I sometimes find myself on a tightrope, balancing a set of weights. One side carries all the decisions I never made; the projects I never pursued, the potential I never lived up to, while the other carries the decisions I took; the hasty ones wrongly borne out of impulsivity or the need to please someone else. For me, part of growing up is learning to let go and accept that a lot of the things I had envisioned for myself weren’t going to be realised.
Many of us reading this were lucky enough to be instilled with the idea that we could do whatever we wanted from day 1. In school, we are given the liberty to choose what subjects we want to pursue, what sports teams we want to join, and what after school activities we want to carve out our identity. We graduate feeling like the world is at our feet, like we have endless options, and all we have to do to fulfil our ‘dreams’ is to take the right steps. This sentiment, at the time barely acknowledged by me, was and remains both a blessing and a curse.
Throughout life – but especially in development – we often find ourselves at a crossroad, forced to make choices that will inevitably shape our future. Sometimes, the next step is clear, but in other instances, we feel burdened by the pressure to decide. The elusivity of our choices serves as a sobering reminder that with each decision we make, we potentially render alternative paths obsolete. If you are like me, you’ll take your dear time circling the metaphorical roundabout until your head is spinning (the perfect mental state to make life-changing decisions if you ask me). But, eventually the fear subsides, and a path is chosen.
For the unlucky ones, the mental burden does not end here. Doubt rears its ugly, questioning head. Are you sure you’ve made the best choice? More importantly, how can you ever be sure you’ll feel the same way about it in the future? I am sure you’ve heard of the term ‘paradox of choice’: the bitter reality that having too many options can actually limit our freedom to choose. Maybe you’ve experienced this when ordering at a restaurant with a manifesto-sized menu. With an endless amount of options, it can be easy to feel like there is always something better than what we end up choosing. Word of advice: just order the risotto and move on.
As I sit in front of my laptop staring blankly at my applications, the Dutch word – keuzestress – directly translated to mean ‘choice stress’, captures my internal experience perfectly. I feel stuck, plagued by my fear of committing to a path only to regret it later and find myself ensnared in its consequences. And so the only choice I am able to make is one that keeps as many doors open as possible. But is no choice really better than the wrong one? I’m reminded of Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy in The Bell Jar:
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
At the heart of Plath’s dilemma lies the concept of keuzestress, a sentiment that resonates deeply with many of us. But amidst this paralysis of choice, sits a profound realisation: the decisions we make, flawed as they may be, constitute an integral part of the human experience.
While I will never fully shake the weight of “What Now?”, I’ve decided to approach my labyrinth of choices by embracing the inevitability of mistakes and uncertainties along the way. As long as I am making my decisions for me, and not my ego or external validation, I think I may be on the right track, regardless of where I end up.
Let’s not forget that in our twilight years, as we sit by the window in our rocking chairs, it is our own reflection that will greet us. In the end – as watered down as it sounds – you are the person you spend your entire life with.
I sometimes find myself on a tightrope, balancing a set of weights. One side carries all the decisions I never made; the projects I never pursued, the potential I never lived up to, while the other carries the decisions I took; the hasty ones wrongly borne out of impulsivity or the need to please someone else. For me, part of growing up is learning to let go and accept that a lot of the things I had envisioned for myself weren’t going to be realised.
Many of us reading this were lucky enough to be instilled with the idea that we could do whatever we wanted from day 1. In school, we are given the liberty to choose what subjects we want to pursue, what sports teams we want to join, and what after school activities we want to carve out our identity. We graduate feeling like the world is at our feet, like we have endless options, and all we have to do to fulfil our ‘dreams’ is to take the right steps. This sentiment, at the time barely acknowledged by me, was and remains both a blessing and a curse.
Throughout life – but especially in development – we often find ourselves at a crossroad, forced to make choices that will inevitably shape our future. Sometimes, the next step is clear, but in other instances, we feel burdened by the pressure to decide. The elusivity of our choices serves as a sobering reminder that with each decision we make, we potentially render alternative paths obsolete. If you are like me, you’ll take your dear time circling the metaphorical roundabout until your head is spinning (the perfect mental state to make life-changing decisions if you ask me). But, eventually the fear subsides, and a path is chosen.
For the unlucky ones, the mental burden does not end here. Doubt rears its ugly, questioning head. Are you sure you’ve made the best choice? More importantly, how can you ever be sure you’ll feel the same way about it in the future? I am sure you’ve heard of the term ‘paradox of choice’: the bitter reality that having too many options can actually limit our freedom to choose. Maybe you’ve experienced this when ordering at a restaurant with a manifesto-sized menu. With an endless amount of options, it can be easy to feel like there is always something better than what we end up choosing. Word of advice: just order the risotto and move on.
As I sit in front of my laptop staring blankly at my applications, the Dutch word – keuzestress – directly translated to mean ‘choice stress’, captures my internal experience perfectly. I feel stuck, plagued by my fear of committing to a path only to regret it later and find myself ensnared in its consequences. And so the only choice I am able to make is one that keeps as many doors open as possible. But is no choice really better than the wrong one? I’m reminded of Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy in The Bell Jar:
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
At the heart of Plath’s dilemma lies the concept of keuzestress, a sentiment that resonates deeply with many of us. But amidst this paralysis of choice, sits a profound realisation: the decisions we make, flawed as they may be, constitute an integral part of the human experience.
While I will never fully shake the weight of “What Now?”, I’ve decided to approach my labyrinth of choices by embracing the inevitability of mistakes and uncertainties along the way. As long as I am making my decisions for me, and not my ego or external validation, I think I may be on the right track, regardless of where I end up.
Let’s not forget that in our twilight years, as we sit by the window in our rocking chairs, it is our own reflection that will greet us. In the end – as watered down as it sounds – you are the person you spend your entire life with.
