The Heights, Again

I was back at Boston College last week.

It wasn’t the first time I’d returned since graduating in 2017, but this visit felt different—heavier in meaning, sweeter somehow. Maybe it was the spring air or the way campus always looks like it’s glowing this time of year. Or maybe it was because I was there to watch my little sister graduate.

What surprised me most was how quickly it all came back—the rhythm of walking past Bapst, the quiet buzz of activity, the way Gasson rises into view like it’s straight out of a memory. My feet knew exactly where to go, even if years had passed. But this time, I walked those paths not as a student, but as someone who once belonged here—and still kind of does.

There’s something tender and almost painful about returning to a place that shaped you. It stirs up gratitude and longing in equal parts. BC wasn’t just where I earned a degree. It’s where I learned to stand on my own, to think more deeply, and to begin shaping the person I was meant to be. It gave me more than classes and credits—it gave me belonging.

Being back on graduation day, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast. When I graduated eight years ago, it poured. Cold rain, wind, umbrellas all over. We wore ponchos over our gowns and shivered through the ceremony, huddled under gray skies. But last week? It was warm and sunny. The kind of perfect May morning that makes everything feel a little more cinematic.

The light bounced off Gasson’s stone façade. The Quad buzzed with energy. Families gathered all over, taking pictures that will live in frames forever. Even the folding chairs lined up in Alumni Stadium stirred something in me—memories of endings and beginnings, all tangled up together.

Watching my sister walk across the stage, I saw all of it reflected back. Her experience was uniquely hers, but I recognized the transformation. She’d been shaped by this place too. By the strangers who became friends. By the professors who believed in her. By the ordinary moments that quietly became defining ones.

And that’s what moved me the most.

Boston College has this way of leaving a mark—soft and slow, but lasting. It shows up in the way you move through the world afterward. In how you speak, listen, think, love. It doesn’t leave when you hand in your last final or pack up your dorm. It lingers.

Last week, I stood in Alumni Stadium, watching the class of 2025 say goodbye to the place I once did eight years ago. And in that moment, it felt like everything had come full circle.