If you told a younger version of me to “measure with your heart,” I would have taken that as a personal challenge.

I’d dump the entire bag of chocolate chips into cookie dough, add an aggressive amount of peanut butter to my toast, pack so much cheese into a quesadilla that it could barely fold and put extra chocolate syrup in my milk. Measuring with your heart, to me, meant more. More flavor, more fun, more life.

And if I’m being honest, I kind of miss her.

Because somewhere between move-in day and my final undergraduate year, that version of me got quieter. Now, when someone says “measure with your heart,” my brain doesn’t celebrate. It calculates. It negotiates. It tracks. Suddenly, it’s not about joy, it’s about control. The heart I’m supposed to be measuring with tightens instead of expands.

It’s strange, realizing how much you can change without even noticing it happen.

Quinnipiac is where I grew up in a lot of ways. It’s where I learned how to write, how to lead and how to speak up in rooms that used to intimidate me. My people are here, the ones who are there to clean up a messy night out, the ones who you stand in the hall talking to for over an hour before bed because you can’t stop talking and the ones who make this place feel like home on the days you’re missing your own. 

It’s also where I got lost.

That’s the part of the college experience we don’t always put on brochures. There are no campus tours that stop and say, “And over here is where you might forget how to listen to your body,” or “This is where you’ll learn how easy it is to tie your worth to things that were never meant to define you.”

At some point during my time here, my relationship with food, with control and with myself shifted into something I didn’t recognize. Living with anorexia nervosa is not just about food. It’s about the constant noise in your head. It’s about rules that don’t make sense but still feel impossible to break. It’s about turning something that should be simple into something exhausting.

And for a while, I let that voice be the loudest one in the room.

But here’s the thing about Quinnipiac: even when you’re losing yourself, there are people here who help you find your way back.

My friends were the first to remind me of who I was before everything got so complicated. They were the ones who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could, who cheered me on always, who showed me that connection matters more than perfection. They didn’t try to fix me. They just believed in me to find my strength again.

The staff, professors and mentors I met here did something just as important. They were there when I did not believe in myself. Even on the days I was most confident, they were there to help me find more academically and personally. I feel seen by them, not for what I was struggling with, but for the kind of student and young professional I am. 

Nothing in life is a straight line, and recovery sure was no exception. But even in the messy and uncomfortable, I started to rediscover that younger version of myself. No fear, measuring every moment of my life with my heart. 

She never actually left. She was just waiting for me to come back.

When I think about my time at Quinnipiac, I won’t just remember the classes, the endless deadline Tuesdays or even the stress (although there was a lot of that). I’ll remember the small moments. Sitting on the quad when it finally got warm again. Going to The Rat and chatting with Chester. Having to run out of the shower freshman year when the fire alarm started going off. The feeling of walking into a room and realizing you belong there.

And I’ll remember the quiet, harder moments too. Because those are the ones that changed me.

If there’s anything this place has taught me, it’s that growth doesn’t always look the way you expect it to. Sometimes it looks like success and confidence. Other times, it looks like learning how to ask for help. Sometimes it looks like leading a group project. Other times, it looks like simply getting through the day.

It all counts.

As I leave Quinnipiac, I’m not the same person I was when I got here. I’m more aware, more grounded and maybe a little more honest with myself. I’ve learned that control isn’t the same as strength, and that vulnerability doesn’t make you weak, it makes you real.

And I’m learning, slowly but surely, how to measure with my heart again.

Not perfectly. Not all the time. But enough.

Enough to laugh without overthinking it. Enough to enjoy the extra chocolate chips. Enough to trust that I don’t have to earn every good thing in my life.

So if I could leave one thing behind, it would be this: let yourself have more. More joy, more connection, more grace for yourself. Measure with your heart, even when it feels unfamiliar.

Because the version of you that does? They’re still in there.

And they’re worth finding.