There are a few unspoken rules in the Home of Possibilities. 

Never assume your meal enhancements are safe in the pantry fridge. Do not press the button for consecutive floors in the elevator. And above all, never speak too loudly about your plans for Third Year Stay.

Across Residential Colleges, Senior Retention is a taboo topic. For some, the idea of Senior Stay is a quiet ambition, a subtle thread woven into their university experience, carried in murmured reverberations from dragging the weight of their suitcases on the first day. For others, it is an omnipresent dread, a question that looms behind every seminar, every house event, every interaction with faculty: Am I doing enough? Am I good enough to stay?

If you are reading this, you may be grappling with that very question. Perhaps you have messaged a few seniors for advice, pouring over their cryptic replies in the stillness of the night. Maybe you have scrolled through many drafts of essays that worked, endlessly searching for the exact flavour beneath the “right answer.” Do not worry—this is neither an exposé nor a how-to guide. It is something more honest: a conversation, like those shared under dimmed fairy lights in the level lounge or during late night walks around UTown, where thoughts spill freely, and time feels as though it slows just enough to listen.

Seven years ago, I sat in a JC classroom, pretending to pay attention to a Math tutorial on The Most Important Rules of Integration to Score an A in the A-Levels or something like that. I was not listening. Beneath the desk, I was lost in The Catcher in the Rye.

In the coming of age novel, Holden Caulfield’s experiences  mirrored my own adolescent disillusionment. The protagonist’s disdain for the “phoniness” of the world, his desperate yearning to protect his innocence, and his crippling fear of adulthood—all of it resonated deeply with me. Caulfield imagines himself as a saviour, a “catcher” standing in a field of rye, rescuing children from falling off the cliff into the abyss of adulthood.

I too feared adulthood, viewing it as a chasm where authenticity is lost, and innocence discarded. I saw it as a place where we become, in Caulfield’s words, “phony”—a grim inevitability I feared with the passion of youth and the passing of days.

The thing is, as much as we try to hold ourselves back from falling in university, we inevitably tumble. Adulthood is difficult; it is messy. It is filled with moments where people let you down, where your LSM3241 lecture recordings make no sense at all, and where your classmates fail to pull their weight in group projects. But falling, in all its discomfort, is necessary.

Tembusu, in her own way, is a place for falling.

One falls into conversations at 2 a.m. in the pantry, words spilling out like warm coffee into a mug, until one finds themselves sharing a perspective that they did not know deserved an earnest audience. One falls headfirst into a new Interest Groups, and somehow learns to thrive, to lead, to grow. One falls into friendships that shape them—some lasting, others fleeting—but all valuable. And sometimes, one falls into situationships they once swore against, only to find that in those moments of uncertainty, they are learning who they are and who they wish to become.

Tembusu is more than a residential complex of six hundred bedrooms. It is a forest of self-discovery, a sanctuary for the scattered pieces of ourselves we bring in and leave behind as we grow. It is where memories are chalked into our doors, where moments, both profound and mundane, intertwine and form the roots of who we become. We fall here, but we do not fall alone. We fall into something far greater than ourselves—a community that lifts us, that catches us, not to hold us back but to help us land, ready to leap again.

And then, of course, there comes the question we all inevitably face: What now?

The thought of leaving Tembusu feels impossible. One wants to return after a long day of lectures and still see their friends lounging in the corridors. One desires to continue attending Thursday night IG sessions, where the line between routine and joy, obligation and purpose, blurs into the familiar twilight beyond recognition.

But staying—truly staying—requires more than that.

I urge you to revisit your old application essays, the ones tucked away in some forgotten cloud drive, accumulating digital dust. Do they still reflect the person you have become, or have you outgrown the aspirations that you once thought were immutable? If they do not, take heart: it is often the unanticipated moments that spur the most growth. Reflect instead on the memories that have shaped you. Not just the highlights, the Instagram-worthy moments, but the quieter, more intimate ones: the conversations that emerged unexpectedly, the Senior Seminars where you found your voice, the simple kindnesses that made you felt seen in a world that often overlooks.

These moments—these are the ones that truly matter.

Caulfield feared the fall. What he did not realize, and what I have come to understand, is that the fall is not the end. It is a beginning. In Tembusu, falling is not about losing oneself—it is about discovering who one is.

The Japanese proverb ichi-go, ichi-e* reminds us that every encounter is precious, each moment a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As you sit down to craft your application essay for Third Year Stay, do not compose a swan song in a desperate plea to impress the committee. Write with sincerity. Write with gratitude. Write as if you were composing a letter to your past self, a note of appreciation for how far you have come, and a gentle aspiration for how far you can go from here.

Staying as a senior at Tembusu is not simply about being close to friends or reliving favourite moments. It is about evolving—becoming a mentor to others, diving deeper into intellectual pursuits, or leaving behind something meaningful for the next generation of Tembusians. It is about the seeds planted during your time here and how you will nurture them to grow.

In The Catcher in the Rye, Caulfield clings to the Museum of Natural History because it never changes. But life, as we all know, is not like that. Tembusu is not like that. Nothing in this College stands still—everything shifts, everything grows, and everything changes. Like the countless elevator posters that come and go, the College itself is a living, breathing entity, shaped by the students who pass through its doors. This is what makes Tembusu beautiful—and the very reason you applied here in the first place.

So, fall boldly. Embrace every experience. For there is no “catcher” waiting to save you—only the courage to leap, and the people you meet along the way who will support you when you need it most.

In the end, it is not a Third Year Stay that will define your Tembusu experience. It is the two years you have already had—the time you’ve spent, the people you’ve met, and the person you have become. Your story at Tembusu is not yet finished. So, write that essay, tell your story with sincerity, press submit, and then step outside your room. Spend the rest of your day with friends, do what you enjoy, and cherish this fleeting time.

And as you pack your memories and prepare for whatever comes next, remember: You can check out any time you like (OHS says before noon), but you can never truly leave.

Cover & Banner photos from Unsplash

* Ichi-go, ichi-e (一期一会) is a Japanese proverb that translates to “one time, one meeting.” Rooted in Zen Buddhism and the tea ceremony, it conveys the idea that each moment is unique and should be cherished, as it will never occur in the same way again.

About the Author

Wesley is a Year 3 Life Sciences student who yearns for a life without CHS (Crocheting, Handball, Skiing).