Goodbye to 2015

Sometimes I wonder if I too readily apply the adjective “life-changing” to experiences – particularly in thinking back to the amount of times I’ve used such a description over the past year. And each time, with the same conviction and depth of meaning attached to it as the last.

Perhaps if I had to give one overarching theme to 2015 and the underlying lesson of everything it contained, it would probably be the ever-present, profound reminder that the concept of self is nothing but a set of ever-evolving experiences – that ultimately, we are the accumulation of every experience, person, and interaction we’ve had with the world around us – both physical and spiritual (a sentiment I’ve previously expressed but seem to have constantly reaffirmed in new and evolving ways). And on this basis, it follows that just as our experiences can drastically shift over the course of a day, month, or year, so too do we.

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(first photo of 2015)

2015 was by far the most challenging, most perplexing, and most life-altering year I’ve had to date. But the thing I’ve realized is, I would have said the exact same thing at the end of 2014, and the year before that. This year, more than any other, has brought me to see just how false any expectation of finality is in life – the [often unconscious] expectation that something will be the hardest thing you ever face, that this is the best life moment you’ll ever experience, the closest connection you will ever have to another person, that such and such thing is the most important thing in your life and will always be that way, that this is how you cope with certain situations, that you know yourself.

As I sit here writing this now, amidst the hazy heat of summer instead of biting cold and snow on New Year’s Eve in a quiet house in Harare, I feel the need to somehow force my mind to acknowledge that this is even the end of 2015. At first I thought to try to summarize some of the highlights of the past year, but then, in reflecting even on the past two months and how many “life-changing” things have happened in just this one small chunk of it, it seemed a futile effort. In fact, with all that has changed so drastically and suddenly over the past months, without break or pause, I feel like I haven’t even had time to actually absorb or comprehend what my life is at the very moment. So maybe just these short few months are the perfect starting point for appreciating what the year in it’s entirety has been like…a recurring cycle of reaching points of conviction, only soon to be broken, that life can’t get any weirder, any less expected, full of any more emotion, or more introductions to new emotions previously incomprehensible, any more possible to feel or not feel so much or so little to nothing and everything, any more ‘adult’, any more real, any more surreal, any less definable, any more awe-inspiring, any more heart-breaking, any more full of life in all its shapes, forms and definitions – beyond definitions previously known – ever more expansive.

For just over the course of the past couple months:

…I came to know the deepest, most piercing and all-consuming, indescribable and crippling feeling of hopelessness in the face of depression – the kind that in the moment, leaves you unable to even imagine the possibility of feeling better again

….soon after, I find myself in the Democratic Republic of Congo – wondering at the strangeness of being perceived as a nutrition advocacy expert as I sit in meetings, conversing with donors or people leading nutrition programmes in the government, surprised that I am even able to understand them in the French, much less that they are taking me seriously as someone qualified to be sitting in the same meeting room as them and helping to provide strategic guidance to anyone. Most importantly, I find myself actually living again and feeling capable of something – a feeling that felt so completely out of reach only a week before and for so many months prior, and then

…a week following my return home to Johannesburg, I find myself suddenly closing up my assignments for a job I was still supposed to continue for another two months, and packing up two-years worth of living, friendships, and memories over the course of a few days to take up a new position in a new country that I had only barely come to realize was really confirmed

…after which, I find myself living in Harare – and only about a week or two in, suddenly realizing that I am now a manager, a donor relations officer, a ‘diplomat’ working for the UN in an African country, and that I live in Zimbabwe – not to mention actually living out the exact kind of job description I remember once envisioning for my future self while still an undergrad; the exact kind of career ambitions I would vaguely articulate whenever forced to write out my five-year career plans or long-term career goals in the context of fellowship programmes or other college activities. But strangely enough, now actually living out this idealized future career and life abroad, that felt more handed to me than deserved in any concrete way, it has become somewhat of a hazy alternate reality in which I am still unable to connect the image I supposedly assume on the outside in the context of my status as a fully fledged, working, independent adult, with the amount of confusion and uncertainty and immaturity I continue to feel on the inside (although confusion and uncertainty I am also aware is felt by all ‘adults’) – while at the same, struggling to find the conclusion to what feels like one long, drawn-out interior battle between choosing to make the most of the absurd amount of opportunity that continues to be granted to me with the reality of my unreadiness for it – or what’s more, simply having to figure out what it is I actually want in the present moment against the backdrop of previous years’ obscurely formed ambitions.

But in writing all of this and speaking of the major life changes, the real underlying life-changing aspects contained in all of it has been the people. In many ways, from all the confusion of the past few months to the past year in its entirety, I can’t help but think that much of it actually served as the basis for being more open and susceptible to the influence of others – and therein, having that much more opportunity to be witness to the incredible beauty and spirit of those around me: from the people physically present in my daily life to those whose connections never fade regardless of time or physical distance to every stranger, acquaintance, and potential new friend I cross paths with. If nothing else, I want to take from this year an even deeper appreciation for human connection – not only in the form of best friends or people we’ve known for significant periods of our lives, but in the incredibly powerful potential latent in everyone to make a deep lasting impact in another’s life, whether it be through a fleeting interaction with a stranger who said something to change the way you looked at some piece of the world, or with a new friend who is able to guide you through rough times as if he had been a part of your life all along, or from coming across a natural mentor – a person who by nature of being his or herself is able to inspire and lift simply from their example and kindness.

This year taught me that best friends, soul mates, and life-changing individuals do not come into our lives in limited numbers – and that each and every one may be as deeply and uniquely moving as the other. And by virtue of our capacity as human beings to ceaselessly expand our understanding of the world and what it means to be human, we are ceaselessly subject to the opportunity for another person to come through and widen our own world vision and definition of self.

