This summer marks the end of one year and eight months away from home. On the brink of returning, I think a lot about what could possibly have changed, and I am excited to see what has evolved and what has not. The streets will probably feel more crowded and I know of a few new malls that have gone up, big and brassy.In contrast, the street stalls and night markets will still reek of home, with the smell of barbecuing meats, pandan leaves and herbal soups boiling. The food, of course, will taste the same–excellent. Of this I am sure.

More than the physical change of my hometown, however, I think a lot about people, and the fact that many of my friends will embody the disparate tensions of change and continuity. A year into college, I remember going home and being regaled with stories of three of them drinking beer and cocktails at a seedy club and dancing wildly to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” Hearing these stories felt like a listening to an unfamiliar scandal, all at once shocking and delightful. After all, most of us originally became friends in a conservative environment of button-down uniforms, pleated skirts and trousers cuffed at the heel. It was academic, not to mention boring. An increasingly liberating adult life, from crazy college parties to tax forms, was becoming newly relevant for all of us. As somebody transitioning into adulthood away from home, however, I was taking a very different path from many people I knew.

Putting Madonna and cocktails aside for a moment, what strikes at the heart of the matter is the idea of growing up. I think about this question frequently. More than collegiate partying and moments of feral independence, I worry about how I can go about fulfilling a grander societal purpose, post-Stanford. Unlike my friends at home, most of who are on track to completing professional degrees that will set them into 40- or 50-year-long law or accounting careers, my future is an unwritten book. I cannot envision, even nearing the conclusion of my third year at Stanford, what I want to do with the rest of my life.

For one, I do not think I have any long-term direction in life. My dreams of volcanology, romantic sea-faring and squid-studying appeared in bursts of passions and then faded, some at the age of five, some at the age of 15. While a number of interests have stuck with me through the years, glimmers of what they are, are only just beginning to surface. The idea of a professional marriage is, at best, frightening, and at worst, suffocatingly claustrophobic.

There are some amazing human beings who have a fairly developed sense of direction, and I will continue to have overwhelming amounts of respect for them. At Stanford, someone I know wants to improve the state of public transportation in the United States by studying trains in other countries, while another wants to work with reforming education policy through minority grassroots campaigning. These goals boggle my mind with their specificity and ambition. In contrast, I plod along, fudging through questions of what I like and want to achieve.

At the same time, I have come to realize the normalcy of my situation. The end of Stanford does not necessarily mark the end of myriad options and the indecision that comes with these options. Instead, Stanford, while helping some to find one path, opened up for me even more avenues of passion than existed before. The idea that I can love so many things and still have time to choose between them is exciting. Life is just beginning.

I have also come to realize that professional direction is hardly the only direction one needs to figure out. Becoming certain of the traits I want to embody and who I am as a social being is just as valid a concern. In this respect, I believe I have progressed farther than I thought I would. I manage emotions a lot better, I have become more sensible and, most importantly, I have begun to really enjoy focusing on others, which provides me with a solid sense of emotional direction.

Almost a year ago, I realized that an unfettered trust in people creates experiences so valuable that even getting hurt in the process is nothing in comparison. Suck it up and focus on the good and the beautiful. If in 10 years I still don’t know where I am going with my career, at least I can hold onto a blossoming sense of self.

Want to share some lessons learned? E-mail Sam at [email protected].