I have always been someone who has craved excitement.
When I was younger, this fascination with adventure led me to exhilarating exploits. I would venture into the woods near our house, exploring the remnants of old stone shelters and hidden water pools in the forests. I would insist on riding the roller coaster rides with the most extreme drops in theme parks. I would beg my dad to turn on roads we’d never seen before in search of a new place.
So when I came to college for the first time, this innate thirst for thrill was finally quenched. Here was a new experience to be uncovered at every turn: new friends and new classes and new struggles and new victories as I grew accustomed to living on my own for the first time.
The exciting wave of unearthing such novelties endured through my sophomore year, as I moved onto West Campus. I wandered around my quad in awe of the magnificent architecture surrounding me, marveling at the way the street lamps cast dancing shadows on the stone walls at night. It seemed surreal that the outside of my residence resembled a palace. I took classes in the Sanford building for the first time, a momentous milestone as a Public Policy major, becoming more integrated into a community of individuals that shared my academic passions and extracurricular interests. I relished the privilege of being able to eat at WU three times a day (although I quickly grew weary of this).
Then I became a junior.
And nothing seemed new anymore. Nothing seemed exciting.
I came back to campus at the beginning of this year, anticipating new adventures. But instead, all aspects of my daily life, from my meals to my walks to class, seemed to become a tired dance with an old partner. Suddenly, my feet began to hurt, and my body didn’t quite sway to the rhythm the way it used to. It seemed as though my ears had grown weary of the same music.
I think we all reach a point in our college careers where college loses the charm it once boasted. What was once marvelous becomes mundane and suddenly, we find ourselves trapped in a trite routine that no longer seems fulfilling.
But I think what we fail to realize is that this apparent sense of “boring” is also what characterizes real life. When we venture out of our insulated college bubble into the gallows of the real world, each day will not hold the promise of adventure but instead the regularity of routine.
As mundane as it may seem, we must grow accustomed to the promise of certainty in our days: a certain time to wake up, the same commute to and from work every day, the chores waiting for us as soon as we walk through the door and the mindless chatter of TV to numb our minds before we go to sleep.
I think there lies a certain comfort in predictability that we must learn to embrace. After all, the only certainty in life is its uncertainty. We have no way of knowing for sure where we will be in a year and what circumstances will dominate our lives. Sure, we may have a wager at the semblance our life may hold, but that’s about it.
And so, knowing at least what the next day will consist of lends us something to hold onto when our sense of control seems to be slipping away.
And as jarring as this transition might be, like treading a rickety bridge with no support on either side, it is necessary. Because to know what is marvelous, we must first master the mundane.
Advikaa Anand is a Trinity junior. Her pieces typically run on alternating Wednesdays.
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Advikaa Anand is a Trinity sophomore and an opinion managing editor of The Chronicle's 119th volume.