Death of a Graduate

In 30 days, I’ll have a degree I’ve spent the last three years working toward in my hand. It feels like I’m gaining something and losing something at the same time. This is a moment I’ve been moving toward for much longer than three years.

The most important lesson I’ve learned since coming back to college is how to appreciate the art of life. There are cycles. There are things that don’t make sense in the moment. And there’s beauty—if you keep your head up long enough to see it.

When I was 15, I was walking home from school with one of my closest friends, Robert. I think we were crossing 13th Avenue when I said, “I think I want to get my master’s degree.” I’m sure a lot of teenagers make flippant claims about their future, and that’s natural. But that moment stuck with me—I knew that I meant it.

At 19, I was venting to a professor about the uncertainty of my future as an actor. He asked me to meet him at Barnes & Noble, where he bought me The Four Agreements. He told me to follow the rules in that book, and the rest would work itself out. One of those agreements was: “Be impeccable with your word.” In other words—say what you mean.

When I read that, I thought back to that moment at 15. The mission was clear again. When the intention is clear, the path can still be anything but. I almost left school after my first year. It was a blend of personal and professional frustration. But I had to look back on the road that brought me here. I had to remember my words.

When you reach the end of a road, the same question always comes up: what now?

So, as I begin to say farewell to the death of the graduate, I leave behind everything that’s been familiar for the past three years. But I also get to welcome a new Noah. When you step into the unknown, you step into something new—and in some ways, you’re born again. I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know this: I have nothing to prove.

If you close your eyes, you can always dream. But if you keep them open, everything is out in front of you.