Julia Costle

At sunrise in Rosemary Beach, Fla., I feel the chilly salt air in my face and the security of feeling as though I have the world to myself. Looking out at the white sand meeting the ocean, I feel content, appreciative and secure.

Whether it be a lake, ocean or river, I have always been exposed to water in some capacity. Every family vacation was spent at the beach. Watching the sunset above any body of water was a short drive away. The majority of my senior year of high school was spent at the beach. Until I moved away from Florida, I never realized how crucial having access to bodies of water was to my upbringing and peace of mind.

This idea fully hit me during Family Weekend when my mom commented on my smooth adjustment to college as we were running along the Androscoggin River bike path. While the bonds I made with people helped with that transition, as I looked out in the water, I realized I adjusted well because I was able to mimic my comfort routine.

I always assumed my love for water came from being raised on a peninsula. But, just like the ocean, my attachment is much deeper than that. I have a natural urge to be free and escape from reality. I have always sought ways to escape through reading, running or walking. Yet, I always circle back to the water. The vastness of the ocean is freeing. The movement of a river is steady and reassuring. The history of a lake is beyond anything I can comprehend. Bodies of water, especially the ocean, make my worries seem miniscule.

Despite this, I did not fully appreciate water’s role in my life until it was absent. I spent part of my summer in central England interning in Sheffield. Located on the eastern part of the Peak District, the city offered mountains and sheep for miles. The mountains were beautiful and having the opportunity to fall in love with a new place was extremely special. Yet, after a few too many long days of work, I craved a walk by the shore to let my mind drift. However, the one part that was missing was the access to a body of water. There is no escaping when landlocked, or more accurately, surrounded by land with no access to the coastline.

That constraint forced me to truly confront my fears with no water to wash them away. I was alone in a different country doing clinical research, something I had yet to do but pursued in hopes of contributing to the field in some way. It turned out the absence of water was its own kind of breakthrough. I came to realize water is not just a pretty thing to look at to drift from reality. Water is no longer a mechanism to numb my thoughts but rather a way to reflect them.

Now, watching the sunset at the rocky entrance of Land’s End on Bailey’s Island, I do not feel scared. My life might change, and I might be 1,500 miles away from home, but the water is a mirror and constant reminder of who I am. As a kid, the ocean felt like a fun escape, a vacation or even playground of sorts. In college, it gave me routine and stability during transition. In England, its absence forced me to confront my thoughts and therefore myself. Now, as I look out at the Atlantic, I see that water is not about escape, but rather, it is grounding. It is proof that even as my surroundings change, I have something eternal to return to. Wherever I end up, I know that when I find water, I will also find myself.

Leah Kiros is a member of the Class of 2028.