Returning to my small-town home after my first year of college, I was interrogated by friends, family, neighbors and familiar acquaintances. I honed and refined my responses until a general script had been developed.

My sister’s ex-boyfriend’s mom’s question, “How was the city?” was swiftly followed by, “Amazing. The village is such a great place for college kids.”

“Are you enjoying classes?” from the woman my parents “know from way back,” warranted an,  “Absolutely, but I’m looking forward to getting through some of these prerequisites.” Etcetera.

I will admit that my foray into the uncertain world of liberal arts and student loans was accompanied by some anxiety, but after such a transformative year of learning a la The New School, the nerves have subsided and I’m eager to move forward in my education.

Yet, the responses I received from said interrogators could be considered, in one word, disheartening. The more compassionate bunch would accredit my attitude to “youthful enthusiasm,” while the more blunt would casually remind me of the 25 years of loan repayment that await me on the other side. Blindsided by this sudden shift in sentiment, I was usually reduced to quiet nodding as my future ideal became clouded. Novel covers bearing my name and articles published in *Rolling Stone* suddenly seemed fantasies rather than goals. Could it really be possible that my excitement and optimism were merely youthful idealism? Faced with this negative sentiment from people back home I couldn’t help but think: Will my ambition to write for a living cease to be, once my frontal lobe matures and I’ve developed the ability to critically and more accurately gauge the future? Am I destined to be 35 and jaded?

Let’s back up. To suggest that after a year at The New School I haven’t already become somewhat jaded would be a lie. The nature of the critical thinking taught in this institution has led me to reevaluate my own systems of understanding. Out of this reevaluation has come a realization of how little I actually know and that the path ahead is fraught with more questions than answers. But I search for them regardless. I’m taking large ideas and slicing them into manageable pieces, until something grand and sweeping has been hacked to bits. I have some qualms with this process due to the fact that it isn’t until afterward that I realize, by bringing these ideas into a realm of analysis, I’ve destroyed the mystical quality they once held for me.

If I am willingly subscribing to this path of demystification, then “35 and jaded” is a real possibility. Continually deconstructing the fantastic can certainly cause one to feel disillusioned, worn and resentful of the deconstruction process itself. But this path need not be viewed as something disastrous. I shouldn’t have taken those passing comments back home as a death sentence; to accept a certain level of disillusionment as inevitability should by no means be a surrender. It should be seen for what it is – a byproduct of curiosity.

With this realization comes a choice, to either dwell on your intellectual shortcomings, or continue to be inspired by them. Dwelling on this disillusionment is to go from question to question and become paralyzed and saddened by your apparent lack of knowhow. But to be inspired is to stand in awe of the vast ocean of potential knowledge that stretches endlessly before your eyes. Then, the only thing left to do is dive headfirst and start swimming. I think it is this awe that separates me from the people I encountered this summer, and it’s the reason why I remain enthusiastic in a time of great uncertainty.

The difficulty arises in the dynamic nature of these two opposing approaches; to dwell or propel. Like I mentioned before, our education is causing us to confront this decision on a weekly if not a daily basis, and it’s only logical that we will at times be optimistic and at times feel jaded. It’s a matter of tipping the scale in our favor and seeing the world with slightly more wonder than apathy.