So rather than closing this with a New Year’s Resolution, I want to only end with an Ending Year Thank You – a thank you to too many to say, as well as to many that may not even know the depth of gratitude I have for you. To every single person that impacted, shifted, uplifted, or restored something in me this year, and to those that continue to inspire and shape my way of being in the world.

And here’s to a few more pertinent take-aways from 2015:

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1385238_10153385981285430_919363978_n.jpgI had a love affair with a city that I came to call home on the other side of the world from the country I am expected to call home – the kind of love grounded in a slow, gradual, and deep appreciation for all the beauty and ugliness it has to offer to the world and the raw, vibrant, gritty, and beautiful life evident in all its streets, corners, and surfaces.

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11112717_10155456363855430_407259587272068630_nI had my life changed multiple times by multiple people – in inspiring as well as excruciating ways – all of which I wouldn’t change for anything.

11102702_10155456370195430_2872859962626385320_n11018127_10155456368035430_1724531961010940277_nDSC_0719.JPGDSC_0458From being lost in the sound of wind-strewn sands and loud silence embodied by dawn amidst a rising desert sun in Senegal, to finding serenity in a setting sun behind the contours of all expansive earth in the mountains of Lesotho, I experienced so many occasions of nature’s power to envelop all the senses and bring the mind and body to be fully present in its life.

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DSC_0561.JPGAnd perhaps most importantly, I had my perspective stretched or shifted on just about everything and anything that one could have a perspective on in life.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meaness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whomever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~Rumi

So here’s to 2016 and the all the new guests it will inevitably bring.

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Depth in Darkness

I’ve often found a certain gratification in lingering on the darkest elements of a painting: the spaces between the subjects in the foreground or the whites and yellows intended to portray light, between those colors that not so much ask for your attention but demand it. Often, in serving their humble purpose of contour and shadow, the dark spaces go beyond notice – quietly resigning themselves to the background of the viewer’s attention. Yet in this humble role, they paradoxically bring life and vitality to the painting in its entirety, providing the backdrop against which the lighter colors achieve contrast; without which, even the most vibrant of colors appear flat and lifeless.

Out of darkness comes depth.

My appreciation for darkness on canvas parallels the gradual appreciation I’ve gained for darkness in life more broadly. In using the word ‘appreciation’, I am cautious also not to connote this with ‘glorification’, but rather, a conscious awareness of the depth darkness can add when appreciated for what it is. I say this particularly with respect to the kind of darkness, or suffering, that comes from depression.

In recognizing that the idea of appreciating trials and suffering is often more easily applied to the kind of experiences that come from circumstances or events outside of oneself or in the wake of something lofty such as love or passion or belief, such a concept feels much less applicable to the kind of suffering that comes without reason or purpose and from a place neither fully from within or exterior to oneself. In such a context, in fact, the concept of ‘appreciation’ feels somehow inappropriate in relation to the basis of the experience.

It actually wasn’t even until recently, in coming across this podcast reflecting on the concept of the ‘soul in depression’ – attempting to grapple with the “spiritual territory of despair” – that I even found it acceptable to use the word appreciation in relation to depression. Admittedly, I had written in the past about depression and the valuable lessons I had come to find from it following the experience – yet even in such expression I don’t think I ever came to internalize it as an ‘appreciation’ for the depression in itself. In fact, my initial neat summation of the life lessons gleaned from my first period of depression, once I felt enough time and distance from its memory, suddenly became hypocritical words of false growth when this distant experience of my past unexpectedly re-emerged into my present – when the experience I had assumed to be an abnormal, first and only occurrence, now learned from and overcome, became not the last.

And maybe therein lies the key, most challenging aspect of achieving genuine and constructive appreciation for something negative: not only coming to recognize the significance of past experiences in hindsight, or in drawing the abstract, profound lessons from them only after having securely moved on, but in holding to the value of those lessons even when the context in which you formed them starts to become less stable. That is, in continuing to find a place and purpose for the positive meaning once derived from a negative experience, even when the trajectory of growth following the experience and lessons gained turns out to not be as direct and clear as expected or assumed. More often than not, life gifts us with periods of growth followed by new and unexpected periods of turmoil or struggle – periods that catch us all the more off guard after having grown from past struggles and perhaps come to feel a heightened sense of assurance in our own stability. But rising above one experience does not mean we are equipped to immediately find our way through every related future challenge, nor does it mean that we are any weaker if we find ourselves brought down again by the same challenge we once rose above. As evident as this sounds, I think it’s something easily forgotten when actually experienced, leaving us wondering how we could have gone backwards or lost our way again amidst familiar territory.

But humans are infinitely resilient creatures.

This idea, as it relates to depression in particular, is so keenly articulated in this quote from the interviewer in the above mentioned podcast: “…emerging from depression — ‘healing’ if you will — doesn’t mean leaving darkness behind. It means being aware and whole enough to accept dark months and dark times as expressions of human vitality.”

As a common theme iterated by all of those speaking in the podcast, a likely reason that it is so difficult as well to contemplate benefits linked to the spirit or soul when it comes to depression is that such understanding or appreciation is only actually possible after the period of depression – whereas whilst in the midst of it, it feels almost as if the spirit has somehow left altogether. It is a strange phenomenon in a way to imagine that an experience that can so deeply alienate you from the world, your sense of spirituality, and ultimately, yourself, could – for those fortunate enough to emerge from it, whether naturally or with the help of medication – in some ways create new opportunities to engage more deeply with each of these facets of life.

Again, this is by no means to glorify or romanticize an experience that presents itself as an all-encompassing and devastating force in so many lives, but to recognize that there is value even in the darkest of experiences. Thus, in an attempt to convey an appreciation grounded in something meaningful and un-exaggerated, I want to only highlight those beneficial experiences that, in my own case at least, I don’t think I could have arrived at to such a degree without having gone through depression.

