Life stories & rites of passage Notes

Solution

12 June

Today was graduation, and I still can’t believe it’s over. I woke up nervous, checked my gown twice, and tried to act calm, but inside I was shaking.

The ceremony felt formal at first. Speeches, rows of chairs, names being read. Then I heard mine. Walking across the stage with everyone clapping was surreal. For a few seconds, all the late nights and hard work felt worth it. I caught my parents’ eyes in the audience. They were smiling, but I could also sense the weight of their expectations, like this moment belonged to them as much as to me.

Afterwards, we took photos outside. Some classmates were already talking about universities abroad, others about starting jobs. It hit me that the same event carried completely different meanings for each of us. For some, graduation was a first step; for others, it was the final chapter of school.

Later, at home, I kept thinking about how much this rite of passage says about who we are. It’s not just a certificate or a party. It’s a sign that childhood routines are ending, and something less certain is beginning.

I don’t know exactly what comes next. But tonight I feel proud, nervous, and strangely free. Maybe that’s what growing up is meant to feel like.

Solution

14 September

It feels strange to write this, but today I turned sixteen. The house is finally quiet again after the noise of family, friends, and music. My desk is cluttered with cards and half-wrapped presents, but what stays with me most is not the gifts. It is the feeling that something has shifted.

The day began like every birthday: my parents singing, an embarrassing photo taken, pancakes on the table. Yet there was more formality in the air than usual. My mother reminded me, gently but firmly, that sixteen is when expectations change. “You’re not a child anymore,” she said, handing me a book she had chosen about decision-making. I laughed at first, but the message stayed with me.

At school, my friends surprised me with a cake during lunch. It was chaotic with candles almost setting off the fire alarm and everyone shouting over each other, but it felt like a promise that this year we are in it together. Most of us have just started the IB, and already the workload is pressing. Sharing that moment of silliness felt like reclaiming a bit of balance.

The evening was different. Relatives came over, and the conversations turned serious. My uncle spoke about how, in his time, turning sixteen meant leaving school and starting work. For me, it means two more years of study, exams, and choices about universities I can hardly imagine yet. Hearing his story made me realise how each generation marks the same age differently, shaped by opportunity and culture.

I noticed the emotions around me: pride from my parents, nostalgia from my grandparents, excitement from my friends. For me, it was all of those and something else: pressure. Sixteen is an age people treat as a milestone. You can begin driving lessons, apply for part-time jobs, even vote in some countries. Yet standing here, I still feel like I am figuring myself out. The rite feels both official and unfinished.

After everyone left, I stepped outside. The garden was scattered with paper lanterns we had hung earlier, glowing softly in the dark. For a moment, the scene felt symbolic: a quiet light marking the path ahead. Starting IB, turning sixteen, being seen differently by others all blur together into one long step forward.

Tonight I do not feel entirely grown-up, but I do feel the weight of new beginnings. That, I think, is what this birthday means.