“What brings you the most joy—and why?” When presented with this question by Andover’s admissions team, I was prepared to give them my default answer: I love to debate. At the time, it seemed reasonable, almost comforting, to believe that I needed a single, well-defined answer to this now impossible question. Sure, I enjoyed wrestling with arguments, but did it really bring me the most joy? Did debating constitute a hobby sufficient to help me get accepted to such a prestigious school? In the end, I chose to answer a different essay prompt, avoiding the question entirely. But now, as an Andover student surrounded by students who seem to speak fluently about their passions, I regret that I never paused to consider what my true answer may have been. The question appears everywhere, on advising forms, dorm conversations, and in the quiet pressure to justify being here. Passion is almost treated like a credential; it is a label everyone readily carries around to prove their contribution to the diversity of our community. Attending this school, I’ve met students who have mapped out their entire lives as athletes, musicians, or lawyers. Each time I learned about my classmates’ aspirations, I couldn’t help but feel anxious about my own uncertainty regarding my future. In a place where ambition saturates every classroom and dorm, not knowing what one wants to pursue means drowning. This uncertainty raises a larger question: whether direction is found in conviction and commitment, or rather in the courage to wander as we grow.
At Andover, the expectation of ambition is subtle, never explicitly stated but always implicitly hinted at. Constantly being questioned about their determination, everyone is prepared to prove their worth. But how did they ever come to that conclusion? How does one realize that their calling in life is to become a cello player or a corporate lawyer? While some may claim that these passions are simply what they inherently want to do, I disagree that our instincts are reliable indicators of our true aspirations. The instinctive “want” often urges us to indulge in our immediate desires, temptations, and the innate indolence that exists in most of us. But the “passions” that we pursue are often career-centric and more future-oriented. We make intentional choices to resist our urge to find comfort, and instead deliberately put ourselves in challenging positions that test our discipline. There is more to our callings than mere “wanting”; otherwise, no one would willingly embrace stress, deadlines, and responsibilities. Even when shaped by a balance of desire and obligation, our passions can still remain authentic. Our choices are never made in isolation; they are always influenced by our surrounding environments and circumstances. Acknowledging this does not make our decisions inauthentic; it makes them human. While in the moment we may “want” to chase comfort, our true aspirations are a balance between our immediate impulses and the necessary steps towards our ideal selves.
The tension between obligation and desire turns even our dreams into decisions weighed down by consequence. Each time I scroll through LinkedIn, I am always struck by a sense of anxiety in the face of my upperclassmen’s impressive feats. I cannot help comparing my own, seemingly fruitless life to the narratives that they built, and marvel at their dedication to chasing their dreams. Teachers claim that high school is an experimental ground for exploration and self-discovery, while everything structurally rewards specialization and long-term commitment. Every decision feels permanent, and the fact that everyone shares the same limited time makes committing to anything daunting. Each step I take towards developing one of my interests feels like a risky investment towards my future, a choice that will irrevocably shape the rest of my life. At Andover, “purpose” is tied directly to productivity. Only by devoting yourself to a fixed direction will your efforts be meaningful and yield fruit. But this definition of conviction forbids change. It restricts us from changing our courses and commitments and doesn’t allow us to reconsider who we want to become. Passion, then, may not be something we find in a neatly organized answer but instead something we build, piece by piece, through experience, reflection, and exploration. The pressure to know what we want in life may feel overwhelming, but ultimately it is an opportunity to discover ourselves in the process.
Each night, as I walk back to my dorm alone from a rehearsal, practice, or club meeting, I think about how my definition of success has already changed since arriving here. I watch the lights flicker out from dorm windows and realize that each of my peers is also somewhere in the same process of figuring things out: experimenting, hesitating, and trying again. Uncertainty will always be a given in life. But instead of viewing it as a failure to commit, it can be a space to explore potential and pursue curiosity. Our goals will constantly shift, our interests will evolve, and we may have to retrace our steps to take a different path at the crossroads. But adjusting our plans doesn’t make them any less meaningful or authentic; rather, every path we dare to venture adds to the complex individuals we are. The future belongs not to those who claim certainty, but to those who wander and imagine.
