thoughts about gravity wells and skiing

31 Mar, 2026

When I was young, my parents frequently took me and my brother to the New York Hall of Science in Queens. In the center of the museum lobby stood a large plastic funnel, its edges encircled by grooved ramps, its body covered with countless shallow scratches. On the base read "Gravity Well." Children queued around it, eager for their turn to set a quarter spinning around the rim. Silver flashed—looping, spinning, spiraling—accelerating until inevitably, it disappeared into the great funnel’s dark center with a messy rattle.

I’d stand at the side, perturbed, watching as silent forces pulled the coins inward. The quarter had no say in the matter. “Science” dictates its every rotation—no choices, no detours, just the groove and the dark center waiting at the bottom. All the way down, their chattering voices seemed to whisper:

“We are you, and you are us.”

I never had a good response.

This past January, I finished my first semester of law school and received my grades back.¹ They weren’t bad, but they were below the goal I had set for myself and among my close friends, they were the lowest. Immediately, my mind was filled with familiar chattering whispers.

“Perhaps you were set off with a bit more fanfare than the rest of us—that’s not uncommon, some children like to admire silver Washington before sending him spinning—but look around, you’re here with the rest of us, aren’t you? Some of us are meant for greatness, others aren’t. The grooves are set in the foundation of the funnel, and there isn’t anything to be done. Try as you may, and try as you had, you were always going to be here. There’s no shame in having tried, but now you know. Deep down, we’re sure, you always knew that 'We are you, and you are us.'”

I knew these thoughts were irrational. But I the silent force of a childhood colloquy was pulling me inwards, and I had no good response. I was miniaturized and strapped to a quarter, spiraling towards the patient void.

In February, I met the former General Counsel of Exxon at a conference. He was heading off for a ski trip at the time, but I was able to have a brief conversation with him about how he conceived of free will in his most important decisions. Fittingly, he shared an apropos ski analogy.

“The first time you ever go skiing, as you stood atop the course and look down, you’ll probably plan your route—make a right turn there, avoid the salmons, go through the moguls, left and right and left and right… But the thing is, what really happens is you push off, you make your first turn, and you fall. Then you get up, embarrassed, you pizza again, then you fall again. Around and around you go. There’s clearly some agency here—whether you’ll get up or not—but that’s not a real choice anyone makes. There’s never any real doubt that you’ll get up again, that you’ll make it to the bottom. No, I think the real choice is where you choose to look. The people who enjoy skiing keep their eyes up. They take in the views.”

One month later, I landed my dream position. Since then, I’ve thought about that conversation and the funnel often. I understand the logic of the funnel. When you’re in it, the spiral feels like fate, like the center was always waiting and always will be.

But I’m not sure it’s that simple. When I look back at my life, things have—often, miraculously—worked out. Not because science dictated my every move, but because of a series of small choices: to fall and get up, to point downhill, to keep my eyes up high and trust that somewhere on the way down, in the turns I chose, was a view worth tumbling for.²

Perhaps it’s true, that at the end, some dark center—an inevitable bottom—awaits us all. Nevertheless, I don’t think that’s the point. The turns you make, the views you catch, the people you tumble alongside—these shape what you see when you finally reach the end.³ I think they shape everything.

The chattering hasn’t gone quiet. I don’t think it ever fully will. But I’m learning, slowly, not everything needs an answer; sometimes, Faith alone is enough.