Parallel Lives

Well, this evening I find myself with one of my usual inspirations. I promised myself that I would go to bed early, but, in this place, that is never really possible. I tried, at least, and now, in this phase of almost REM relaxation, I write. Background music fills the room, my rosettes hanging on the wall watch me silently, and in these six square meters of chaos – today I would say around 70% – I try to put my thoughts in order. It has been a tough day. The bed is still unmade, but I will sleep on it anyway, so what is the point of making it again? A questionable philosophy, perhaps, but not entirely wrong.

In recent weeks I have thought a lot about why I am here. There are a thousand reasons, of course, but that is not what I want to talk about. Instead, I have started to wonder about others too. I have discovered that, deep down, each of us secretly cultivates the desire to be elsewhere. It’s as if, despite all the sacrifices made to get to one of the most prestigious universities in the world, we suddenly discover that complete satisfaction is an illusion. And I am the first to blame.

I am sitting at my desk in the Clemons Lab, immersed in work, and next to me—as always—is Jeff. How much patience you have, dear Jeff! We often find ourselves talking about this and that, and just a few days ago, when other students joined the conversation, I had a revelation. No one, deep down, wants to be exactly where they are.

“The lab is exhausting, every day without rest, and most of the time nothing goes as it should,” they complain. Then, suddenly, the spark. One after the other, everyone begins to confess what they really want to do. “I would like a food truck to cook and tour the United States.” “I would like to travel without borders.” I would like, I would like… And it’s strange because a part of me feels the same thing. These days I have done nothing but collect confirmations. At chem recitation, I discovered that Kayane has an incredible voice and that she wanted to be a singer. I discovered that among us some missionaries and athletes have dedicated their lives to sport and who, despite everything, continue to train without ever stopping fighting.

And in the end, if we think about it, it’s not money that moves us, but passion. That thin, stubborn flame that burns inside us, even when everything seems to put it out. We often say it to ourselves, almost to console ourselves, when the days get heavy and doubt tugs at us forcefully: “But who made me do it?”—and yet, the answer is always the same.

It’s not prestige, it’s not economic security, it’s not the title that drives us forward. It’s the deep desire to achieve what really ignites us. It’s a calling, an impulse that leads us to pursue something bigger than ourselves. And perhaps, in the end, it’s precisely this that keeps us alive.

I think of Van Gogh, who painted without ever selling a painting in his life, moved only by the urgency to give shape to the colors that exploded in his mind. Or of Marie Curie, who wasted away in her laboratory, not to obtain recognition—which did come—but because she wanted to understand, she wanted to discover. “There is nothing to fear in life, you just have to understand.” And so he went on, without letting himself be stopped by fatigue, loneliness, or the judgment of others.

And then I ask myself: if tomorrow I dropped everything to open a riding school in the middle of the fields, would I be happier? If I left pipettes and centrifuges to stay in the open air, breathing in the scent of hay and leather, hearing the rhythmic sound of hooves on the beaten earth, would it be easier? Maybe yes, maybe no. Because the truth is that passion is never a downhill road. It is a constant call, a hunger that never subsides, an urgency that pushes us to search, to try, to make mistakes, and to start again.

I see it in Kayane’s eyes when she sings, in Jeff’s smile when he talks about his projects, and in the dedication of his teammates who despite everything continue to train, to study, to pursue something that goes beyond the simple result. I see it in myself, even when the physics problem set seems like a labyrinth with no exit. Because, in the end, this is what makes us alive: the ability to dream, to desire something else, without ever losing sight of what brought us here. And then I start thinking that, perhaps, we all live in a quantum paradox, as if we were particles superimposed between different states: on one side, us of today, the one who wanders through the corridors of Caltech with problem set-like dark circles under our eyes and cold coffee in hand; on the other, us of a parallel universe, who perhaps is riding along an infinite beach, cooking in a food truck in New Orleans, or writing novels in a tiny bookstore in Paris.

