It’s been a little over a week post-graduation, and the reality of Life with a capital L has finally arrived. I’ve learned that the process of completing a master’s degree is akin to a sonic boom — all the actionable steps come first: the thesis, the ceremony, the photos, the dinners. The readings, the celebrations, the lasts, the firsts. And then the sounds, the feelings and the emotions, come hurtling toward you from behind just as you think you’ve found some semblance of peace. Or at least, that’s how I experienced it.

It’s always a tad terrifying, standing with your back against the precipice of a brand new something without a safety net in sight.

But terrifying is not, in and of itself, a bad thing. Fear in this case only signifies unfamiliarity. And the negativity that is often assigned to unfamiliarity is, in fact, just that: assigned. Unfamiliar things, as a matter of principle, are neither positive nor negative — in fact, they promise the possibility of adventure, of mistakes, of growth and learning.

What I’ve noticed over the past two years is that while the groundedness of routine and the gravity of certain familiar elements and people are necessary to keep us somewhat stable, the thrill of the unknown is really where and when we come alive most. As in, trying new things and being in unusual spaces and learning hard lessons; being a different version of ourselves; being vulnerable; and most importantly, being awake and aware through it all to actually experience the transitions and the changes. This is what it means to live.

These past few weeks, there has been a lot of “what’s next?” questioning going on — and understandably so, with graduation and commencement propelling us forward, ceremonial catapults ostensibly launching us toward a more concrete future. And it’s not bad to be asked this question, obviously. To pretend like it is taboo to talk about the future is its own kind of unhealthy denial. In fact, it’s kind of great to think about.

One minor glitch, though, is that I don’t think my answer is very satisfactory to the people who ask. I’ve taken to replying “we’ll see!” — and there is something unsettling about that answer, I suppose. It took me two years to come to peace with not knowing, with non-knowing. To admitting that I will never really know. But it’s true. It’s the most honest answer I can give: we’ll see. Because the the thing is, I admittedly didn’t go into the MFA program with a clear vision of what I wanted to get out of the two years, and it’s actually turned out to be some kind of fantastic.

I couldn’t have predicted that a writing MFA would introduce me to such a quirky, close-knit group of friends. I couldn’t have predicted that it would allow me to access some memories I hadn’t thought about in years — and not just to access them, but to relive them and process them and finally let them go.

I couldn’t have predicted that granting myself these two years to really just think would truly — as my professor Craig Morgan Teicher once pointed out — be the best gift I could ever give myself. I couldn’t have anticipated how many great minds and mentors I would be introduced to, or how many opportunities would present themselves, or how much I would come to appreciate the past and the future in relation to the present (and vice versa, the present in relation to the past and the future).

How could I have known?

I tell people “we’ll see” when they ask what I plan to do after the MFA not because I am worried or because I have neglected to think about the future that would inevitably creep up after graduation, but because there is no way I can truly predict what will happen in the coming weeks, months, and years.

I am learning to be open to change, to be flexible with outcomes and incomes, and to know when to fight and when to step aside.

Life is short, and unpredictable, and our time on this earth is precious. When people ask me “what’s next?”, I want to tell them “anything” and “everything” — just not a half-hearted “something.” Because I would rather be content in being uncertain of my own future than discontent seeing my life mapped out before me with unwavering certainty.

Last summer, nearly a year ago today, I got a tattoo on my right wrist with the words “…in progress.” Ellipses in the front, period in the back. A statement. A conclusion. The ink came after one hell of a year, more recently after a life-changing road trip along the west coast, and even more recently following some time spent with my family back in California after five years away out on the east coast. I wanted a way to remind myself — and others — to be patient, to be present. That the conclusion, perhaps the only conclusion that we can draw from this zany thing called Life is that it is always in flux. That it is always changing.

I still remember back in middle school, back in the seventh grade, when my social studies teacher taught our class the saying: “Nothing is certain except that nothing is certain.” In other words, we should never assume that things will turn out the way we expect. Expect the unexpected. Learn to live and thrive in the uncertainty. Embrace change and impermanence and the ever-fluctuating realities of what it means to be alive, right here, right now.

…in progress. I wanted a clever way of pointing out that the words that spill forth from my pen at any given moment are still forming. Into a story. A narrative. In progress.

But it’s more than that. It’s life, here, in progress. Living. Enjoying the process as the point, the journey as home.

I remember when I got the tattoo, the artist tried several different angles on my skin, had me relax my arm by my side so he could find the ideal spot to permanently etch the words into my flesh. I found it funny, how many times he wiped my skin clean after applying the stencil. When he found the perfect spot, he’d said, I would know.

And I did. Where the crisp ink is now, it appears as though it follows my veins straight to and from my fingertips to my heart, hugging my life line along the way.

It’s the first thing a lot of people notice when we shake hands. When I meditate, my right hand cradled in my left, it’s the last thing I look at before I still my breath and my mind. When I hold onto subway poles, I strike up conversations with strangers because of it. And it is always there, too, as a reminder when I write and type and try to get these words, these stories, these narratives from my brain down onto paper and page.

Only, then, the only part of the tattoo I can see is “progress.”

When people ask me “what’s next?” after the MFA and I say “we’ll see,” I mean it. Maybe I should say “I’ll see,” because what does or does not happen in my life is a matter of my own perspective — and my own doing.

So I guess I’ll see.

The thing is, even if the path ahead is not clear, my vision of how I want to experience it is. I am awake and I am looking.

…I see.