The first is: an appreciation for the ability to appreciate beauty. More specifically, by ‘appreciation’ for beauty, I mean the ability to not only consciously recognize or acknowledge the beauty of something, but to possess the capacity to actually internalize and feel the power of something perceived as beautiful.

Perhaps one of the most centrally defining features of depression – at least in my personal experience – is incapacity to feel the depth of emotion you would normally feel in response to certain experiences: in particular, those powerful emotions such as passion, wonder, inspiration, and excitement. Such incapacity is all the more frustrating as you find yourself able to recognize the beauty or amazingness of something on a cognitive level, yet unable to connect it to something deeper within yourself. It is almost as if going through life encompassed by a thick foggy glass, through which you are able to still perceive the world on the other side but only in muted distant images you can see but not touch or fully engage.

I’ve often heard people with depression recount such frustrations in the wake of loved ones’ efforts to be supportive. One story that struck me was a man who described how a good friend, in seeing him sitting desolate in his office each day, pleaded that he come outside as it was a beautiful day, saying he would feel better if he just came out and smelled the flowers. While appreciating the sentiments of his friend, such encouragements only deepened the disconnect and sorrow he felt, as he was able to see and recognize that it was a beautiful day, and wanted nothing more than to experience it as his friend suggested, but nonetheless remained unaffected by the beauty he knew to be around him.

The first moment I actually recognized that I had hit a turning point in finally starting to emerge from a period of depression was an experience grounded in my relationship to beauty. Perhaps the simplicity of the experience is in itself telling of its power: a simple moment where, when standing outside waiting for the bus, I found my attention momentarily yet fully enveloped by the beauty of a tree beside me. For a moment, I was not only enraptured by the vibrant purple of the tree’s blossoms, but in such a way that my attention was simultaneously focused in on the singular beauty of the tree whilst opened up to the expansive beauty of all things around me and the world more broadly. In sum, it was an experience of beauty in how I would normally have defined true beauty: an experience of spirituality and connection to the deeper essence of the things around us.

In recounting this example, though, it should be noted that such experiences are all relative to the individual: if you are not someone that normally finds awe-inspiring moments of spirituality and life-shifting perspectives from purple trees, then it is obviously not a sign of depression that you don’t come across such moments in daily life. But as someone that has always found beauty to be a central and defining feature of life, it was through temporarily finding myself detached from such a faculty that I discovered an even deeper appreciation for the experience of beauty in itself, rather than mere recognition of it.

The second, and perhaps most valuable and unique benefit I have gained from depression is an opportunity to exhibit more compassion for the experience of others: an opportunity largely derived from a widened understanding of what it means to exercise compassion in the first place. To some extent, I’ve always thought compassion is something that ultimately originates from an ability to resonate and sympathize with another person – to attempt to put yourself in their shoes and strive to understand their experience and point of view.

While depression has on the one hand heightened my awareness of the futility in trying to ever fully understand another human being – particularly given the futility of even trying to fully understand oneself – it is in this awareness that I have paradoxically come to find a platform for deeper compassion. In trying to sympathize with other people and show compassion towards their experiences, I think we naturally strive to do so from the basis of our own experiences – that is, we attempt to relate to and understand another person by drawing on the only reference points we have available: our own life experiences and thought processes. Sometimes, this does allow us to form deeper connections with the people around us, but this is often the case in contexts where our own experiences already mirror those of another. It is often the reality, however, that our experiences may be nothing like that of another person’s, yet we inevitably attempt to apply what we know to our interpretation of what the other person is feeling – and in doing so, we create limitations to the depth of compassion we are able to show for what they are experiencing.

Put more simply, experiencing depression has given me a deeper recognition of the fact that no individual’s experience should serve as a basis upon which to interpret another person’s reality. And given the natural human tendency to attempt to understand other people from the basis of our own perceptions and understanding of the world, it is a recognition that I think requires continuous nurturing and conscious effort to put into practice. Through such efforts, we are able to exhibit deeper compassion for the experiences of others, not because we understand exactly where they are coming from, but because we acknowledge the uniqueness of what they are feeling from the context in which they are feeling it.

I realize this explanation is probably incoherent, as it is an attempt to describe something in words that I am still to fully grasp in thoughts, so to give some more specific context to what I mean, I’ll illustrate the evolution of my thinking around it: most notably, it is only in experiencing the disorienting disconnect from my own mind and relationship to the world, as a phenomenon of going through depression, that I came to realize the illusion of what it meant to ‘know myself’. More specifically, in going through moments or periods where I found myself paralyzed by emotions and physiological effects for which I quite literally couldn’t even identify the specific origin or thoughts behind them at the time, I felt for the first time that I didn’t even know myself. Further than not knowing myself, that I didn’t have full control over my own emotions, body, or thoughts.

The most significant aspect of such an experience as it relates to compassion was this: that I never would have thought such an experience possible or feasible or even within my capacity to understand until I had actually gone through it. In that realization was the realization that just as it is possible to experience something that was beyond my realm of thought or even belief up until that point (that is, the belief that it is even possible to not have complete control of our own emotions), it is possible that the experiences of others may lie beyond our realm of comprehension. The value in such a realization is in allowing ourselves the space to detach from what we subconsciously hold onto as singular realities in life that are true for everyone. For example, I once met a man who was deeply devoted to the spiritual practice of yoga, and who described to me an experience he once had where he had been observing his yoga instructor, and her form started to change, such that she essentially evolved into an ora of light before his eyes. Who’s to say even an experience like that, which may not be within my own realm of experience or full comprehension, is still not a reality equally real as the reality I myself know?

