Convocation day! The grand finale of sleepless nights, frantic cramming, and a bucketload of stress. It was supposed to be the crowning moment of my academic journey. But trust me, it was the direct opposite of how I'd envisioned it'd be.
It all started the night before. I’d just had my brand-new wig installed, a sleek masterpiece I’d saved for months to buy. My reflection in the mirror screamed, “You’ve got this!” The plan was to go to bed early, wake up looking fresh, get my makeup done, and arrive to the venue on time in style and glamour.
And despite sleeping in one stiff position all-night, somehow, my precious wig had morphed into something reminiscent of a bird’s nest. Imagine taking a first glance at the mirror and the first thing you thought was, "Who is this?" I stared at the mirror, horrified and honestly surprised. “No, no, no. This is not happening,” I whispered to myself.
Desperate, I called my hairstylist.
“I’m at the salon,” she claimed.
Relieved, I sped over, only to stand outside for 20 minutes in the morning sun, dialing her number repeatedly. When she finally picked up, she sounded sleepy.
“Oh, I’m on my way,” she said lazily.
My heart sank. Time was ticking, and I couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Resigned, I decided to head straight to my makeup artist. “At least my face will look good,” I muttered, trying to salvage what I could.
By the time I reached the makeup studio, it was a madhouse. She had pending clients.
“I can’t do your makeup in less than two hours,” she informed me bluntly.
“Two hours?!” I blurted, panic rising.
I didn’t have two hours. The ceremony was starting soon. Frustrated and teary-eyed, I grabbed my bag and rushed home. In my haste to beat the clock, I dressed quickly, grabbed my bag, and bolted out the door.
Halfway to the venue, I froze. My graduation gown.
I didn’t have my gown.
I stared at my reflection in the car window, my bare face and unruly wig mocking me. “Could this day get any worse?” I mumbled, leaning back in my seat while I asked the driver to turn the car around.
I raced back home, only to find the door locked. The key, of course, was with my roommate who was neither at home nor reachable.
I slumped against the wall, blinking back tears. “This cannot be real life,” I muttered.
After what felt like an eternity, I gave up and headed back to campus. With no gown, no heels, and no hope, I shuffled into the convocation hall feeling defeated. My slippers—because I’d handed my heels to a friend who’d disappeared—clicked loudly on the floor, announcing my unglamorous arrival.
A staff member noticed my plight and handed me a spare gown. “Here you go,” she said kindly, as if sensing I was one breath away from a complete meltdown.
“Thank you,” I whispered, forcing a smile.
I slipped into the gown and sank into my seat. Around me, cameras flashed, capturing smiling faces, sleek hairstyles, and glowing makeup. My classmates looked like they’d stepped straight out of a magazine. I, on the other hand, looked like an extra from a tragic-comedy movie.
As the ceremony dragged on, I replayed the morning in my head. The hairstylist, the locked door, the forgotten gown; it all felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Like some wicked fairy had sprinkled bad-luck dust on me over the night.
My thoughts were interrupted by the dean’s voice echoing through the hall. “Today, we celebrate your achievements…”
I tried to listen, but my mind wandered. Wasn’t this day supposed to feel magical? Where was the joy, the pride, the satisfaction?
I looked down at my hands, picking at the hem of my borrowed gown. Then it hit me. Maybe I’d been so focused on crafting the perfect convocation experience that I’d forgotten what really mattered: the achievement itself. Honestly, I could have woken up earlier, done my makeup myself as I'm quite good at it, I could have gotten a hair that wouldn't be so hard to maintain. I was so fixated on being picture-perfect that I didn't think any of my decisions through. However, rather than going down the lane of self-pity and self-blame, I tried to rationalize instead.
Sure, my hair was a mess, my face was bare, and I'd worn a slippers instead of heels into the convocation hall. But none of that changed the fact that I’d made it here. I’d survived years of stress, late-night studying, and relentless exams. I was a graduate, with honors might I add.
I sat up straighter, letting that thought sink in.
Later, as the ceremony ended and my family congratulated me, I found myself laughing—really laughing—for the first time all day.
My mother hugged me tightly. “You did it, sweetheart,” she said, her voice thick with pride.
“Barely,” I joked, pointing to my slippers.
My sister giggled. “At least you’ll never forget this day!”
She was right. As chaotic as it had been, this was a story I’d be telling for years. And maybe, just maybe, that made it even more special.
Thank you for reading! :)
All images in this article are mine. First image, although mine, was designed using Canva.
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