As I begin my last semester at Lehigh, I find myself thinking of these two words: What if?

To my 17-year-old self, the plan was simple. I would stay in Philadelphia for college and remain there after graduation. That plan ended the day I was rejected from the University of Pennsylvania. 

I was accepted to Drexel University, along with six other Pennsylvania schools. None of them felt right — until I toured Lafayette College.

I grew up attending a tiny Quaker school, where graduating classes rarely reached 100 students. Lafayette felt like the perfect next step. It was only an hour and a half from home and had about 700 incoming first-year students. 

When I was accepted, I was ready to put down my deposit. But my mother stopped me.

“You need to at least tour Lehigh one last time before making your decision,” she said. 

Reluctantly, I agreed. I prepared to spend my Saturday on a mountain I didn’t want to be on, convinced Lehigh didn’t stand a chance. 

My mother still talks about the moment she knew I’d changed my mind. We were walking past the Holi celebration on the front lawn, where students of all backgrounds threw paint at one another, laughing and hugging. 

“I remember how big you smiled,” she said. That moment still replays in my head.

I think about it every time I walk past the lawn. I think about it now, as I realize I graduate in just 107 days. 

What if I hadn’t attended Lehigh Fest? 

After I paid my deposit, my mother quickly signed me up for a Lehigh “send-off,” an event that meant spending an evening with local families and their future Mountain Hawks.

I begged her to let me skip it. I told her I didn’t need to go — that I’d find friends once I got to campus.

She didn’t budge.

When the day arrived, I put on my favorite dress and complained the entire drive. 

As we parked, another girl stepped out of her car wearing a similar dress and smiled. Her parents struck up a conversation with my mother, asking if she was nervous about me leaving home.

The girl — Sophia — and I looked at each other. Then she asked, “Want to go in together?”

Sophia and I ended up living in the same residence hall, just one floor apart. With a few other girls, we formed a close-knit friend group and spent nearly every moment together. When I went through a breakup, she laid in my bed with me while I cried for hours, offering to order Dinky’s ice cream for dinner.

At that same send-off, an alumnus sat on a small bench where a few girls and I were sitting and began offering unsolicited advice. I smiled uncomfortably and glanced to my right. 

That’s when Annie waved me over to share her seat, sparing me from the rest of the interaction. 

Annie and I have lived together for the past three years. She’s the person who drove more than 30 minutes to my house to deliver hot chocolate when my childhood dog passed away. She’s the one who introduced me to my other roommates — Bella, Allison and Sara — people I can’t imagine life without.

What if I hadn’t gone to that send-off?

Anyone who knows me knows I loathed my Introduction to Psychology class during my first semester. But that class led me to my best friend, Natalie. 

We met during orientation week because she lived in the same residence hall as Annie. We didn’t even realize we were in the same class until I moved seats on the first day of class — because I decided not to sit five rows from the front, but six.

That small change turned into the start of something much bigger. 

One day, when we skipped class because it was sunny for the first time in weeks, we talked about the journalism classes we took in high school. We joked about joining The Brown and White. 

At the opening meeting for the paper, we quietly laughed when the adviser said, “One of you could be the next editor in chief.”

We started as reporters together, then worked our way up the ranks as editors. Natalie was the editor in chief last fall, and now I’ve stepped into the role, bringing our time here full circle. 

The newsroom in Coppee Hall has introduced me to some of my favorite people. It has become my second home — a place where I can sit, think and feel understood.

What if I hadn’t joined The Brown and White?

Each decision I almost didn’t make — the tour I resisted, the event I tried to skip, the class I complained about — led me somewhere I couldn’t have imagined.

So as I begin to look toward a future that feels largely unknown, I want to hold onto those two words.

What if?

And maybe, after everything that brought me here, the better question is this: What if it all works out?