While that may be a bit of an extreme example, I think the mere attempt to detach ourselves from what we subconsciously know to be ‘true’ is an important step towards deeper compassion. On a less abstract level, I have often heard people that have not gone through depression wonder at how some people could become so distressed – to the point of even taking their own lives in some cases – in response to life events or triggers that seem so miniscule in their minds: a break-up or failure at work or in school etc. ‘Why couldn’t they just see how unimportant such things were in the grand scheme of things? If only they had focused on the positive things in life or gotten through those times, they would have seen how great they had it, and not felt in such a way.’

In hearing such sentiments, I can on the one hand still relate to such a point of view – in previously having felt the same before going through depression, within the context of an understanding of reality that we have control of our emotions and that our happiness is fully dependent on how we choose to see the world at any given moment – but at the same time, I now see the harm in such a mindset when it is used as the basis for understanding everyone’s reality. Even if we cannot put ourselves in the shoes of another person, I think it is equally powerful if not more so to acknowledge that we cannot relate sometimes, and simply strive to be fully and deeply present for someone else in the absence of doubt or judgment for their experiences. In my own case, I think the most beautiful and powerful experience of compassion I can draw to mind in such a context was the moment where a friend, who had never experienced depression and who had strived to be supportive in the best way she knew how, merely acknowledged that she couldn’t fully understand or relate to what I was going through, but nonetheless trusted in the reality of what I described to her.

Anyways, while I may have not originally intended to write such a ridiculously long narrative, particularly one as rambling and incoherent as this, I hope that publicly sharing some of my own experiences, and attempting to put some words and coherence to something so confusing and disorienting, at the very least contributes to a sense of greater openness on the topic itself. Particularly given that it is something so many people will experience at least once in their lives, why not strive to take from it something positive where and when possible.

The Breakdown

“…there’s beauty in the breakdown…”

A fragment of lyrics from an old Frou Frou song that randomly surfaces in my mind. The words repeat themselves a few times, seeming to originate from somewhere else…like a whispered suggestion from someone in the distance. I grasp on to them momentarily with my conscious mind, wondering at their strangeness yet at the same time grappling with the way they seem to resonate with some part of me. This part of me desperately urges my mind try to hold onto the words whilst it fails to hold onto much else – letting reason, comprehension, control slip quickly slip away and fade into something unrecognizable.

They represent reassurance, or some semblance of hope at least, as my body gradually becomes lost in the confusion of my thoughts…no longer an entity that is my own but something that feels indescribably out of my control…control that feels increasingly lost in my heaving chest and pounding heart, my gasps for breaths that no longer come so naturally, my trembling hands and arms that feel stiffened by the overwhelming tingling that slowly starts to spread, a tingling that paradoxically feels heavy and suffocating while making me feel light and non-existent, as if my body were not even touching the surfaces on which it were seated, and of course, the tears. The tears that form an ever consistent shield over my eyes, separating me further from my surroundings as they blur my vision with an unwelcome yet unstoppable stream of translucent distortion. I let my mind fixate on the breathing, the quick and sharp in and out gasps that fill my chest, a motion that feels at least partially of my doing, revelatory of some intentionality and control.

Is this the breakdown, I wonder. Is there beauty in this?

Or does the beauty only come from a certain kind of breakdown? The kind that leaves you so broken and shattered that you are left with no alternatives but to pick up some of the pieces and slowly mend them back together. I can see beauty in that – in the poetry of coming to find understanding in the pain, to let oneself be completely and fully vulnerable to it. In vulnerability, one inevitably finds meaning; something constructive and valuable – perhaps all the more valuable because of the struggle it took to find it, the pain that was necessary to become a stronger person and arrive at the new depths of enlightenment that naturally emerge from the experience.

But what if the remnants of the breakdown are not shattered fragments of self waiting to be pieced back together, but simply dust – a dust that dissipates into something unrecognizable, the particles of which quickly blow away and scatter in every direction as you frantically try to scoop them back together, leaving you with nothing but empty space where once there was at least something tangible?

In other words, what if the breakdown renders you unable to piece parts back together because the parts no longer feel like you. What if that fading semblance of an identity, now barely existent, was the one thing keeping you sane, giving some direction to your functioning in the world and your relationship to it – but which seems to become ever more distant with each breakdown. And rather than creating the space for the formation of new identities, leaving you only more lost each time.

I think we often don’t even realize the role that our identities have in our lives until we find them changed or become more consciously attuned to their malleable nature. More process than noun, they represent an ongoing construction, deconstruction, reconstruction, and sense-making of the spaces we occupy in the world. They consist of our self-perceptions and the stories we weave of our own lives and experiences in order to arrive at something coherent and whole. But in the single word ‘identity’ lies manifold definitions and stories, rendered all the more complex by the continuous influences of the identities imposed on us from the outside – the identities we have to other people, or, on a more general level, to the societies whose structures and norms we function within.

Yet despite such illusiveness, malleability, and subjectivity, this concept we’ve come to know as ‘identity’ holds so much power or latent potential for influence (both positive and negative) within our lives that it’s no wonder we come to view it as something so concrete and definable. In my own experience, at least, feeling the loss of this thing that once felt so concrete was enough to make me question reality itself…leading me to the realization that my so-called ‘identity’, or subconscious understanding of self, had become in a way my reality. And honestly, I don’t know that I can even put into words what I mean by ‘reality’ or losing this sense of what is real, because what the heck does ‘reality’ even mean? And yet, clearly I thought I had some grasp of it at one point, otherwise losing it (whatever ‘it’ is) wouldn’t have felt so deeply disorienting.

