If you could do it again, would you? It is a good question, a hard question applicable to many situations but perhaps especially appropriate for us on the day we graduate from Harvey Mudd College. It is a natural question that we ask when we approach the end of something significant and it forces us to reflect and evaluate on our experiences. I dread the question because I struggle to find my true, honest answer. If you could do it again, would you?

The mother of a prospective student asked me that question last November. She stopped me on my way to lab on one of those charming fall days in California where the reds of turning leaves pop out against the clear blue sky. The woman had her camera out and was tapping her toes—obviously delighted to wear flip flops over Thanksgiving weekend. I saw in her face the hope and pride she harbored for her daughter and I wondered if she could see the fatigue of a long week in mine. She asked me the question, and I paused for a moment, paused and thought. The mother’s eyes peered into my face and I gave the obligatory smile, the requisite answer, “Yeah, I would.” Loyalty to the college forces this answer from us—after all, this place is our home and our life for four years; we must value it for that. For a few students, this is their only, their unequivocal answer, and I admire these students because they can see the answer without ambiguity. Most of us, however, do not—at least not immediately.

After our discussion, the mother’s question bounced around in my skull like a little rubber ball for several months, colliding with old math equations, chemistry midterms and stacks of sleepy lecture notes. And now, on the cusp of graduation, I believe I have finally caught the little ball and hold it confidently in my hand. I have an answer.

There are many things that contributed to my experience here—too, too many to describe. The shock and humiliation of getting 31 out of 100 on an exam in CORE. “It’s all part of the experience,” the upperclassmen assured me, patting me on the back. The uneasy process of getting used to air I could see, and the singular pleasure of watching the foothills evolve over the seasons from bone dry to dotted with snow and hidden beneath dark brooding clouds. Watching them burn from the rooftop of Atwood. Learning to walk home alone late at night and celebrating graduation with my class on a freezing night in February as Mudders always do. And a million other things. We all have them, these little moments that define us—that build steadily up over time until they have molded us with their weight. It is too difficult to try to sum these things up and recognize all the conclusions we, as individuals, can draw from them. This is what the mother’s question demands of us, and yet all I see when I look for an answer is a tangled mess of love, hate and memories I don’t know how to interpret. Despite this, I said, I have an answer. I will try to explain it.

I leave Harvey Mudd College an older, more thoughtful version of my freshman self—almost, dare I say it, an adult. I am more responsible, more skeptical, less hopeful about some things, more enthusiastic about others. A lot of my changes are inherent with growing up and would likely have occurred regardless of my location. There is one specific thing, however, that is a direct product of attending HMC. Harvey Mudd College has convinced me I can be a scientist.

I have the distinct memory being asked in second grade to draw in colored pencil what I wanted to be when I grew up. We were given half sheets of paper and half an hour to work. My best friend, Lindsey, drew herself as a writer, bending over her desk, her nose pressed to the paper. My other friend, Clair, drew herself as a vet standing next to a horse, a syringe in hand. I wanted to be a scientist—I thought science was fascinating, you know, cool—and I began sketching a white lab coat, but before I got beyond the collar, I stopped. I didn’t know any scientists. I knew teachers and doctors, fishermen and lawyers, but I didn’t know any scientists. Two thoughts ran through my head. First, I wondered if anything was left to be discovered. After all, everything in a child’s textbook is presented as fact and the important things, it seemed, had been known forever, discovered long before I was born. In a world where everything was known and understood, what purpose could a scientist serve? Second I thought, even if there were scientists, they would have to be the smartest, luckiest, most interesting people, and I wasn’t qualified. I imagined five scientists in the whole world, tops. Wanting to be a scientist was unreasonable, foolish. I drew myself as a doctor; they also wear white coats and I already had the collar…

After that, I still thought science was cool and I took all the science courses I could, but everything we discussed in my classes was known, was certain and the discovery was old, past. I loved science, but it was removed from me—actually doing science, discovering—was not an option. Even when I decided to come to Harvey Mudd College, I didn’t know scientist was an actual occupation anymore. I intended to come and fill myself with facts, more known things, and then, after four years, I would have to go get a normal job.

Now, 14 years after I gave up on being a scientist, Harvey Mudd College has convinced me I was wrong. Here I have learned the act of discovery is ongoing and eternal. The fields of science and engineering are not static and they are not stagnant. The process of science and engineering is like hiking in the Colorado desert where the land is carved up by thick ridges that stretch for miles. When I hike there, I climb to the top of the highest peak I can find and when I finally peep over the uppermost pinnacle, I see, not the horizon, but another, taller peak. And I am not disappointed. No, I just want to know what is behind that taller peak—what is there that I can’t see? Science is like that: No matter what you learn there is more to find out, more to see. There are a billion unasked questions out there waiting for us and the idea of discovery fuels me. Every senior thesis or Clinic project attempts to answer a new question or solve an unsolved puzzle. I did not truly understand the incredible complexity of the natural world and the odd, peculiar ways through which we try to learn about it until I came to Harvey Mudd College.

Nor did I understand how discovery can drive a person and how it does drive the people the world enlists to solve its puzzles. Scientists are smart and lucky, they are interesting—that was right. But more than anything, they work tremendously hard, and this is what sets the real scientists apart. The professors here demonstrate this, but it is my classmates that have persuaded me to believe this concept and apply it to myself. I am astounded by my classmates. Before arriving here, I didn’t know such passionate, dorky, caring people existed. And how they work. When they are tired and sick of everything, when they are numb from sensory overload or suffering in a harrowing battle with senioritis (which may set in as early as sophomore year), they still work on the unsolved puzzles. A student explodes into a tirade against work one afternoon and then we meet at 12:30 a.m. down at academics the same day as I am leaving my lab and he is just arriving at his. Why? Because it is not the deadline that forces us to keep working. It is the passion for discovery. Science is infectious and we cannot help but want to know what is behind that next peak.

Harvey Mudd College teaches us about the process of science, about the work that science and engineering require and about the desire to see what cannot be seen. Even if we do not stay in science forever, it fosters in us an appreciation and understanding for the discipline that lives on no matter where we go. When I was in second grade, I didn’t think I could be a scientist. Now, as I graduate, I believe I can. Harvey Mudd College has given me a gift, a choice. Now, because of Mudd, I have the confidence that I get to decide if I want to be a scientist or not. It is for this reason that I can finally answer that mother’s question from months ago. If you could do it again, would you? My answer is yes.

Libby Beckman is a biology major with a special interest in ecology and evolutionary biology. She plans to spend the next year or so exploring the field of ecology through direct work experience (working as a lab technician in several different places). Once she has a better idea of ecology and related work, she will go on to graduate school, presumably in the same field. While at HMC, Libby worked three out of the four years at the HMC Writing Center and was a co-president of Case Residence Hall during her junior year. She also spearheaded a Mudd student creative writing group. Libby grew up in Olympia, Wash, and graduated from Montesano High School.