I have never liked goodbyes. In fact, I think it’s safe to say I’ve spent much of my life avoiding them whenever possible.

To put it in a Freudian nutshell, first there were my two amazing but hard-working parents who usually left early and came home late. Then there was the revolving-door set of babysitters, most deeply beloved, a few less so (for one particularly privileged individual, my brother and I staged an elaborate performance of the age-old stadium chant, “Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey, hey, goodbye” — during her first month of employment). Finally, there were two cross-country moves before the age of 14 and a half-brother who only spent summers and occasional winter holidays with us.

In any event, long before I walked semi-wackily and entirely hungover into Stanford Stadium in June 2004, I was painfully accustomed to the emotional upheaval of farewell. Like many Stanford ducklings, I attempted to ward off the inevitable by applying to coterm. But, given that I’d found and taken a teaching job in the area, I wasn’t sure whether I would, in fact, return to complete my second degree. And even if I did choose to come back (which, this year, I did), I knew virtually none of my friends would be on campus, let alone within reasonable driving distance.

With my closest friends leaving the area, the state, even the country, I reassured myself that many young alums cut the cord simply to crawl to San Francisco (where Facebook tells me roughly one third of my Stanford network resides), and a good number toddle their way down Palm Drive for a job or degree number two. In case you haven’t used the CDC this year, employment opportunities abound on campus, from the Alumni Association (someone has to mail all of the carefully written Stanford Fund letters) to the Admissions Office (someone, or rather, many someones, has to read all of the equally carefully written application essays). For those who are so inclined, there’s also a law school, a med school and a business school, not to mention a select number of departments that will take their own undergrads (case in point — my friend Moe, who stayed at Stanford for over a decade, completing a BS, a BA, an MS and a Ph.D. By the time he left in 2004, he’d worn down the sandstone of his favorite seat on the Quad planters).

But even those who stick around or choose to come back in some new incarnation must meet the harsh reality. Back in June 2004, as I sat among my equally hungover fellow graduates, watching one of our still-drunk classmates wander aimlessly about — during Sandra Day O’Connor’s speech, no less — I realized: college comes with an expiration date. If and when you choose to return to campus, the buildings, with the exception of the Bridge and its uprooted neighbors, will reassuringly be located right where you left them. Give or take a new coat or paint or two, they will look mostly the same. The increasingly younger kids walking in and out of them will not.

Cheesy though it may sound, the people are what make your four years at Stanford unique and worthwhile. Just ask Azia Kim. Psychological disturbances and financial issues aside, there’s a good reason she worked hard to live on campus in a dorm; even from the outside, it’s clear that the Stanford experience is defined by relationships, not simply academic courses. Much of the debate and online discussion about Azia’s unfolding story has pointed fingers at either the administration or the students (how could they let this happen/be this gullible/not catch on sooner?). The answer to all the questions is, in my opinion, because Stanford is the amazing place that it is. Sure, we could all stand to be a little more in touch with non-Stanford reality at times, but I’ll take trust, caring and a willingness to help others over doubt and selfishness any day. The real world is ready and waiting; there’s no reason to rush into its less-than-generous arms.

In my experience, goodbye usually comes with a loss of material goods. But for everything graduation forces you to leave behind — your PO Box (16623), your SUNet ID (lisame), your blissful ignorance about paying utilities and evil landlords — there are more than a few prize possessions you get to take with you. Your SUID number (04847828) is yours for life. Same with all those t-shirts you acquired over years of extracurriculars. And, if you join fast enough/have a unique enough moniker, you can preserve your SUNet ID by translating it into your alumni email address (lisame@stanfordalumni.org).

Speaking of that SUNet ID, even now, three years after that blistering hot day when “Pomp and Circumstance” made me cry for the umpteenth time that week, a handful of people still call me by mine. Every time I pick up the phone to hear “LisaMe,” I’m reminded that, no matter how far away my friends may be or how long we go without seeing one another, there is, thankfully, no need to say goodbye to the best part of Stanford.

Email lisame@stanford.edu before December, when her SUNet ID disappears for good.