Change hurts. Most often “change” means “ending.” This tends to make people insecure, confused and anxious. That is why many struggle to keep things the same as always. Life is easier when you are on auto-pilot denial.

In the last two years, I have come to realize that change is inevitable; that with every ending — lives, jobs, vicinities and relationships — comes a new beginning; that life is a continual ebb and flowing tide and people are merely bits of driftwood along for the ride.

Change came suddenly the winter of 2007 when my father died. “Life is too short to be angry or worried all the time” were some of his last words that stuck with me. He lived by example: don’t be afraid; live your life; be happy. He wanted it to be the same for me. When another change occurred recently, I remembered this.

Butterflies had been dancing in my stomach like it was 1999 to Sinatra’s “New York, New York” through most of June — I had been waiting for an acceptance or rejection letter from New York University’s John W. Draper Interdisciplinary M. A. Program in Humanities and Social Thought.

It is difficult to explain how I felt after reading that first sentence the day it arrived. All I can say is that I began jumping around my apartment, screaming at the top of my lungs and scaring my neighbors and cat. NYU, the school I wanted to attend since high school, had accepted me.

After my initial shock and excitement faded, reality sank in: where will I live; how will I pay for school, food and an apartment?

I turned to online search engines. This was not easy. Most writing jobs required three to five years of experience or were unpaid internships. And potential landlords/ roommates ranged from not accepting cats, to demanding three months’ rent upfront plus a security deposit (around $4,000), to having kids between 5 months and 5 years old, to preferring to “dress naturally” (naked) at home.

During my hunting, an old friend from high school who had moved to New York City got hold of me. She heard about my difficulties through a mutual friend.

“There’s a receptionist job opening where I work,” she texted me. She is a laser hair removal technician at a business on Madison Avenue that provides aesthetic procedures such as laser hair and freckle removal, skin tightening, Botox and Latisse. “There’s also some loft apartments for rent in my building” in Brooklyn.

She explained that she was going on vacation for most of August and that I could “squat” at her apartment during her trip. “Then you can look for apartments and save money for rent,” she said.

During the job interview, the owner suggested I instead become a laser hair removal technician for the clinic (which meant paying $3,000 to become certified).

“Do it,” my friend coaxed, noting that receptionists make about half the salary of technicians.

It was more than the money that persuaded me to sign up for the classes. My goal at NYU is to write a novel about past and contemporary definitions of beauty and how these biased aesthetic standards (figuratively and literally) “kill” women. This job would be like a well-paid undercover investigation, I reasoned.

Things are changing fast: I left for the city on Aug. 4, started laser hair removal classes on Aug. 17, began dehairing people on Sept. 1 and commenced NYU classes on Tuesday.

Insecurity, confusion and anxiety are just a few emotions I feel. But I also feel happy about “going with the flow.” It is because I am living my life.