ou can’t say which one you want, or you’ll never get it.”

My friends and I are huddled in a corner outside the store, my fingers finally tearing the shimmery foil seal after two failed attempts in the frigid November air.

We all nod seriously to this seemingly superstitious remark, whole-heartedly believing it is one of a series of helpful tips we’ve learned about opening blind boxes. Here are some others:

• It turns out you can’t predict which Sonny Angel you’re going to get by shaking the box. Trying to compare the boxes’ weights, because you know a baby wearing a carrot hat is heavier than a green pepper, is also futile.
• Saying which variant you want and which one you detest will guarantee the latter.

The creatures inside do not discriminate, all equally likely to be chosen, and my two boys with green pepper helmets are a testament to this conviction.

***

My neon, hairless alien (i.e., a Smiski) is perched up on the back edge of my desk, and it stares at me with his beady eyes and neutral expression. Its radioactive hue adds another source of light besides the nauseating glow of my laptop at 2 a.m. I fight the urge to close my eyes, blinking at the vomit of colored blocks in my Google Calendar.

It’s my freshman year, and I have just been rejected from one of Harvard’s popular consulting groups. Hence why I am up later than desired, my mind running through a frantic flurry of worries and possible backup plans.

Frankly, I didn’t even want to go into finance. In fact, I wanted to study psychology — considerably on the opposite side of the career spectrum from economics. Yet, it doesn’t matter; what matters is that my plans have fallen through.

So, here I am, 2,971 miles across the country from home, living in the common room of my tiny Thayer suite, and feeling utterly lost. The only thing I am certain of is my pile of comp rejections and stash of failed exams.

Gazing at my little green dude at my desk, who seemed to be cheering me on, I realize why people get addicted to gambling. The anxiety I feel when pulling a blind box is not the puncturing kind that comes from seeing a notification from Canvas in the middle of dinner with your friends. Rather, it’s the thrilling one that makes you keep seeking the childish toys.

***

The first time I rip open a blind box is back at home in California.

I leave my local trinket store with 40 fewer dollars to my name (resale prices, I know), and three Sonny Angels. I stare at the babies in my hands, whose designs do not make my top five desired picks, and vow to never spend this much money on another piece of plastic again.

Two weeks later, I say a little prayer before tearing another one open.

Maybe it’s the excitement when scanning all the different choices in the back of the box or the adrenaline when feeling the foil to make out the shape, but weirdly enough, I find myself continuing to collect these mystery creatures. At some point, I even seem to stop caring whether I pull the character I want or not.

***

While furiously sorting through my calendar for the week, it strikes me that I’m almost 20 years old. It’s the abrupt kind of realization that leaves me with a weird, scary weight in my gut.

That morning, I snooze my alarm four times and miss my scheduled workout. My mom texts me to ask if I have eaten or taken my vitamins yet. I set an alarm to remind me that my lab report is due at 11:59 p.m. I email my fifth follow-up to my lab’s principle investigator.

I graduated high school two years ago, but some days I still feel 17. I’m a 17 year old girl in an almost 20 year old woman’s body. Still, I desperately want to prove to others and myself that I belong in this new body. That I’m no longer a clueless young girl and I have full control over my mind and wants.

This desire of mine is strengthened ten-fold in Cambridge. On campus, I find myself surrounded by ambitious adulthood.

Whether I’m at Blue Bottle Coffee or Smith Campus Center, I witness a culture I was previously unfamiliar with back home. On my right is a coffee chat between two Harvard students. On my left sits a lady on her third Zoom call since I’ve been here.

I stare blankly at my laptop, overpriced 12-ounce NOLA coffee in one hand and poorly constructed dining hall bagel sandwich in the other, trying to sort out my fall classes for the third time. I try convincing myself that maybe I could join another club or take on another problem set class. I’m at war with the day’s meager 24 hours.

But who isn’t at this school? The hustle culture never sunk into my life this hard until I came to Harvard. It seems like every student’s schedule is filled to its maximum capacity, but we tend to be greedy scalpers who always want more.

At times, my hour-by-hour schedule and extensive to-do list feels like an extension I need to breathe. Without such precautions, I’m afraid to spiral out of control. I’m afraid I’ll waste the long, expensive flights to Boston, afraid to fail to prove to my family I can survive on my own, afraid to let go of my future. I need to grasp every fleeting minute.

Yet, the hustle culture demands the exact opposite. Taking time-consuming classes means occasionally missing that workout, sending cold emails can result in unplanned rejections, and late study nights can lead to spontaneous adventures with friends after. Possessing an obsession and goals forces you to embrace the unpredictable and grapple with life’s trials.

***

Outside Newbury Comics, I hand my boyfriend his blind Smiski box. It is a comical sight how both our smiles drop after pulling the exact variant we determined we didn’t want.

“It’s okay, we’ll get it next time,” I reassure him. “This one is unique!” He throws me a suspicious look, knowing I despise getting unwanted variants. Yet this time, I actually mean what I say. There is always a next time.

I no longer try to predict which figurine is in each blind box. It is equally as enjoyable to just accept the one I receive. This mystical, unpredictable nature is exactly what draws me to blind boxes. Although their surprises can be exciting or sometimes downright disappointing, I always go back to this rather childish hobby.

It dawns on me that, sometimes, it’s okay to just let things happen — whether you like it or not. If I’m so attracted to the blind boxes’ surprises, why not life’s? Why can’t I trust myself and the universe’s way of unfolding?

I don’t remember the last time I thought about comping a consulting club, or the last time I worried about that “C” I got in my first month of freshman year. I just need to keep moving forward.

I’m still a planning freak, but I’m working on letting go. I’ll read that new book or finally buy that yarn to learn how to knit. I’ll grow my naked baby and green alien collection.

Who knows, maybe I’ll get another baby with a green pepper hat.

—Magazine writer Christine Yoo can be reached at [email protected].