And when I speak of reality, and identities as they relate to our connection to the world, I’m not even talking about identity in the straightforward or obvious sense (things like race, class, gender, sexual orientation, culture, religion, relationships, ethics, etc…not that any of these are by any means even straightforward or definable in themselves) but identity at an even more basic and deeply embedded level…the kind of identity that runs so deep that we rarely even come to question or realize we define ourselves by it until the assumptions upon which it is based become shaken – for instance, assumptions of what we would do or how we would react in certain situations, or assumptions of how we think or feel and how much we control those thoughts and feelings.

And when even the deepest assumptions you have of yourself suddenly become malleable, what do you have left?

I’m not really sure at this point. And I’m also not sure whether it is necessarily a bad thing. From my own experiences and conversations with others, it’s clear that we all seek and crave a sense of identity – and yet, when having these conversations, it’s not always clear, even in hearing how people seek out these identities, why they feel they need them so much to begin with. I can understand striving for identities that contribute to a sense of purpose or lead someone to forge or feel part of a community, or holding to those that acknowledge the struggle or common experience of a certain community, but when it comes to identities that have to do with simply knowing who or what we are and what makes us ‘us’, what true value do they have?

While I have yet to piece together the remnants of unrecognizable scattered dust from my own previously assumed identities, I can at least say that there is something freeing in admitting to the chaos and uncertainty that is being human. I also don’t know that I’ve found beauty in the breakdown, nor have I found peace or enlightenment in the uncertainty, but maybe grasping for such things would ultimately render the uncertainty somehow shallow and in a way, less powerful, by assigning a sense of meaning and definability to something that has no real definition. Most of us are so quick to take the messy, confusing, disorienting, and puzzling of our lives and mold them into something we can understand or relate to or take meaning from – and not to say that these efforts and search for understanding are not critical, but more that the problem lies in our vision of what the end result will be – the implicit assumption that our search must ultimately lead to clarity. But would we still continue to strive and search even if we knew there might never be an answer?

And maybe, instead of constant searching and categorizing and identifying, there is more value in striving to take each new introspection and self-insight as it comes and not attempt to place it in a box or piece it into our overall self-concept…

…essentially, maybe it is better to strive simply to be.

Scratched and Faded Letters

I’ve lived in Johannesburg for nearly two years. I tell people I can’t believe it, that it doesn’t feel like two years has passed, that I don’t know where the time has gone, but the words fall short of the depth of bewilderment which underlies them. I have significant memories from these past two years, no doubt, and I know that things have happened, time has passed, things have changed, the world has been moving, but at the same time, I struggle to fully grasp and feel the weight of what it would seem two-years worth of memories should contain. In my mind, they feel light and fleeting…as if the time barely existed…as if I just stepped foot off the plane into my new country, my new job, my new life. Somehow that is the memory that bears the greater weight, the deeper sense of reality, than the compilation of two years as a post-graduate adult living life thousands of miles away from what once was home.

This sentiment has felt all the more troubling when juxtaposed with the physical signs of the passage of time, the signs that force the resistant mind to admit to the reality of the fact that time keeps moving. And strangely enough, the one that has incited the strongest emotion has been my travel coffee mug: the thin, translucent tumbler with the Northwestern emblem detailed in purple on one side. The tumbler which, when first receiving it, I so distinctly remember thinking “good thing I came to this one,” after realizing I’d get to keep it as a free gift from one of the many graduation ceremonies I went along to mostly for my parents’ sake in my last days of undergrad. The tumbler which sparks memories of the long, decisive and deliberate packing process I embarked on days before my journey overseas – determining it would make the cut as one of the necessary items to receive a spot in my precious luggage space. The tumbler I remember carrying in my brown leather adult-like work bag, filled with sub-par instant coffee, as I walked into my new office filled with uncertainty and expectation my first day of work, and proceeded to carry with me every single morning since that day. Since then, it has become an invisible staple of my surroundings – an item rendered insignificant by its practical utility and regular presence and use in my daily life.

But recently, something about it caught my eye – something which I found more disturbing than I perhaps wanted to admit: I saw that the royal purple enamel which once formed the perfect block lettering spelling out the name of my alma mater now revealed scratched out remnants of letters – the S and H only half remaining, the Y completely etched away; and the ornate and detailed emblem above NORTHWESTERN now reduced to a barely visible outline of circles, its edges traced by indiscernible symbols and letters – a shadow of what it once was.

As strange as I know it sounds to be rendered dumbfounded by the scratched out lettering of a coffee mug, it was in that instant that a realization of something I was already well aware of in some unconscious part of my mind finally forced its way to the surface and refused to be ignored: that this was undeniable, physical, tangible, concrete evidence that time that had passed.

On the one hand, each time I reflected on my own life with the introspective eye of expectation for what the passage of time and growing up is supposed to look like in an individual, I felt unsatisfied with the inability to see and feel what I knew to be true: that I’ve changed, that I have lived, that things are different now. Looking at myself, I still felt exactly as I did two years ago – not in a negative way exactly, or in a way that implies we all must change drastically with the passing of each year or that any certain milestones must happen, but just simply that it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel right because we essentially are our experiences. None of us are constant beings – from our physical cells to our brain activity to our ever-evolving souls. And with these experiences that become us, with this constant motion all around us and within us, it follows that something should be evident…felt…noticed.

But this didn’t seem the case when I looked at myself or filtered through my thoughts or sorted through my memories. Only in looking at the scratched out purple letters of my mug…or of the gigantic Builders’ Warehouse that stands erect across from the apartment where I used to live – in a spot where once only dirt and bricks stood…or of the mall which has doubled in size, with shiny new stores and large glass windows down my street where once there was only empty space…or of the friends to whom I once ventured in taxis across town to see every other weekend who are now scattered in all corners of the world…or the fellows with whom I had shared the continent a year ago who have now started degrees, found new jobs, established new lives on other continents…or of the high school friends I have long ago lost touch with who I see getting married or having children as I unwittingly yet instinctually click through their wedding or baby photos on Facebook…or of the dear souls I had the bounty of meeting in South Africa and briefly crossing paths with on this earth who are now no longer on this physical plane…

Only then, for a brief instant, do I feel the true weight of time.

