you probably know i’ve been stressed about having to buy a couch. like irrationally, comically stressed. what if i pick the wrong one? what if it looks good but feels bad? what if it’s too adult? what if it’s not adult enough? the list goes on.
but this weekend, for the first time, i wasn’t afraid of the couch. i was actually pretty fucking ready for it.
because i can picture the whole situation now. i’ll walk into a furniture store and care about firmness and fabric and how well it holds up when you spill ramen on it. it’ll live in a place i chose. it’ll be surrounded by books i bought for school and never used. there will be plants. one of them will definitely be dying. i’ll name it anyway.
and that moment definitely won’t be a milestone to anyone else. but it’ll be the most grown-up thing i’ve ever done. not because i bought furniture. but because i built a life soft enough to sit in.
and i think that’s what the ring reminded me of— not just where i’ve been, but what’s coming. and what’s coming finally doesn’t scare me:
in the future, there’ll be a blanket that never stays folded. someone’s socks. chinese takeout containers. a half-dying speaker someone forgot to turn off. sunlight leaking in through blinds that don’t quite close all the way.
but more than what it looks like, i know what it will hold.
that couch will hold the life we’ve been building in bits and pieces since we got here. the kind of life we only started to believe in after we learned how to survive the hard parts.
and there will be soooo many people on that couch. my people.
someone will be rolling a joint. someone else will be yelling from the kitchen that the pasta’s overcooked. someone will be talking about the bitch from work who talks too loud. someone else will be falling asleep with one shoe still on. we’ll be watching a movie but only kind of, because we will keep arguing to skip the boring scenes. someone will cry about something small that means something big. someone will fall asleep with a controller in their lap. someone will cook breakfast in my kitchen like it’s their own.
i’ll go grocery shopping and know the good oat milk that all my friends like. i’ll know which detergent actually works. i’ll have an extra toothbrush on my counter because i’m finally in love. i’ll light a candle before people come over. not because it’s aesthetic. because i care what the room feels like when they walk in.
and growing up won’t feel like some big philosophical shift. it’ll look like rsvp’ing to my best friend’s wedding on time. sending flowers when someone gets bad news. owning a real umbrella. not the free one from the career fair.
growing up, as it turns out, is a hundred small kindnesses you offer to your future self and the people you love. it’s how you prove you’re capable of staying. not just physically. but emotionally.
and this weekend, as i was taking pictures with the people i’ve met here, from the ones i clung to during orientation like i was going to be friendless forever, to the ones who somehow became family this semester without any formal announcement, i realized something else:
i’ve done a damn good job at surrounding myself with people who are going to change my life forever.
and maybe that’s the most grown-up thing of all. not knowing what job i’ll have. not knowing what lease i’ll sign. but knowing who i want in the room.
these people have seen me at my absolute most undone. they’ve carried me home drunk in the middle of the day. they’ve brought me food when i forgot to eat. they’ve played the same songs over and over because i needed the familiarity while i layed on my floor. they’ve doordashed with me 5 days in a row. they’ve danced with me. drank with me. studied with me. sat in silence with me in some random ass study room when that was all i had.
they’ve heard me overthink every possible decision about the future, including the existential couch, and stayed anyway.
they’ve made this version of me. the one who’s starting to understand that growing up isn’t about shedding emotions— it’s about holding them better.
it’s making space. not just physically. emotionally. and i think i’ve finally realized what the couch is really about: it’s the space i’ll one day make for the people who’ve already made so much space for me.
because mit is hard. it pulls things out of you that you didn’t know were there. it leaves marks. and it makes you feel, sometimes, like you have to do it all alone.
but the ring, and the moment, and the people. definitely the people. reminded me that i haven’t. i’ve grown up with these people. and if i’m lucky, i’ll keep growing with them.
i don’t know what big city skyline my couch will overlook. i don’t know how long it’ll take for my place to feel like mine. but i know that when i look around and see my people there. sprawled out, laughing, staying too long, it’ll hit me fully and completely.
this is what we built. this is what it was all for. this is what it means to grow up.
so long story short, i got a ring this weekend. heavier than it looks. and shinier than the pictures. and smaller than the small bezel was in my head. but more importantly, i remembered that i have people to invite over.
growing up isn’t an announcement or a title or a sudden understanding of how to pay taxes. it’s slower than that. sneakier. it’s built in the background, in small choices and late nights and text messages at 2:47 am that say “home safe?”
it’s learning how to stay through the uncomfortable parts. how to apologize without being asked. how to listen when you don’t have advice. how to know when to pour a shot of tequila and when to make chamomile tea instead.
and more than anything, it’s learning how to carry other people gently, without dropping yourself in the process.
we’ve done that for each other. maybe clumsily, but consistently. and now, the future feels a little less like a cliff and a little more like a big wide spacious room, something i’ll actually get to live inside.
not just a room. our room. the one with the couch at the center of it.
shoes by the door, jackets draped over chairs, someone yelling about the garlic in the kitchen. the kind of place where no one asks before opening the fridge. where the candle smells like something someone once called “my vibe.” where someone’s crying in the bathroom and someone else is waiting outside with a glass of water. where no one feels like a guest.
not perfect. not curated. but real. because we made it that way. because we always have. because we can. because that’s how we’ve always done this. because one day, this will be proof that we built something we never had to grow out of to grow up.
so when i finally buy that dumb, perfect, probably too big, craiglist couch— you will be one of the first people i call.
hi
hi