What if it were like the famous Schrödinger’s cat experiment? Maybe, until we “observe” our lives, we are simultaneously scientists and artists, engineers and philosophers, researchers and dreamers. Maybe in a Caltech lab there is trying to mathematically demonstrate this theory of parallel lives, while here, in my corner of the universe, I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to open a riding school. But the beauty of Caltech is that this duality is not just an abstraction: it is real, tangible, almost grotesque. There is the guy who disassembles motorcycle engines on the weekend and then on Monday morning solves differential equations as if she were making coffee. There is the girl who spends sleepless nights calibrating instruments for particle physics experiments, but then on Friday night sings jazz in the clubs of Pasadena. And there’s Jeff—always him, my classmate during the long hours in the lab—who dreams of giving up everything to open a fusion restaurant where he serves tacos with Chinese influences and plays video games on the weekends.

And me? I’m staying here, balanced between these worlds, between a Western blot that doesn’t work and the dream of jumping into the major leagues and curing cancer at the same time. But maybe the secret isn’t choosing just one life but finding a way to live all the ones that live inside us, even if only for a moment. After all, who said we have to be one thing, forever? Maybe there’s no perfect life, maybe we’ll always be torn between what we do and what we’d like to do. But as long as there’s passion, as long as there’s that spark that keeps us awake at night writing, creating, and imagining, then it’ll always be worth continuing.

An entry from Columbus and L.A.-based photographer Nick Fancher’s Identity series.

And then there’s us. We who wake up when the campus is still shrouded in silence, when the lights in the windows are still off and the crisp morning air brings with it the promise of a long day. I who mount my horse before the sun rises, who feel the warm breath of my racing partner as we prepare to enter the field, who grips the reins with the same determination with which I grip a pen during a physics exam. And then there are them. The other athletes.

I see them in the hallways, with backpacks heavy with books and training bags always ready, as if at any moment they could transform from students to warriors. There is the swimmer who enters the water before I even climb into the saddle, who cuts across the pool in silence while the rest of the world is still asleep. There are the runners who clock up miles before the day begins, the basketball players who shoot until their arms give out, and the wrestlers who train until they drop, knowing that every ounce of strength gained could make a difference.

We are all suspended between two lives, between the academic world that demands mental rigor and the sports world that demands physical discipline. While most students struggle with problem sets and projects, we struggle on two fronts, trying to maintain the balance between the athlete and the student, between passion and responsibility, and between dream and reality.

And every time someone asks me “But how do you do it all?”, I would like to respond with a laugh, because the truth is that I don’t even know. I only know that I couldn’t live differently. I know that there is something in getting up early, in feeling the body respond to fatigue, in knowing that every sacrifice has a meaning, that makes me feel alive. It is the same flame that I see in my classmates, the one that pushes them not to give up, and to pursue their dreams even when everything seems to say the opposite.

Sometimes I wonder if there is a parallel universe in which I have chosen only one path. If there is a version of me who abandoned science to dedicate himself only to horses or another who gave up competitions to immerse himself completely in research. But then I look at my life, I look at my classmates running between training and classes, and I understand that I don’t want to choose. I don’t want to be just one thing.

We are not just students, nor just athletes. We are the result of both of our passions, of our dedication and of our desire to always push beyond the limit. And maybe that’s the secret: we don’t have to choose between our parallel lives, but find a way to live them both, because, after all, that’s how we are made.

And then there’s the future. That great unknown that hovers above us like a cloud full of possibilities, expectations, and—let’s face it—a lot of anxiety. We spend years struggling to get here, studying until late, testing our mental and physical resistance, and then? After Caltech, what awaits us?

The rational answer is obvious: brilliant careers, PhDs, top companies, cutting-edge laboratories. Yet, if I stop to think, I realize that few of us see the future in such a linear way. There is always that voice, that thought that whispers: “What if I did something completely different?” Maybe this is the true duality that we carry within us. On the one hand, the path we have chosen is the one for which we have sacrificed time, sleep, and perhaps even a piece of sanity. On the other, the call of a parallel life, of an alternative future that tempts us with its freedom. Yes, I could continue this path, and immerse myself even more in science, research, and innovation. But I could also give up everything and dedicate myself to horses, open a riding school, and live on nature and movement, far from screens and experimental data. Maybe the truth is that we don’t have to choose between these parallel lives. Maybe we can find a way to intertwine them, so as not to have to give up a part of ourselves in the name of a rigid idea of success. After Caltech, the world will be ours. But the question remains: which world will we choose? And, most importantly, should we choose just one?