Despite having grown up fascinated with the sea, a budding patron of the water as a coastal Californian child, I have never been able to shake my innate fear of it.

Yes, even as my parents — nautical devotees themselves — lured me into pool and ocean alike, there has always been an undertone of reservation and, undeniably, dread. “What waits for me at the bottom of this chlorinated abyss?” I would wonder before every swim lesson. And does it enjoy the taste of wary second grader?

Of course, I learned quickly that there was nothing lurking in my community pool, and — considering I am alive and well to write this — nothing has yet snapped me up during my many escapades into the sea. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I love the ocean; deep down, I have yet to abandon the remaining glimmer of hope that, one day, I could become a marine biologist, as per my childhood dream. In fact, I swam throughout high school (swim team and water polo), have an Advanced Open Water Diver SCUBA certification and am quick to plan any trip with an aquatic component. But despite this obvious natural compulsion I feel towards the act of entering the water, I can’t help but also endure an internal pull back to the safety of the shore. This dichotomy in my desires does little but result in my private mental anguish during every trip to the beach.

Why, then, do I figure this is? Simple — I am debilitated by my fear of the unknown. What lies in wait for a taste of me below the surface? I do not know and I never will (until I get into the water, at least).

If that isn’t a fitting metaphor for our impending graduation, I don’t know what is. Isn’t life after college just one big, terrifying open-water dive? But what makes the ocean alluring, of course, is its depth, its mystery, its potential. Yes, some part of me wants desperately to cling to the shoreline, but regardless of this, I have yet to turn down any opportunity to jump straight in. It’s always a little scary every time I submerge, but, without exception, I resurface.

When I applied to Brandeis, the supplemental essay prompt I chose specifically for this school’s application asked, “There are approximately 171,476 words in the English dictionary. Pick your favorite word and tell us why you picked it.” In exactly 250 words, I declared my favorite one to be courage. “Courage,” I wrote, “isn’t the absence of fear, but rather the acknowledgment of that fear, followed by the choice to ignore it.”

I’m only 22 years old, which means, relatively speaking, I know next to nothing. But, with all that I have learned since beginning university, the one thing I know with absolute certainty is this: it’s okay to be scared, but it’s not okay to let that stop me. I’ve carried this mindset as close to my heart as I can over the last four years, and it has served me well. I’ve danced naked, painted head-to-toe in latex; I’ve hoisted myself up a wall of ice with nothing but two pickaxes; I’ve travelled solo to a different country on a whim and befriended countless strangers I never would have met, had I let myself be limited by my own apprehension. 

Yes, of course, there are things that I’ve done, in spite of fear, that I regret. But what I’ve come to grieve more are the things I didn’t do — the missed opportunities I turned down out of trepidation alone.

Everyone always says that “real life” begins after college, but few acknowledge the violence of this transition. Instead of being given the option to turn around and stroll out of the surf, we are all essentially thrown in head-first. Perhaps it is our lack of choice in the matter that adds to our fearfulness. The truth is, no one really knows what they’re doing until they hit the water: some of us will begin treading aimlessly, and others will swim in circles. Some of us may even start swimming confidently towards something that turns out to be seaweed (here’s hoping that none of you reading this join a pyramid scheme). But we’re all in it together now: equally soaked, equally unsure, equally primed to make a few mistakes. That, strangely enough, is a comfort. And what I can say with certainty is that so long as you refuse (yes, refuse — say FUCK OFF to those thoughts) to let yourself sink, you’ll make it back to shore.

Simply put, not only do I want to implore you to be courageous about this transition despite your fear, but I encourage you to adopt this mindset going forward in your post-graduate life. Our early twenties is our time to push ourselves to, and past, our former limits. 

Many of us recognize — but fewer of us act on — the fact that not only are we young enough to screw up and still recover, but we’re also old enough to know when we’re afraid and when that fear is worth confronting and overcoming. Courage is fluid, though, and what is unremarkable to one may require weeks of gathering the courage to act for another. Remember this. All of those terrifying, exciting, bucket list-worthy things I’ve done have felt comparable in frightfulness to eating alone in the dining hall for the first time. 

Move to the city you’ve always been curious about, or, instead, try your hand at that daunting new skill you’ve always wanted to learn. Attempt the job you think you’re under-qualified for or just start a weird little project. Make the first move. Book the flight. Go to that party. Ask that question. Embarrass yourself a little — you’re allowed to. Show up and do it afraid, trusting that it’s better than not showing up at all. And embrace this transition, no matter how bracing, into a new elemental state of life.

Whatever the form it may take, do the thing that you so desperately want to do, despite how much it frightens you. The fear doesn’t always disappear, but the sooner you learn to swim with it, the less it drags you under. In fact, let that fear inspire you; when you act in spite of it, it becomes courage.