In a Guardian article about how men are increasingly finding themselves stuck living at home with their parents-- and the American Dream is becoming a dream deferred, as people achieve milestones like marriage and house ownership much later than in years past-- I read a quote that said, "you can only grow as much as your surroundings."

Thinking of my childhood, this line resonated; it made me think of my hometown.

I grew up in a coastal town, a little bubble where the real world was kept out by a mixture of traditionalism, affluence, and emphasis on picture-perfect lifestyles, à la Housewives of OC. Everything in my hometown was, for lack of a better descriptor, slow-- and, accordingly, stuck in the past in many respects. Growing up there, I felt as though my horizons were constrained; I felt a visceral discomfort with what seemed to me like a snail's pace of living, where leisure reigned supreme, and everyone seemed to have settled into a languid rhythm of living-- the inevitable end result of which seemed like stagnation.

There was a palpable lack of ambition from people who either felt they had already achieved a great deal, or who didn't feel as though they had to do so. Often, the former included wealthy, highly-paid professionals of Gen X, and the latter, their Gen Z children who had grown up never knowing want or need.

There were students at my high school who lived in lavish waterfront homes, complete with fully furnished patios and luxury yachts; in class, I was surrounded by sandy-haired surfer boys, and I befriended several Insta-perfect golfer girls.

On calls, in meet-ups, and whenever someone at a party asked me where I was from, I'd joke to my SF friends, calling it the town Where Nothing Happens Ever. In truth, when I visited SF, the atmosphere there only served to heighten my awareness of the phenomenon; the juxtaposition highlighted the contrast more clearly than ever before. SF, a city where the very air seemed humming with innovation, where the social scene was alive and brimming with startuppers and AI safetyists and, in the words of Jason-- "people looking to shape the world" (contrasted with, say, an academic town like Oxford, where people seek to understand the world).

This was one of many reasons I never felt truly understood by any of my high school friends. I was always so desperate for the next thing, to start the next chapter, to climb one rung higher, to go go go and my friends would look at me, bewildered, asking why I was in such a rush to do XYZ, why I felt such a sense of urgency, why I was always looking towards the next thing rather than taking the time to-- in the words of my history teacher-- "smell the roses."

Why can't you just slow down?

What are you trying to prove?

Are your parents making you do XYZ?

What are you running from?1I had many dear friends, like Jack and Chris, who understood me on a cognitive level-- they understood what I wanted to do, and, at least to some extent, why I wanted to do it-- but the deepest form of understanding comes from empathy, and I didn't have anyone like me in my life at home; I found it only when I eventually joined the rationalist community-- a place full of thinkers and builders and dreamers and do-ers and people with grand ambitious theories and people working to bring about visions of human flourishing.

I hated more than anything when my teachers would say things like-- You shouldn't graduate early, you should just enjoy high school, you'll regret it when you're older.

I held my tongue, I gave them my most polite smiles and carefully measured words, I knew they meant well, I knew it wasn't their fault for not understanding; but what I wanted to say, more than anything, was: please don't pretend like you understand me. I know I won't regret it, because I have been miserable for the past 3.5 years. What I regret is how much of myself I gave to a system that prioritized compliance over mastery, diverted precious years of my life to busy and meaningless pursuits, discouraged me from pursuing impactful work, and slowly chipped away at my identity-- there's a special way in which giving so much of yourself for purely instrumental gain leaves you cold and dead inside. I can feel, palpably, that I am stuck. I can feel the time slipping through my fingertips; I can see, when I look in the mirror, nothing but a disappointment; I have the sinking feeling that my life up to this point has been meaningless, and you can gasp and say what you want about meaningless accolades like valedictorian and associate's degree and secretary-general, and you can rattle off a list of youth councils and fellowships and TEDx talks and awards and media features, but I know deep down that it's true. I can lie to other people so they don't feel pity, I can lie to other people so they don't look at me like I'm crazy, but I cannot lie to myself. What have I done that has been meaningful, impactful, important? What have I done for the human project? In the words of Hermione: Who have I saved? I have done Nothing, I have saved No One. I know that for all the time I spend in this town, I am sacrificing my potential.

When I signed the forms for early graduation, there was a box that I could check to opt out of the graduation ceremony. After about 15 seconds of deliberation, I checked it and signed the dotted line. My counselor asked if I wanted to go to prom. I said no.

And that was that.

High school was a time spent deferring the person I wanted to be, over and over and over again, until I lost sight of who, exactly, the person I wanted to be really was. I'm trying to figure that out now-- slowly defining who and what I love, and trying to build from there-- while also simultaneously grieving the loss of who I once was.

Past me, I want to tell you that I am so, so sorry.

The line from the article also reminded me of a passage I'd read recently in All the Light We Cannot See, a historical fiction set in WWII. In the passage, one of the main characters, Werner, receives the news that he will be headed to an exclusive boarding school for the best and brightest in Germany.

"You have been called, says the letter. Werner is to report to the National Political Institute of Education #6 at Schulpforta. He stands in the parlor of Children's House, trying to absorb it. Cracked walls, sagging ceiling, twin benches that have borne child after child after child for as long as the mine has made orphans. He has found a way out.

Only in his most intrepid dreams did he allow himself to hope that he might travel so far.

Each minute that passes is one fewer in this house. In this life."

—All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

Yesterday, in the car on PCH, I was stuck at a red light, and for a few moments, I found myself staring out the window at the coast-- looking nowhere in particular and somehow everywhere at once. I'm now about 3 weeks away from graduating high school at the end of January, and I'll be taking off for Cambridge straight after school ends to start a research internship with the Cambridge Biosecurity Hub.

