ast semester, my childhood friend spent a weekend visiting me at Harvard. As we weaved between the regular Sunday morning pedestrians of Cambridge — bustling parents and laughing friends — along a street I had mindlessly followed many times before, she slowed every few steps to take a picture on her phone. What sounded to me like random clicks instead captured details I had grown to ignore: vibrant, red-brick overlays graced by green vine, a gently swaying “Black Sheep” sign against the vast blue sky, and families huddled in too-small booths warmed by savory bagels.

I briefly saw campus through her eyes, and it reminded me of what I too often take for granted.

I think back to the lecture seat in Boylston Hall where, as a sophomore, I dutifully spent 120 minutes each week absorbing Social Studies 10B presentations on thinkers from Gandhi to Beauvoir to Freud. On one particular Tuesday, as lecturer Bo-Mi T. Choi drew us into the abysses of Nietzsche, she paused. She sat on the center table. “You all worked so hard to get here, to Harvard. And now that you’re here, all you want to do is leave.”

I was surprised by her frankness. Her appeal for presence, however stylized in my limited memory, still resonates.

At places like Harvard, the value of today easily fades against the demands of tomorrow. Well-trodden paths to six-figure offers and other elite institutions unfold in highly visible steps. The “pipeline” to finance or management consulting, for instance, is well-discussed. The recruiting process, which begins immediately with competitive applications for pre-professional campus groups, demands innumerous coffee chats, casing hours, and practice interview questions in a constant race to secure the coveted final offer.

It seems that the present moment is not the one to celebrate, at least not yet, and this mindset persists throughout large hubs of campus life. As a former associate in a campus consulting group, I was often told about the “up and out” culture. By this, I mean the process of diligently rising through the promotion-based ranks of an organization and, upon attaining the highest one, leaving to presumably chase the next big thing. In other words, rising up and getting out.

I’m not making another anti-consulting argument, though. Regardless of the path students choose after Harvard, they can and should appreciate it while they’re here — their toiling high-school selves would demand no less. When I consider navigating college admissions just a few years ago as a confused oldest sibling, especially with parents who had never filled out the Common App or taken the SAT, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude to be here.

I love reading social theory, considering ambiguous questions, and defending my ideas. I love being surrounded by friendly faces from around the world, all within a ten-minute walk or shuttle ride, who I can learn from and explore Boston with. Impromptu, late-night conversations in the dining hall or walking down Massachusetts Ave. constantly change how I think. I love the ability to channel my thoughts into action and learn anything that has ever been discovered.

I understand the propensity to aspire to future heights, especially for personal, family, or financial reasons: ambition is a beautiful thing. But prospection is not mutually exclusive with indulging in today. Goal-setting inspires growth, and progress should be celebrated both prospectively and retrospectively. As students hustle to obtain the next big, desirable thing, it’s easy for us to forget that a spot at Harvard used to be that big thing. And this applies to all ambitious aspirants everywhere.

Rather than continuing on the hedonic treadmill, consider walking outside instead. Only then is it possible to look back and consciously perceive the sheer distance traveled.

I frequently consider one of my favorite movies, Pixar’s “Soul,” in which a struggling jazz musician named Joe Gardner jumps from side jobs to a part-time teaching position for a middle school band as he waits for his great musical breakthrough. By a stroke of luck, he finally performs onstage with the legendary saxophonist Dorothea Williams.

Joe, like many of us, sees moments of “regular old living” as mere stepping stones to a far more exciting future. The time he spends in line at the barber shop or tutoring kids serve only as placeholders for forthcoming glory and success. As he learns, however, these moments might be the most valuable of them all.

The night after Joe’s first performance with Dorothea, he feels elated walking offstage. But, standing outside later as they wait for a taxi, he tells her he imagined feeling ​​different after “waiting on this day for [his] entire life.” In response, Dorothea shares a story about two fish and the ocean.

“I heard this story about a fish. He swims up to this older fish and says, ‘I’m trying to find this thing they call the ocean.’ ‘The ocean?’ says the older fish. ‘That’s what you’re in right now.’

‘This?’ says the younger fish. ‘This is water. What I want is the ocean.’”

Though it often feels, whether at Harvard or elsewhere, that we’re simply treading water, rest assured. You’re here — this is the ocean.

–Jocelyn Y. Xu, a Crimson Editorial Editor, can be reached at [email protected].