I came to Seguinland without a clear plan for what the fall would become. What I didn’t expect was how much it would ask me to slow down and pay attention—not just to people, food, and art, but to my own mind. A line by Mary Oliver stayed with me the whole term: “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” That felt like good advice here. Less forcing, more listening.
I’ve always lived with a busy, restless inner world. My mind moves fast, jumps ahead, imagines ten futures at once. For a long time, I treated that chaos as something to fix or quiet down. At Seguinland, I started to see it differently. The chaos didn’t disappear—but I learned to relate to it with more curiosity than judgment. Instead of fighting it, I began to notice how much of my creativity came from that same restless place. There was space to sit with my thoughts, to feel things without immediately needing to explain or organize them. Mindfulness here wasn’t formal or rigid; it showed up in long walks, quiet mornings, shared silence, hugs, and moments of friendship—and in the permission to be present even when my feelings were tangled.
One of the biggest things I learned was about friendship. Not the idealized version, but the real one—messy, uncertain, sometimes confusing. As I became more honest with myself, I also became more honest with others. Some friendships clicked instantly; others took time or changed shape along the way. As the weeks passed, the group naturally split into smaller circles, but it never felt hostile or isolating. Even when dynamics shifted, people still showed up for each other, and there was a shared sense of respect that held the community together.
Food ended up being more important to me than I expected. Cooking at Seguinland brought back my desire to host—to invite people in, spend time cooking together, and let conversations unfold around the table. The kitchen became another place where my mind could slow down. Measuring, chopping, tasting—it grounded me. Sharing meals became one of the easiest ways to connect, and it reminded me how much joy I get from caring for people in a very practical, tangible way.
Creatively, the term pushed me to try things I had never done before. I made my first short film with my friends—something I had always wanted to do but kept postponing. Working collaboratively allowed my imagination to spill outward instead of looping inward. Being surrounded by so many artists—writers, musicians, painters, filmmakers—made experimentation feel normal, even encouraged. Creativity wasn’t treated as something special or rare; it was simply how people processed the world.
Beyond Seguinland itself, I met adventurers, artists, and thinkers whose paths crossed with ours and widened my sense of possibility. And within the program, I formed friendships that feel steady and lasting—both with other students and with staff members, who were present, generous, and deeply human in the way they supported us.
The Fall Term didn’t give me a single big revelation. Instead, it gave me many small ones: how to sit with a chaotic mind without judging it, how to trust my imagination, how to be more honest in relationships, how to enjoy cooking for others again, and how to let myself like what I like without over-explaining it. That feels like something I’ll carry with me for a long time.