The Bubble

I’ve been thinking about this article for a while now, but I can’t seem to find the right moment to write it. For me, writing means putting my thoughts down on paper—sometimes thoughts I struggle to acknowledge or understand, or that I try to avoid altogether. As my fingers race across the keyboard, the sound of a train echoes a few hundred meters away, and a cold breeze seeps through the window next to my bed. I’m in one of those classic American motels in the middle of nowhere. I’ve been competing in Thermal for a few months now, a truly remarkable place in the equestrian world. Yet, despite my passion for the sport and what I do, there’s a subtle sadness within me—loneliness, and fear. There goes the train again! I mean, how do people build houses next to a railway? And especially, why isn’t it mentioned on the website? I’m trying to catch up on a decade’s worth of sleep (and I’m only 19!).

Still, it’s often in these places that inspiration strikes me (though I’d say it’s not just a bit dreary, but also somewhat dangerous… but don’t tell my mother!). And then there’s my budget… I spend everything on my horses while I’m starving… I really should reassess my priorities, but now isn’t the time—at least not yet!

During my time at Caltech, I’ve noticed that I often use the term “BUBBLE,” as in phrases like “I’m in my bubble of things to do,” “Caltech Bubble,” or “problem sets bubble.” Essentially, it’s a closed, limiting space, even though deep down, I know it’s not. It’s strange; when I attended university events like going to see the Rams or the Kings, it felt like I was stepping out of this bubble and truly realizing where I was. Yes, I’m in Los Angeles, but it’s as if I’m not, or at least I don’t feel like I am. I’m in what I call the Bubble, which I don’t mind, but it’s almost addictive.

(Pause for reflection as I gaze at a ’70s chair in front of me… which I doubt has seen the light of day since it was made.)

My last experience, going to see Wicked with some friends, really moved me… in a positive way. I got off the bus abruptly, lost in my books, and a gust of wind chilled my cheeks. Around me, many people were bustling, and a guy next to me exclaimed, “Oh, the Walk of Fame.” I looked down at my Nikes and realized, oh yes! We’re in Hollywood! Wow, I had completely forgotten. The thoughts I’ve always tried to push away became more vivid. I’ve always written and worked to feel less lonely, but as I faced the immense theater, I thought, there was a world outside the bubble. Yet, I’m also aware that I don’t belong to it. This realization has caused me pain, but it’s true. At Caltech, I’ve found my community—people who understand me, for better or worse, in all my struggles and obsessions. When I go out, I still feel that pain I’ve suffered for years, the emptiness, the feeling of being a fish out of water and completely misunderstood. For years, no one ever spoke to me; sometimes, classmates would turn away as I passed. I was always there in the corner, studying and creating my own “school,” with my subjects and passions.

I touch upon this same topic with other freshmen as we sit on Long Beach, and yes, thankfully, the fire is dying down as we enjoy a morning under the Californian sun. But am I still the same person? Yes, but I’m among “my” people. That’s the difference—people who love science, but not only that; they aim to create a better future for the planet. Even if they’re asocial, they become social with each other. We’re nerds, but in a beautiful, eclectic way, each with our own personality. This is what Caltech has taught me during these months: that I’m not wrong; I just needed to find the sea in which to swim and the planet on which to live. We’re all in this microcosm that connects us to the world.

The bubble, then, is a way of life, but it doesn’t limit opportunities. We spin like tops between labs, building machines, studying, calculating formulas, often shutting ourselves away in our worries, shouting to the world, “You don’t know what I carry inside!” and we continue day by day. This piece is an invitation to reflect, as I am doing from this motel in the desert, on what shape our bubble might take.

When I’m inside it, I believe there are no other possible lives. When I’m outside (like now), I feel a sense of nostalgia. Yet, when the curtain opened at the theater and my exhausted eyes focused on the dancers, the singers, and the lights, a tear fell—because for an international student, the odds are extremely low. I’ve been crushed, silenced, and muted too many times to speak anymore. That evening, however, like on other days, I was surrounded by people who appreciate my quirks, and who are genuine, and in the bubble, I found a sort of dimension. This doesn’t mean I’m relaxed; on the contrary, I’m super stressed because I have a million things to do. But what would Camilla be without endless tasks?!! In short, I’m hyperactive!

The bubble is, therefore, a dimension—a bit like Alice’s Wonderland—but what helps us grow even more is recognizing the ideal world and using that to find inspiration or the strength to keep fighting.

Now I’m off to bed because tomorrow the competition starts early! I’m stepping out of the bubble to chase that adrenaline I’m fundamentally addicted to… (P.S. Someone take me to Six Flags; I need roller coasters!!!) And then I’ll return, even if only briefly because I’ve missed it and I have thousands of things to do…in the bubble, but for the world.

I’ll conclude with a line from a song I recently listened to, which encapsulates profound meaning:

“I dedicate to you the noise of these meaningless words, a picture without its color that has flown away elsewhere. I dedicate to you the silence since you don’t understand the words.”