In elementary school, my father, younger sister and I often walked along the shoreline near our home. Several blocks from our house, a wooden dock extends several hundred yards into the water. When the tide is low, a small gray-brown beach is visible, home to horseshoe crabs and assorted seashells. Considering the number of kids in our neighborhood, this beach is always remarkably empty. In late summer and early autumn evenings, when the temperature was cool but not cold, my sister and I would slip out of our sandals and race down the stone steps, kicking up brown clouds of coarse sand behind us. As our father watched from the dock, we gathered as many shells as we could carry, picking through the shattered ones to find the rare unbroken valuables. Our favorites were the large, white ones, which always stood out against the dark sand.

This search for shells wasn’t just fueled by two young girls’ desires for pretty things. Our cause was far more ambitious than that. Because our findings weren’t just shells; they were the precious currency of mermaids with seaweed-colored hair; or the scales of a sea serpent, slithering through the endless, vast oceans; or perhaps even a cup for a nymph, perfect for sipping cool seawater. And maybe, if we gathered enough of these magical objects, we would be able to visit these creatures. We could go on an adventure, hundreds of yards beneath the bay’s surface, where excitement was sure to find us.

Instead, we settled for exploring on land, seeking the perfect hiding place to stash our treasures. My neighborhood is only about 200 acres, yet it seemed to my younger self to have no end. Every step revealed a new place to store our prized treasures, like among the bushes of our neighbor’s house or behind a rock along the shore. Our favorite location was a golden-brown tree, whose red leaves crunched beneath our boots in the fall. At the base of the tree’s trunk, there laid a circular hollow, perfect for accumulating shells in precariously-balanced stacks. Maybe it was made by a fairy, one that we could offer our shells to. In return, we hoped she would grant us magical abilities.

The memory of these walks washes over me now in an overwhelming wave of nostalgia. Life was so much more fantastical back then, and not just because of my childish belief in magic. Rather, it was this tendency toward adventure that fueled my desire to continue exploring — the idea that I could find anything just around the corner. I knew no limits; everything was within my realm of possibility.

Nowadays, I find myself wondering if I’ll ever find that same spark of magic again. Compared to the worlds I imagined as a child, reality is comparatively disappointing. I remember being heartbroken when I found out that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy weren’t real. I was desperate for magic to be as true as I thought. I wanted to go on adventures with my friends, fighting monsters and becoming the saviors of fantastical worlds. 

It’s probably the remnants of this mindset that make me so dispassionate in the real world; I miss the excitement that the imaginary world once brought me. I’m not exactly scared of trying new things, but I’m certainly not too happy about it either. For example, at Georgetown, I find myself enjoying the same types of clubs, friends and classes that I did in high school. I’ve done the same things with the same people for so long; it’s easy to settle into a routine if you’re content doing it. But it’s this contentment that makes it so difficult to explore other choices.

I wonder if the only way to find magic in the real world is to go out and search for it. Of course, I don’t expect to find fairies or mermaids. But taking a step into the unknown is the only way to experience the excitement of “what’s around the corner” again, knowing that the world is infinite and possibilities are endless.  

Honestly, I still wish that magic was real. I still want to go on adventures with my friends. But I recognize now that the only way to do this is by creating this magic myself. 

Lauren Chin is a first-year student in the College of Arts & Sciences. This is the third installment of their column “What We Love and Lose.”