But while these concrete signs of time’s passage each capture my attention and open my eyes a bit wider to their deeper implications, they’ve also made me that much more anxious to reconcile the physical and concrete signs with those less tangible. I wonder as well whether time without the physical markers of its passing, or time without the arbitrary numbers we assign to it in an attempt to make it more concrete and feel as though we wield some control over it, would hold the same weight in our minds. If I could not define it as two years of time that has gone by, or define myself as 24 – a constant reminder of my own time on this earth that comes with its own implications – then would I still expect something from it? Would I let time exercise its control over me the way I know I do now?

Maybe it is the misleading impression that time brings with it forward motion which creates these feelings of disconnect and disjointedness. Forward motion implies motion towards something – a direction of some sort that we have envisioned for ourselves or for the things around us. But time does not inevitably bring us towards anything. In fact, it could even take us backwards (or what we would perceive as backwards in relation to whatever it is we subconsciously – or consciously – thought we were moving towards).

I would try to put this in more concrete terms, but in my own case, I am still trying to figure out what exactly it is I had expected to be moving towards that has left me feeling as though time has deceived me…enlightenment? wisdom? understanding? or something more tangible? something to show for when thinking back at how I’ve spent most of my hours these past two years – impact on other people’s lives? new skills and talents from my work experiences? more confidence, more self-assurance in my abilities? or something more abstract? some new experience of love? the capacity to distinguish reason from emotion?

I don’t know. But I can’t help but look back with a longing for more evidence of time’s marker in myself as much as I see it in the physical changes around me. But in saying this, I also recognize the passivity latent in such a desire….one implying again that time itself provides the force for motion in a direction…if there should even be a direction to begin with. But if there should be, then one of the characteristics of time that I find most frightening is that if we choose to not act towards something or initiate changes or make things happen, our lack of ‘motion’ does not reflect stagnation in the wake of potential progress, but in fact represents regression – because time never stops moving. And if we exist in the context of this ever-moving force that is time, then the act of not moving in some ways becomes backwards motion.

I think I find this frightening because, as is well known, when we grow older, time seems faster as each year becomes a smaller fragment relative to the amount of time we’ve spent living. And with each passing year, I feel myself scrambling to hold onto each piece that meant something to me, to internalize and make something of what has passed and ensure that it does not become lost in the accumulation of too many layers of memory and self. I can’t even fully say why this feels so necessary, but perhaps it is to feel that my time has been well-spent and that I am capable of some kind of forward motion — that I have not wasted the opportunities presented to me by the people and experiences that have come into my life, nor failed to enact some kind of positive change, some sort of progress in the world – no matter how small or insignificant…

How are you?

What if we lived in a world in which the following scenario was a normal one: You walk into work Monday morning, your boss walks by and says “Good morning, how are you?” and you casually answer the question with a completely straightforward yet nonchalant, “Not so good actually; I cried myself to sleep last night,” or a “You know, I’m really not so sure; sometimes I just don’t know how I’m doing, or what I’m even feeling, or how to articulate those feelings.”

Imagine what the reaction to such a response would be in the real world – likely intense discomfort on the part of the person who asked, or just pure bafflement at how to respond or what to make of it. And yet, in some ways, I think there is more irony and strangeness in the normal, more common answers we give, of ‘fine, thanks’ and ‘good, how are you?’ – the answers we unconsciously produce as part of a deeply ingrained social script. A script so deeply ingrained, in fact, that when learning a foreign language, we’re always taught a set of short, simple phrases to use in response to the ‘how are you?’ equivalents of the other languages – quickly dismantling any notion that the question was ever really meant as a question.

And this is not to say that there is anything inherently strange or unnatural about the existence of rhetorical questions used as greetings in many cultures’ social scripts, but the seeming irony of it all is this: We ask each other this question every day – the casual add-on to a ‘good morning’ or ‘hello’, an extended greeting with seemingly more substance and depth than just a word of hello. And while we ask the question by way of habit, politeness, respect, friendliness, etc., and not with any intent of digging deeper into the psyche of the person we’re asking it from, at the same time, most of us – on some level at least – truly do care to know about the wellbeing of the people around us. Even those we barely know. Just think of Humans of New York for example – a page that generates hundreds of thousands of genuinely supportive comments – and in some cases, actions – each day in response to brief glimpses into the lives of complete strangers: responses to nothing more than a few sentences about someone’s fears, struggles, hopes, etc.

I know a lot of people are of the opinion that humans are inherently selfish and no one really cares about anything but themselves, but I think this opinion in some ways becomes validated purely by the fact that it is believed. When you live in a culture shaped around the concept of self-interest – including on a macro level when thinking about the basis on which businesses thrive or how the economy is structured – then little room is given to allow people to act otherwise. And rather than allowing space to change these expectations, our language and social norms in many ways deepen our limitations by setting up walls to separate each person’s multiple selves – their professional self, their personal self, their vulnerable self, their fun self, their spiritual self, etc. As a result, we come to these unspoken agreements, reflected in our social norms of interaction, that our lowest and most vulnerable moments and thoughts are just too much information for most people and in most settings. In this, we limit our opportunities to fully know people in the totality of their highs and lows, to offer our empathy, to connect in a greater understanding of each others’ humanness even with those we deem not close enough for such interactions.

