When riding a bike, there’s a quiet click before the change, a tiny pause between gears when the chain lifts, searches, and finds its new place. That moment, brief but uncertain, is where I’ve been living lately.

I began on the third gear, pedaling easily. It was a matter of adjustment without mental strain. But, all of a sudden, everything around me accelerated. It began midway through the quarter, when project deadlines started to overlap, office hours became calm in the calamity, and I was surrounded by friends who had their own battles with numerous midterms. I was no longer sure which version of myself was pedaling: the girl from Guyana who thrived on structure and routine, or the Stanford student trying to match a world that never slows down.

I used to think shifting gears was a simple act of pushing harder, moving faster, and keeping up. But now I realize every shift demands a choice: pedaling harder and putting in even more hours of work, or keeping the gear low and easy, but letting other aspects slip. If you shift too quickly, the chain grinds. I decided to shift higher. I’m now in gear four. 

In Guyana, the pace was different. It was fast, too, but I had pedaled my way through life there for so long; it was as if the roads were molded to guide my wheels. I remember looking out my classroom window and seeing the Atlantic Ocean and sea walls lined with food stalls. I used to wonder which barbecue stall my family and I would stop by after school. Then I’d be reeled back into the lesson with the mention of an assignment, my days flowing from scenery to class work. Amidst the speed, life had moments where it would slow down. Life moved in paragraphs in Guyana.

At Stanford, zooming from one end of campus to another to make my next class, the cold fall breeze whipping my face, life moves in bullet points. Here, it’s all motion. The quarter system runs like a sprint: new material, new expectations, new essays every week. The moment you find balance, the incline changes. Adjustment has a shelf-life of one week. I used to love the idea of acceleration, but lately, I’ve been wondering what happens when your legs start to ache.

Sometimes I would try to return to the third gear and let the wheels take me along. But that kind of ease causes the bicycle to spiral out of control. Quickly, I came to realize that these gears would just have to be overcome one at a time. I started visiting office hours, started speaking up in class more, asked for help with problems I didn’t understand. I visited the late night spots across campus for Stanford-style barbecue tenders or a pizookie (a certain someone claims it’s called a bazooka) when I needed some extra motivation. And each moment, I felt a gear grinding. 

I wasn’t so afraid of the fourth gear anymore. I eased the pedals, let the chain catch, and started moving slowly, steadily. The motion smoothed out. My legs found a rhythm. I wasn’t flying, but I wasn’t falling behind either.

I thought of how often we expect ourselves to accelerate through change, as if speed equals success. But sometimes, the most important growth happens in those pauses between gears. When you’re figuring out who you are in a new place. When you’re learning that slowing down isn’t the same as stopping.

Back home, surrounded by family and friends, the cue for switching gears was basically intuition. At Stanford, it’s the opposite. But I learned that sometimes, it’s a tough pedal, and sometimes, it’s a smooth ride. Both have truth in them. The art is knowing when to apply which.

Now, I notice gear shifts everywhere: in conversations about the meaning of existence and free will, to greater societal messages in anime, to the quiet courage it takes to say, “I need help.” Each shift feels risky. Each one asks for a new kind of strength.

But that’s what being here, between worlds, really is. Constantly changing gears, finding new speeds and new ways of being. Sometimes the chain slips. Sometimes I stall. But with time, I’ll learn to trust the click, that small sound of readiness before motion.

When I ride now, I listen for it. That moment between what I was and what I’m becoming. It’s no longer something to fear; it’s the sound of growth.

And maybe that’s the lesson every cyclist, and every international student, learns in their own way: that we’re all between who we were back home and who we’re going to become here. And the shift in gear is not to be feared, but to be attentive to. I’m switching to the fifth gear now. Wish me luck.