Something I can confidently say that I like about myself is that I embrace change. I crave opportunities that let me go to new places, meet new people, and pick up new skills. There’s something addicting about the idea of being transient and reinventing myself over and over again. That’s why I decided to come to New Hampshire and start this AmeriCorps journey 10 months ago. I came here never having picked up a drill, barely knowing how to start a fire, and anxious about learning how to SCUBA dive. Now, I can brag about knowing how to use a power tool or two, making a fire (not a great one but a fire nonetheless), and diving without panicking every five minutes. I think I’ve made a pretty decent transition for someone who’s been dubbed a city slicker.
In a lot of cases, though, change also comes with sadness. Now that I’m in the last stretch of my term and confronting the reality of leaving, I’ve found that I’ve become more sentimental than excited. Serving with the Squam Lakes Association has made me a more knowledgeable and capable environmental steward, one who’s better able to think on her feet and take on leadership roles. I admire this confident, outdoorsy version of myself, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to leave her behind. Of course, I’m not really leaving her behind – the skills I’ve developed here will stay with me. What I’m truly leaving behind is this once in a lifetime experience that I will forever associate with this place and these people. Saying goodbye is tough.
Thinking about the next month – the last month – here, I find myself conflicted. I’m trying to live each day in the moment while also instinctively counting down the days we have left. It doesn’t help that I’m the one who consistently crosses off the days in the cottage calendar, either. I keep reminding myself to cherish all of the little things while serving, whether it’s seeing a freshly hatched loon chick on a dive day or even cleaning a compost toilet (although that one needs extra reminding). When I find myself complaining about packing for camping or waking up early to pull milfoil, I feel guilty because who knows when I’ll get the chance to sleep in a tent and SCUBA dive for service again? It’s been an incredible term, and I don’t want to take it for granted.
And the people. When I got here, it was hard for me to see the other LRCC members as friends. We were so different, and I adjusted slowly. Yet here I am, moping over the thought of us not being with each other 24/7. There won’t be random dance parties in the kitchen or weekly The Bachelor watch parties. There won’t be alignment charts constantly in the works or backyard grill sessions. There won’t even be the cottage, since we all have to move back home or to Betsy’s Park in a few weeks. For me, it’s the people that make the experience. Thinking of Bri, Eric, Kaela, Kyle, and Paul will always remind me of Holderness and our adventures here. I think I might miss them the most.
Overall, what I’ve learned is that change will always be a double-edged sword. I can be excited for new opportunities while mourning the end of others. While I’m sad that my time with SLA is coming to a close, I’m also grateful for feeling this way. It means that despite the ups and downs, everything was worth it. I have memories I will have with me forever, and as I end this conservation journal, I’d like to share them with you.
Trail work lunch break on top of West Rattlesnake with Bri and Kyle in our first month in Holderness.
A snowy ladies’ trail day with Kaela and Bri. Also the fateful day that I sprained my ankle.
Dive day in the Ashland River!
Boating back from diving with captain Paul.
A weekend camping with Eric on Chamberlain Reynolds Memorial Forest.
Nikka takes 1 photo each day so she can reflect on her service term by watching a slideshow at the end. Learn more about Nikka here!