There's a line in HPMOR where a professor at Hogwarts is mourning the loss of Harry's childhood, as she laments how the ten-year-old has had hardly any time to live as a normal child would-- has had just a few moments of socializing normally and spending time with other children his age before being pulled into a war with the most fearsome wizard Britain has ever known. Harry's childhood is quickly going up in flames, and she sees herself and Headmaster Dumbledore as throwing wood on the blazing fire.

That part of HPMOR struck me, because I think what she doesn't realize is that Harry chooses the House he does with the express intent of fulfilling his potential, even though he believes it will trade off against his happiness; the whole time, Harry is the one holding the matches.

"Happiness is not the most important thing to me. I would not become all that I could in [House]; I would sacrifice my potential."

—HPMOR

So it was with me.

I was warned countless times, by my parents, by my teachers, by all of the adults in my life-- "you will regret XYZ." "You will miss being X years old." "You should just relax; this is the least responsibilities you'll ever have, and you should enjoy it while you can."

With my childhood, I was the only one throwing wood on the fire.

But there are different shades, different levels of regret; just because "I'm glad I did it," does not mean "I would do it again."

To some extent, I'm glad that younger me did all of the things she did; I think she had high levels of conscientiousness, but not of discernment (article on this forthcoming)-- but she applied 110% of herself within a broken system for the purpose of instrumental gain, and she set me up well in that respect. I know things could be much worse, and I know that all things considered, I am very lucky that past me did everything she did.

I'm glad I did it. If I had to go back, though, I would not do it again-- I would not be able to do it again.

I'm leaving my hometown now. I'm leaving the place where my horizons were oh so constrained for an oh so very long time. A little bubble where the real world isn't there-- I'm popping my part of the bubble from the inside. I'm leaving a place that is slow, and stuck in the past in many respects; traditional; not on the cutting edge like SF, not interested in learning about the world like Oxford-- only interested in experiencing its pleasures. Not interested in movement or growth like SF; only in staying put. Not interested in observing the world while staying put, like Oxford; only in living, the same way as yesterday, the same way as tomorrow-- the same way, for all time.2I realize that parts of this piece might come off as derogatory towards my hometown, as though I am looking down upon the place for lacking ambition. This is not my intention: I do not pretend to know the best way to live a life. In fact, I don't think there is an objective "best way" at all. I think it depends upon the person. I think, if it works for you, if it makes you feel fulfilled, then no one else has any right to judge-- if it makes you happy, it doesn't need to make sense to anyone else. The only reason I mention any of these things about my hometown is to highlight that I never really felt as though I had a place in it. The little coastal town is perfect for many of my friends; but in that place, I know I would never be content. A place can be right and good-- that doesn't mean it is right and good for you.

I'm writing this on a plane to SF, for a brief weekend trip before leaving for Cambridge; I'm about to see some of my closest friends, the people who understand me in ways my high school never did. I'm crying, now.

My teachers and parents might think I'm crying about the loss of my childhood, but I think, below the tears, there is a sense of relief; there is happiness; there is hope, and there is joy, and there is the feeling of finally taking a breath after holding it for so long. After having your head submerged underwater for so long, and choking on water and screaming at the top of your water-filled lungs and knowing that no one is there to save you, because no one can hear you and no one understands you, and sometimes you wonder if there's something wrong with you, because how can everyone else be so different, how can everyone look at what you're looking at and not care, how can you just go on with life as normal when there is war and climate change and suffering, feeling cursed in some cruelly inexplicable way, wondering if everyone else is right and you really are the problem like you've been told all your life, and not knowing what to do or who to turn to or where to go, until, finally, the summer after your sophomore year of high school, you meet people like you, and you're finally not depressed, you finally feel inspired and energized and can feel your eyes lighting up again, you finally believe in yourself a little bit more, and you finally feel accepted for who you are-- you finally, for once, fit right in.

And, finally, you feel as though the path is right, the future looks brighter from here, and you think-- you have tentative hope-- that you could really do something big with your life. You could matter, someday-- in a real way.

In a few weeks, almost the very moment I turn 18, I will be entering a new chapter.

I have been called.

Each minute that passes is one fewer in this life.

Finally, I have found a way out.

I could not be more grateful.

"It goes like, 'Oh, right', bet it feels nice
Turning your back on your whole damn life
Like, oh, wow, look at you now
A little too good for your old hometown, yeah
He's got it all figured out
How does it feel looking down?"

—hometown by jeremy zucker

1 I had many dear friends, like Jack and Chris, who understood me on a cognitive level-- they understood what I wanted to do, and, at least to some extent, why I wanted to do it-- but the deepest form of understanding comes from empathy, and I didn't have anyone like me in my life at home; I found it only when I eventually joined the rationalist community-- a place full of thinkers and builders and dreamers and do-ers and people with grand ambitious theories and people working to bring about visions of human flourishing.

2 I realize that parts of this piece might come off as derogatory towards my hometown, as though I am looking down upon the place for lacking ambition. This is not my intention: I do not pretend to know the best way to live a life. In fact, I don't think there is an objective "best way" at all. I think it depends upon the person. I think, if it works for you, if it makes you feel fulfilled, then no one else has any right to judge-- if it makes you happy, it doesn't need to make sense to anyone else. The only reason I mention any of these things about my hometown is to highlight that I never really felt as though I had a place in it. The little coastal town is perfect for many of my friends; but in that place, I know I would never be content. A place can be right and good-- that doesn't mean it is right and good for you.