I was young. The sand crunched beneath my feet as I walked the shoreline, trailing close behind my parents. The air was salty as the tide receded and the warm ocean breeze picked up my hair, whipping it in my face.
On every trip my family took, I never wanted to walk away without something to keep, to hold, to remember. I bought small trinkets in gift shops and kept pebbles from parks. So when my brother asked to go swimming as the sun set, I told him no and went to pick up the shells along the beach instead.
I remember that he turned his back to me angrily and waded out into the ocean, leaving me alone on the shore. I turned away too. Bending down to sift through the sand, I silently picked up shells and added them to my pocket. The sun set behind me, turning the sky a brilliant shade of orange.
After I reached the dock, I pulled them out, laid them in the damp sand, and paused to admire how beautiful they were. By the time I was finished, though, I had missed the sunset and the water had become dark and cold. My brother, still floating in the water, looked back at me in sorrow. I felt oceans apart from him.
The last time I went home, I sorted through all my childhood things. I separated a decade and a half of my life into three piles: keep, toss, donate. And tucked away in a dusty cardboard box in my closet, I found the shells from that trip in a small glass jar.
The shells are more than rocks from the sea. To me, they prove that in concept and in practice, we value what is limited: shells, money, time, even toilet paper. But is this exclusively true or just a trick on our perspective and imperfect measurement?
In economics, the scarcity principle teaches us to chase after and cherish that which we perceive to be limited— at least the tangible things. For intangible commodities like time, all we can do is lament their loss.
Nevertheless, I have come to learn that the things I value the most are both infinite and unlimited: forgiveness, kindness, and love. These are renewable, sustainable, and self-perpetuating. Loving someone today only makes it easier to love them tomorrow, and if that love is returned, the capacity for love grows on both sides of the exchange. Kindness and forgiveness shown are reflected, even multiplied.
When I look back, I have never regretted the fridge magnets and destination shirts I didn’t walk away with. I do regret the bids for connection that I missed and the times when I passed up an opportunity to show my love for someone or practice forgiveness. If I had known these things earlier, I might have spent that sunset in the water talking to my brother and maybe we would have a different relationship today. Even so, it is unhelpful to mourn lost time between us.
This year, I want to focus on the things and people that matter. And I’ll leave the shells on the beach—they look better there anyways.
Caroline Hao ’25 (carolinehao@college.harvard.edu) writes Forum for the Independent.