Grief, Hope, and The Nobel Prize I'll Never Win

kindergarten graduation :)

    Just a few years ago, I thought I knew my future: physics degree, PhD, research that mattered. Theoretical physics, the kind where you wrestle with questions no one can fully answer. I imagined contributing to something so big, so invisible yet essential, that a Nobel committee would someday say my name out loud. Quantum mechanics and string theory books filled my shelves. Bookmarked TED Talks from Brian Greene and Neil deGrasse Tyson littered my laptop. This was my astrophysics themed dorm room my freshman year... (I took advantage of not having a roommate.) Looking back, it feels almost funny and a little vulnerable to admit I once dreamt of a Nobel Prize, something not even the greatest physicists of our lifetime have achieved. But I think that dream says less about arrogance and more about how much I loved our world and wanted to understand it.

I dreamed of leaving a mark on the universe. Honestly, I wanted the recognition too, the proof that I was smart enough, worthy enough, to be counted among the people who change the way the world sees reality.

But life didn’t care about my plans. Money, survival, instability pulled me off that track. I had to pay for college all on my own, working constantly, trying to make ends meet while keeping up with classes. Sometimes it felt like life was playing a cruel joke, giving me dreams so big I couldn’t possibly catch them.

I’ve been homeless. I squatted in an abandoned building just to have a place to stay. When I finally got shelter, I didn’t even have a bed or a desk. I survived on food pantry meals while trying to study chemistry, and my professor actually said I wasn’t trying hard enough. Fuck that. It felt like the world had the upper hand. College is a privilege, and I was learning that the hard way.

Sometimes people ask me, “How’s college going?” And I have to explain again that it’s happening, slowly, surely. That I’m making it happen, even if it doesn’t look like what anyone expected. That maybe I won’t even use the degree the way I imagined. That maybe I’ll use it in ways I can’t yet see. That maybe the path changes, and that’s okay. But saying it feels heavy. It’s a reminder that life hasn’t been fair, that time slips through your fingers faster than you realize, that dreams sometimes get complicated.

And then I feel the grief hit. The ache of falling in love with something that was always going to be hard, something that didn’t care about my circumstances. I chose curiosity over comfort. I chose wonder over security. 

Part of that grief comes from my childhood and the ways it shaped me. Physics became one of the few places I could feel clarity, control, even beauty, when everything else felt unstable. If you want to read more about that, you can check out my post here↗.

I feel like a failure sometimes. Like I could have been smarter, more strategic, more “adult.” Like I squandered my shot at the path I imagined, working in labs, publishing papers, contributing to knowledge, maybe even winning a Nobel Prize. That grief isn’t quiet. It sits in my chest, in my stomach, a weight that doesn’t go away even when I tell myself I’m doing the best I can now.

But how are you supposed to, when the system was never made for someone like you, and every step feels like the world is testing whether you belong?

And yet. And yet.

I plan on going back to school to finish. Maybe I’ll continue in physics. Maybe I won’t. Maybe piercing will be my career, and physics will be my love on the side. Maybe I’ll push boundaries I never imagined. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and want that PhD more than anything. Maybe I’ll wake up and want something entirely different. And that’s okay. I have time. I have choices. I have the ability to choose.

I think about the roads I didn’t take. I wonder about the choices I’ll make tomorrow. I question how much of life is fate and how much is courage, how much is circumstance and how much is stubbornness. I ask myself: is failure real if you’re still moving, still curious, still reaching for the unknown? Who decides what counts as “success,” and what if it’s all different for each of us?

The Nobel Prize I once dreamed of? Maybe it isn’t the sun. Maybe it was never meant to light my life. I haven’t achieved all my dreams. Maybe not yet, maybe not ever. And honestly? That fucking sucks. Life sometimes feels like it’s laughing at me. Nevertheless, I persist. There’s beauty in the struggle, in surviving when the odds are stacked against you. Even if the Nobel Prize never comes, even if the universe doesn’t care, I’m still here. I’m still me.

Still, the universe overwhelms me with wonder. Stars aren’t just pretty lights, they are nuclear furnaces billions of years old. The atoms in my body were forged inside stars that exploded long before Earth even existed. Time itself bends, stretches, and behaves like something alive. Just thinking about it makes my heart race. Just imagining it makes me feel connected to something infinitely bigger than myself.

 learning for the joy of it.

I close my eyes and imagine walking through a forest at dawn. The light slips through the trees in golden streams, illuminating dust motes floating in the cold, damp air. A creek whispers somewhere far off, carrying the sound of time itself. I can feel the soft moss beneath my feet, the wind brushing my hair. Every breath feels like a gift. I think of all the paths I haven’t walked yet, the mountains I haven’t climbed, the nights I haven’t spent staring at constellations, wondering who else is looking up at the same sky.

I imagine sitting in a quiet cabin, winter outside, a mug of tea in my hands, snowflakes catching the light. I think about how small I am, and how enormous the possibilities are. I think about how the world keeps turning, how stars keep burning, how time flows even when I feel behind. Goals can change. Life can reroute you without warning. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re alive, you’re awake, you’re seeing the world with your own eyes.

I’m moving to Colorado in just a few short days because I wanted to. Life is too short to just wait for your dreams to happen. I’m 24, and sometimes it feels like I’m behind, but that’s not true. I feel the promise in my bones. I feel it in the quiet moments, in the awe, in the curiosity that keeps me going. I feel it in the forested paths I haven’t walked yet, in the sunlight hitting the rocks, in the cold wind that reminds me I’m breathing.

Grief is still here. Anger is still here. But so is hope. So is wonder. So is the fire that keeps me alive. I am the sun. I am the fire that keeps me alive. I am the curiosity, the awe, the wonder that light my path.  That is mine.

                                                                             ∮∯∰

                                                                   Thanks for reading.