There is a casual cruelty that comes with realizing we are hurried and hollowed.

It came to me as I sat on my favorite wooden bench nestled along the crest of Lake Lagunita. Slowly at first, and then all at once, an unidentifiable panging began to press outward from my chest. As I tucked my knees between my arms, I realized — I’m terrified of running my life away.

“Another run?” Friends would ask in passing as I darted quickly through the hallway, out through the courtyard and into the lake. I’d run through the first light in the frenzied frosh fall and the last light in the greying winter. Like clockwork, it became as dependable as my circadian rhythm.

At first, I convinced myself that running was the most efficient way to reset my mind and body to a familiar equilibrium, a familiar pace. My racing heart was a reminder of my being — as fallible and alive as the roots twisting beneath my feet. When I ran through pain that splintered my knees, I thought I was proving to myself, I can do hard things.

I used to believe that my daily runs were a practice in strength. Turns out, it was a practice in cowardice. Instead of sitting in the solitude that would allow me to face reality as it unfolded before me, I ran. I ran away from feelings that have plagued my earliest memories. Predating my time here, delineations of not good enough would dampen flickering flames of inspiration. I reeled in the false sanctuary of self deprecation — the kind that eats at you from the inside out in an almost poetic way. After all, it takes courage to be brutally honest about one’s current condition.

When everyone seems to have a four-year plan, summer internship and job offer, the duck syndrome that is too often felt and too little acknowledged creates a chasm between us. As the ducks flock to the lake with the welcoming of spring, I can’t help but chuckle at the physical manifestation of this truism. We’ve been busying our lives away through chronically arranged and colorfully designed google calendars and superfluous four year plans. These empty metrics promise to color the impossible: the contours of our character. 

It took me far too long to realize that life didn’t happen on round two, three or four around the lake. Life happened when a hallway conversation led to a three-hour meditation on the meaning of human connection, leading to one of my closest friendships. I missed my run that day, and I’m grateful for it. Life happened when I stopped in the middle of Main Quad, staring at the sunset splashing across the sky and sending a photo to hometown friends saying, “I miss you.” I was reminded of the very people who made me into who I am that day. Life happened when I was riddled with tears in the middle of Main Quad, in the beautiful, stunning disbelief of being a student here. I was entirely alone and yet cradled with an overwhelming gratitude. 

Perhaps the most courageous thing we can do in the wake of a culture that straps us for time and saps us of life is to linger. Linger for the moments that make you feel alive, in community with those who make you feel you. Linger for the moments that call on you to believe in the brilliance of your beautiful mind and undying, forgiving spirit. In the hurrying, we risk impoverishing ourselves of the life that breathes meaning into the spaces we share on this earth. In the lingering, we remember to love and be loved. 

This spring, I’ll see the first light. Maybe I’ll even catch the last light. But this time, I won’t be dependent on the transient light in the sky. I’ll seek light within the people that have been here all along.