That common expression of advice “just be yourself” always struck me as the most unhelpful thing to say to someone – implying that we all have some innate, static, true ‘self’ that’s somehow the real essence of who we are. I don’t know anyone who displays the exact same version of themselves at work, at home, with friends, etc., nor anyone who doesn’t in some way regulate the self that they display in various settings, whether consciously or unconsciously. And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s probably for the best in many cases. But at the same time, each of those versions of self constitute a true and real facet of the greater self, the totality of who someone really is, and I think we all begin to forget this reality when interacting with others…just as we come to feel the need to hide parts of ourselves in certain settings and with certain people. Again – something that is normal and necessary in many instances (for instance, you probably wouldn’t want to bring out your crazy party self at your office if you wanted to maintain the respect of your colleagues) – but something I think we often take too far.

One potentially problematic result of this I think can be seen in the way we generally present our ‘best’ selves in professional settings or with people we don’t know very well, or even in social media, until we all start to fall under the skewed impression that everyone around us has their stuff together. Even whilst cognizant on some level that everyone has their own disjointed, troubling, perplexing things going on in their lives – simply by nature of being human – it becomes difficult to truly appreciate the depth of that fact when only seeing the side of people that we are allowed to see: the side that societal expectations have deemed appropriate for the public. How much harder does it then become to reconcile our own human weaknesses – our irrational fears, our self-doubt – with the images of put-togetherness we see around us each day?

Perhaps it is this phenomenon that manifests itself into the ‘imposter syndrome’: that nagging feeling of disconnect from the image we assume on the outside and of how people see us in our current situation with the reality of how we’re actually feeling and how we see ourselves. I’ve had several people tell me that they too have felt this imposter-ness, and that it is probably common to most. Ironically though, even in hearing this and acknowledging the reality of it, I often can’t help but think of the people saying it to me and wondering why they would ever think such a thing – these people with their incredible personalities, their kindness, their talent, their ambitions; people who clearly belong in the thing they are doing; people who in no way seem like imposters. At the same time, I always feel guilt for letting a thought pass through my mind – as it inevitably implies that the imposter-ness felt in my own circumstances is in fact more legitimate, more grounded in truth, than that felt by others.

Maybe this difficulty to fully reconcile the evident fact of everyone’s imposter-ness remains challenging with the walls that continue to block us from truly seeing into the multiple selves that make up each individual. But maybe these walls serve a purpose that should not be underestimated….would we really be better off in a society in which we were more aware of each other’s fears and challenges? At a surface level, more openness and empathy sounds like a positive thing for a society, but on a practical level, TMI is real – and as much as people have empathy and are capable of being supportive in the face of others’ complex issues or self-doubts, such issues might quickly come to dominate people’s views of each other.

So I am not proposing that anything should necessarily change in how we interact with other people and regulate our multiple selves. A simple “How are you?” does not impose any societal harm as a rhetorical greeting rather than a platform for facilitating exchanges of empathy and humanness. If nothing else, though, perhaps it is useful at times to simply remind ourselves that the casual “I’m good” or “Not bad” we receive when we pose the greeting to others is coming from another human being who may be struggling with something at that moment, or feeling things contrary to the collected image they display. Whether reminding ourselves of this serves as an impetus to exercise more compassion and empathy just in general life – even when the people around us appear completely fine – or a means of recognizing the source of unrealistic expectations we sometimes have for ourselves when unconsciously forming comparisons with the people around us – striving to always be more cognizant of the deeply multi-dimensional nature of each individual seems an overall useful mindset to have.

Home

I’ve recently returned from visiting ‘home’ (the United States) for the first time in a year and a half – the longest I’ve ever continuously been out of the country. Having prepped myself for not only reverse culture shock, but also for potential feelings of estrangement and distance from old people and places, simply for having not been in contact with them for such a relatively long period of time, I ended up instead finding myself more shocked by the lack of shock. Being back in the states, it felt strangely as if the life I had built in South Africa over the last year and a half suddenly belonged to a distant, abstract memory; another life in fact. For whatever reason, my mind simply couldn’t reconcile the life abroad with the life I left behind – not in any positive or negative way, but simply such that returning to the U.S. felt literally as though I never left. Just as coming back to South Africa after a month away felt as though I never left. Each time, the perception of the latter place quickly fading into that strange distant memory, reflective of a life somehow disconnected from my present.

I’m not sure if this is the experience of most, or if I’ve even managed to articulate it in a way that makes any sense to other humans, but I feel like many people return to a home place unconsciously expecting things to be just as they left it, only to find that life continued on after they left – and that the friends and places of their past were not the stagnant images their minds had expected. Yet somehow, for me, things did feel the same. Obviously people had grown, lives had evolved, and places had changed as is inevitable with time, but the feeling of never having left still pervaded all of my interactions.

Amidst this unexpected, and no doubt deceptive, feeling of sameness, I felt more hyperaware of and attuned to the nature and effect of my interactions with these places and people both in the present and the past. By this, I mean that faced with such unexpected sameness, and simultaneously recognizing the absurdity and falseness of this perceived sameness, I began to wonder whether it had more to do with my lack of astuteness to the obvious changes outside of – as well as within – me that had inevitably occurred over a year and a half. It quickly evolved into a desire to not only consider what changes I failed to immediately grasp in my return ‘home’ but also to re-examine what changes I had failed to notice over my entire childhood/young adulthood throughout my interactions with these various home-places I was now revisiting.

