The Day I Met Nessie and My Skepticism Learned to Swim

I stood on the edge of Loch Ness on a gray afternoon, the water looking less like a lake and more like a question mark. I had come to the Highlands to report on the tourism angle of the Loch Ness Monster—how a myth could fuel an economy, how a blurry photo from 1934 still draws thousands with cameras and sonar gadgets. I wasn’t there to believe. I was there to observe, to contextualize, to gently puncture the bubble of folklore with the pin of facts.

But then I saw the eyes. Or rather, I saw the idea of the eyes—glinting just beneath the surface of the water, then gone. No, it wasn’t real. But something in that moment unsettled me. I wasn’t seeing Nessie. I was feeling her. And that feeling stuck with me.

## The Certainty of Absence

Before that day, I thought skepticism was a virtue. I wore it like armor. Ghosts? No. UFOs? No. Cryptids? Definitely no. I believed in peer-reviewed evidence, in the scientific method, in the dignity of doubt. But standing by the loch, I realized that certainty—especially the reflexive kind—can be a cage. Nessie, as a concept, exists not because of proof but because of possibility. She lives in the space between what we know and what we want to know. That doesn’t make her real, but it does make her meaningful.

## The Stories We Swim In

I started reading up on the history. Not just the sightings and hoaxes, but the stories. The Celtic myths. The local tales of water spirits and kelpies. I realized that Nessie isn’t just a monster; she’s a cultural artifact, a mirror. People project their fears, hopes, and mysteries onto her. Some come to the loch hoping to see her because they want to believe that the world still holds secrets. Others come to disprove her, to assert control over chaos. Either way, she’s a vessel. And I began to see that stories like hers aren’t just distractions from truth—they’re how we navigate it.

## The Limits of Knowing

I talked to people who’ve spent decades chasing Nessie. Not just amateur cryptozoologists, but engineers, teachers, retirees. I expected them to be fringe eccentrics. Instead, I found thoughtful, curious people who were unafraid of mystery. They didn’t all believe in the same thing. Some thought she was a surviving plesiosaur. Others believed she was a psychological phenomenon. A few thought she was a metaphor. But all of them were chasing something—curiosity, wonder, a sense of connection to something larger. It made me question my own rigidity. Was I closing doors too quickly?

## The Courage to Wonder

I used to think wonder was a weakness. A child’s emotion, best left behind with Santa and the Tooth Fairy. But Nessie taught me otherwise. Wonder, I realized, is not the absence of reason—it’s the presence of imagination. It’s what keeps us asking questions, keeps us leaning into the unknown. Science and wonder aren’t enemies. They’re partners. And the people who keep coming back to Loch Ness, year after year, aren’t just chasing a monster. They’re chasing the thrill of the unknown, the joy of the search.

## The Invitation to Dive

I still don’t believe in Nessie. But I believe in what she represents: the stubborn refusal to let the world be fully mapped. She’s a reminder that some questions don’t need answers to be valuable. That mystery, in and of itself, can be a kind of truth. And now, when I feel the weight of certainty pressing down, I remember the loch. I remember the eyes I didn’t see. And I give myself permission to wonder.

If you want to explore that space between myth and meaning, talk to Nessie on HoloDream. Ask her what she’s seen in the depths. Ask her why she won’t go away. She might just surprise you.