Hic et Nunc: Presence Under Pressure at Caltech
Introduction
Amid deadlines, data, and delayed dreams, it’s easy to overlook the fact that life doesn’t wait for us to solve every problem. At Caltech, where ambition surrounds us and the future feels constant, the present can easily fade into the background. Yet beneath the weight of equations, lab reports, and sleepless nights lies a truth waiting to be unearthed: hic et nunc—“here and now.” This simple, ancient Latin phrase serves as a profound reminder that our only true existence is in the present.
Embracing hic et nunc means resisting the urge to fixate on what’s ahead. It means lifting your gaze from your laptop at 2 a.m. in the library and recognizing that you’re among individuals who are equally alive, fascinated, fatigued, and passionate as you are. It’s about taking a deep breath under the olive trees on Moore Walk, allowing the sunlight to illuminate your thoughts. It’s about being a student—fully, freely, and fleetingly—in this singular, unrepeatable moment moment.
This essay examines the concept of hic et nunc in philosophy and its direct connection to the Caltech experience. By reflecting on personal instances where being present overcame pressure, I aim to reveal that recognizing the present is not a diversion from our objectives but potentially their most significant basis. It’s not only about valuing the journey but understanding that the view is all we truly possess. (Although I must admit, I often fail to do this.)
What Does Hic et Nunc Really Mean?
Hic et nunc—“here and now”—may seem like a mindfulness catchphrase, yet its philosophical roots extend back centuries. From Roman Stoicism to contemporary existentialism, thinkers have encouraged us to focus on the present not just as a source of comfort but as the sole realm where genuine meaning can be fully realized.
Seneca, a prominent Stoic philosopher, cautioned against living as if we have infinite tomorrows: “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste much of it.” For him, the present was not merely valuable; it was imperative. He asserted that to live well, one must be intentional and aware of how each moment is utilized.
Martin Heidegger expanded on this idea. In Being and Time, he characterized human existence as one of “thrownness”—we arrive in a world we didn’t choose at a time we didn’t select, constantly progressing toward our own mortality. Rather than lament this reality, Heidegger maintained that this awareness should push us toward authenticity. He wrote that “being-toward-death” grants life its urgency. When we acknowledge that our time is limited, we cease to delay living.
However, as students engaged in science and innovation, we often remain in the not-yet. We are trained to think in a linear fashion: plan, produce, achieve. Yet philosophy prompts us to contemplate a more circular truth: the future never genuinely arrives—it consistently transitions into the present. If we aren’t attentive when this happens, we forfeit the only life we have.
The Caltech Paradox—A Place of Dreams, a Struggle to Be Present
Caltech is a place where the future is sacred. Research here is not just about solving today’s problems—it’s about shaping what will come decades from now. That’s what makes it magical—and, sometimes, overwhelming.
The culture of Caltech is intense. We push ourselves and each other to the edge of possibility. We joke about “the Caltech workload,” but beneath the sarcasm is a real weight. There are weeks when the days blur together, when your entire existence starts to feel like a series of problem sets and lab reports, when the only time you pause is from exhaustion, not intention.
And yet, in that very intensity lies the paradox: while preparing for the future, life is happening all around us. One night, I sat alone in my dorm room, surrounded by stacks of notes and the quiet hum of my desk lamp. I had been working on a particularly brutal physics derivation for hours, chasing an elusive solution. At one point, I leaned back in my chair—not in triumph, but in surrender—and noticed how the light folded across my desk. I could hear someone laughing faintly in the hallway. My chest rose and fell. It was a small moment, but it felt like a door opening. I was here. I was alive. Not later. Now.
Simone Weil once wrote, “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” That quote has stayed with me. In a place like Caltech, attention is often seen as a tool for productivity. But what if it’s also a form of reverence? What if paying attention to the present is not just a way to work better, but a way to live more fully?
Despite the demands, Caltech has given me moments I will never forget—moments that pulled me back into the immediacy of life.
One evening, after a brutal week of midterms, a few of us dragged ourselves out to the lawn behind the Caltech Hall. It was after midnight. We lay on the grass, looking up at stars that had traveled across space just to reach our eyes. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. In that stillness, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: peace. The stars didn’t care about our grades or our deadlines. They just were. And for once, so were we.
Another time, I was walking back from the lab at an absurd hour—maybe 3 a.m.—and I passed by Turtle Pond. There was a subtle mist over the water, and the campus was utterly silent. I stopped, not because I had to, but because something told me to. I just stood there, watching the water ripple slightly in the wind. Knowing I’d forget this moment if I didn’t live it. That’s what hic et nunc means to me—not a grand epiphany, but a quiet acceptance of presence.
Kierkegaard once said, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” That line captures the strange tension I feel every day here. We always try to make sense of things after they happen, but we must live them before understanding them. The only way to do that honestly is to be present.
Choosing to Be Here
To live hic et nunc is not to abandon ambition—it is to ground it. It is to understand that every test, every sleepless night, every breakthrough, and every breakdown are not stepping stones to life—they are life. It’s not about romanticizing difficulty, but about seeing its humanity.
Alan Watts once wrote, “This is the real secret of life—to be completely engaged with what you do in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.” That doesn’t mean we won’t struggle. But it means we can struggle with awareness. With presence. With grace.
Caltech is not just a place where I study the future—it’s where we should slowly and painfully learn how to return to ourselves. To feel the warmth of sunlight on our faces between classes. To laugh with someone over a coffee. To be here.
As I continue my journey, I know the pressure won’t magically disappear. But I carry a small, repeating mantra: you are here. And that is enough. That is everything.