One of the most frustrating things I’ve come to realize is how much I despise a cliffhanger. Whether it’s reading a book or watching a movie, when the story leaves me hanging, it’s like being on the edge of something big and not being able to see what comes next. It feels almost cruel, like the universe is daring me to be patient. But I never understood just how frustrating it really is until now. Because, in a way, this chapter of my life is coming to an end, and I’m left here, standing at the edge, waiting. There’s no sneak peek into the next page, no foreshadowing to ease my mind or guide me forward. All I can do is wait for the next chapter to unfold.
I first slipped on that blue corduroy jacket back in the seventh grade, and it’s been a part of me ever since. Stitched carefully with my dad’s name and office in yellow, it was more than just fabric. It represented a connection—his world, his presence, his expectations. Under the collar, I tucked in my mom’s FFA scarf, a piece of her history from when she was a part of the organization. It was a symbol of the legacy she passed down, one that I wore proudly, competing in contests, volunteering in the community, and striving to make a name for myself in the Indiana Association.
And yet, here I am now, standing at the edge of that chapter, trying to make sense of what comes next. The clock keeps ticking, the pages of this chapter fill up, and I can’t help but wonder: What’s next for me? What does the next chapter hold? There’s this unshakable feeling of being on the brink of something important, but I don’t know where the story is going.
For so long, I’ve defined myself by what I’ve done—what I wore, what I competed in, the role I played in the community. But now that the ink is drying on these pages, I’m left with an open book, one I’m not entirely sure how to fill. It’s as if I’ve reached the point where the past no longer has the answers, and I’m faced with the daunting task of writing my own future.
So, what do I do now? How do I take that jacket, those memories, and what I’ve learned from them, and translate it into something new? It’s a question that hangs in the air, unanswered, like the lingering promise of what’s to come next. I know I can’t keep looking backward. The past has shaped me, but it’s the future that I need to write. And for the first time, I’m not sure what the next chapter will bring. But somehow, that uncertainty feels like both a challenge and an opportunity—an invitation to keep turning the page.
Onto the next chapter,
Kyatalin Baker