THE PUBLIC SHELF
Open when you graduate
Four years, three majors, one very questionable haircut. You made it.
I'm writing this the week you started, the night you called me from the stairwell of your dorm, crying because you couldn't figure out the dining hall and everyone else seemed to already have friends. You said maybe college wasn't for you. I said give it until Thanksgiving. You gave it until Thanksgiving, and then you didn't come home for Thanksgiving because you were going to your roommate's family in Ohio.
That's when I knew you'd be fine.
Here's some advice I wish someone had given me on my graduation day.
Take the job that teaches you the most, not the one that impresses people at parties. You'll be at a lot of parties. You'll be at that job a lot longer.
Call the people who helped you get here. The professor. The advisor. The lady at the library who let you stay past closing. They don't hear it enough.
You're allowed to not know what's next. Most of the interesting people I know spent their twenties a little lost.
I'm going to be in the third row, crying in a way that embarrasses you. Let me. I've been saving it up for four years.
Uncle Mike
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