Walking Slower Between Classes: A Reflection by Abbey Tomeo '26

Campus looked and felt the same as it always did in the spring. The air smelled like flowers and freshly cut grass, the kind of spring morning that only exists a few weeks before summer break. Thin layers of pollen coated the black metal railings outside the upper school building, and the trees that lined the pathway looked brighter than I remembered. 

Spring came and suddenly the saturation was turned all the way up. 

The tall trees looked impossibly bright, the brick pathways were warmer, and the sky was clearer than it was all winter. Even the noises around campus felt sharper; the footsteps from students drifted through the halls, teachers talking in and outside their classrooms, music echoing from students headphones. Everything felt more alive. Maybe it was because the weather finally decided to give us a break from the harsh chill, or maybe it was because I knew everything was slowly winding down. 

It was strange how beautiful everything became once I realized I was running out of time to look at it. 

As a senior during my final spring at Sanford, I started walking slower between classes. Not intentionally, not because winter was over and I needed to rush to the buildings to escape the cold, but because I kept seeing memories of myself all around campus. It was like there were little ghosts of my younger self in every corner of this school. 

On the lower school playground, I could still picture myself doing gymnastics or using the swings with my friends. When I drive by Geipel, I can see myself walking through the halls as a second grader, excited to see the new music building, but also the more recent memories of my friends and I building props and sets for the musicals. 

I look over at the middle school and remember how life was during COVID, trying to adjust to all my friends being online while I went to school in person. I also remember what middle school was like before COVID, looking back on how excited I was for my first ‘overnight’ field trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. 

For most of my life, school felt endless. I’d spent so much of my life at Sanford that it became a routine. A continuous cycle that I’d never break. Every September arrived with new notebooks and a planner that I’d ditch halfway through the year since I’d always forget to write my homework down. Every winter covered the campus in a quiet gray fog, and every spring brought seniors wearing college sweatshirts, talking about graduation as it approached them. 

Now, somehow, I am one of them. 

People say that growing up happens slowly, almost invisible, but I don’t think that’s true whatsoever. 

I think growing up is rough, if I’m being honest. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

It happens every time a version of yourself disappears without warning. One day, you’re a child, raising your hand excitedly in class, and then suddenly you’re embarrassed to speak at all. One moment, recess feels infinite, and the next you’re checking college deadlines between classes. 

Growing up is realizing your teachers have watched you transform from the kid who cried over forgotten homework into someone expected to make decisions about the rest of their life. Growing is watching friendships deepen, drift apart, and rebuild themselves into something entirely different. It’s learning how quickly time passes once you become aware of it. 

It’s also realizing how much your own voice changes over the years. As a younger student, I was louder in every sense. I was quicker to raise my hand and answer questions, quicker to speak without overthinking, quicker to throw myself into things without the opinions of others. But, somewhere between lower school and senior year, my voice changed alongside me. It became more thoughtful, more careful in some moments and more uncertain in others. Growing in this school helped me shape my voice, but also helped it grow. 

At Sanford, I didn’t realize these changes when they were happening. But, during my final spring on campus, it felt like every past version of myself returned to my memory all at once. The campus became crowded with little moments I couldn’t ignore. 

Every hallway felt layered, every classroom carries echoes of discussions or inside jokes that’d last the whole year. I could practically see my younger selves moving through the spaces between me: the nervous kindergartener, the awkward middle schooler, and the freshman that wanted graduation to come sooner. 

And maybe that’s what made this spring feel so overwhelming. 

For the first time, I could see my life at Sanford as one complete story instead of different school years stitched together. All these moments that just felt ordinary suddenly seemed so important: walking into advisory, half-awake, on Wednesday mornings, hearing my friends laughing from down the halls, staying on campus late for stage crew or for a volleyball game, watching the trees change color outside classroom windows year after year. 

I always thought the most important part of high school was the end goal: graduation and going to college. And while those are still very important, I realize the moments that mattered the most were the ones I barely apprehended while they were happening. 

For thirteen years, Sanford became more than just a school for me. It became the backdrop for every version of myself. Somewhere in between the routines, classrooms, practices, and tech-week rehearsals, this campus became home without me even noticing. 

And I think that’s what growing up really is: the moments that were “ordinary” are the ones shaping you.