To give an example, one thing that struck me when first seeing my dad after almost two years, and my sister after something like three years, was that: they’re black. I realize this makes me sound like an idiot. And I don’t mean that I didn’t realize this before. But what struck me was how I never remember really pondering on this very evident, and pretty significant fact when I lived with them up until high school….as in, how did I never have great cause to wonder whether they’d ever faced discrimination in life due to this fact? or how did I not notice what society perceived of our mixed family and the various interactions that would have resulted? And also, how did I never feel pulled towards defining my own race any earlier than college (when I was forced to concretely check a box that would define it)? Obviously, it is an extreme privilege that such questions didn’t come up…and I’m sure a lot of the world would love to frame this example of someone not noticing such things within their own life as evidence of progress in the world or how it is possible to be “color-blind”, but the reality is that the world is still far from achieving such a stage, and “color-blindness” in the sense in which it is typically used is generally an excuse by those in already privileged positions to deny the privileged basis upon which they are able to function in the world. Being color “blind” in today’s world essentially means choosing to be blind to (as well as perpetuating) all the inequalities and discrimination that continues to shape how much of the world lives.

Returning home after a year living in South Africa – a place where the memory of institutionalized racism is so recent that it is impossible to deny its links to the present systems; while viewing life overseas in my own home country through the lens of an outsider – seeing all of the news of Ferguson and riots and race dialogues emerging through clips and articles; it was impossible not to compare the two and arrive at the troubling yet evident and telling realization that America is no better….only more in denial. One of my favorite parts about Joburg specifically has been this overall sense of realness in what it has to offer as a city – a complex place with incredible people, culture, and diversity, but a place which also doesn’t try to hide (or perhaps, is incapable of hiding) its issues: the inequality, the violent crime, the way in which a long history of racism does not disappear overnight and is still present in the structures and systems around us. America, on the other hand, seems like a place intent on masking all of its parallel issues under the guise of progress and politically correct language and emphasis on the policies intended to correct the injustices – all the while failing to fully grasp and give light to the reality of things beneath this veneer. In any case…this combination of realities and realizations remained in the back of my mind as I re-engaged with the people and places of my past…leading to the many questions I was surprised to not have been forced to deeply grapple with previously.

Above all else, this re-visiting of home-places also became a reminder of the centrality of people in defining home, and even more, defining self. Re-connecting with family members and friendships I had only minimally engaged with over the past year and a half felt a lot like reconnecting with fragments of myself I forgot that I had. In my last blog post, I talked about the uncertainty I felt surrounding the role that relationships do or should play in our lives, and while I still don’t know about the ‘should’, this return home allowed me to see just how much relationships ‘do’ define me. I’m not sure if this is good or bad, but reuniting with the various people from various parts of my life and with varying depths of involvement in my life left me with the sense that the person that I am at any moment is largely an amalgamation of each person that I’ve crossed paths with in life – or, better said, an amalgamation of my interactions with each person – extending beyond the people still in my life, or even the people I can recall being in my life, to even those fleeting interactions with individuals now forgotten.

And, as I’m sure is the case for many, it’s usually the negative or most traumatic remnants of relationships that end up leaving the greatest impact or wielding the most influential power to shape us. There’s something about returning to the physical settings and people that intersect with an old relationship assumed to be forgotten and left behind that seems to reveal the deceitful power of our own minds — pulling out fragments of memory and understandings of not only the relationship, but also ourselves, that we’ve subconsciously buried away. At least in my case, simply having contact once again with the people and places still connected to a broken friendship forced me to realize just how much fear I still held in actually coming face to face again with the memories I had essentially suppressed — not so much of the friendship itself or events even, but really, of myself: of the person I perceived myself to be through the friendship, of what the friend had perceived of me, of what the broken friendship would mean for the mutual friends that had remained at the periphery, or in this very specific case – being reminded of the state of being and thoughts my mind was capable of during depression….and grappling with the thought of who I was in that state, and whether I could claim to be a wholly different person now having moved on from that period or state of being; whether I could claim to be fully immune to such thought processes now or the potential of even falling back into such a state.

It made me realize that, being in another country, and as it felt, another world, from the events of my past — of the broken friendship and the symbolic reminder it continued to hold for my period of depression as a whole — it enabled me to achieve the distancing from memories necessary for what felt like moving on, but this was still to some extent superficial; as distant as they felt, the memories still haunted me. The hesitance to even confront them again was evidence of this. And, only in returning home, did I also realize this fear stemmed largely from wanting to claim complete forgiveness of the past and happiness in the present – to prove to myself that I had grown from the experience and that was the end of it; and that to admit otherwise was essentially weakness. And, if I’m being completely honest, it was not only about proving to myself, but in doing so, somehow proving to the friend that was never able to separate her image of me from my depression – from all the irrationalities that defined my actions during that period but which now seem to have belonged to another person entirely – that I really never was and am not that person. I had assumed that only in ‘moving on’ in this sense of proving this to myself and to the abstract idea of ‘her’ (regardless of whether or not the actual ‘her’ ever came to know or care that I had moved on), that only then would things make sense and I would come to find myself stronger and better off as a result.

But if nothing else, coming in closer contact to these thoughts again allowed me to finally admit to myself that I’m still not over it. And as paradoxical as it may seem, allowing myself to not be over something has felt like a much stronger path to peace of mind and greater understanding than to claim otherwise. And I may never be completely ‘over it’: I am not over it because experiencing a friendship break-up shattered the idealistic and essentially unrealistic worldview I had held up until that point of how friendships worked. Of how people worked. Of how I worked. I am not over it because in each relationship I now have – from the oldest friends to the new close bonds I’ve formed – I can’t help but wonder now whether any of us really know each other. ….I know it sounds melodramatic worded in this way, and perhaps it is, but truly, how can any of us really know each other? Often, we hardly understand what’s in our own minds, and often we try to convey who we are to others using the tools of communication we have in our midst: words, gestures, actions….but in the end, how can we know how these things were truly intended to be conveyed by the other person…especially when the things we convey in words may not even be accurate portrayals of what we truly feel or think to begin with? And how much of our perceived connection and mutual understandings of each other is truly understanding versus projections of our mutual desires to be understood; a reflection of us each grasping at what we want to be true and willfully ignoring what might otherwise be the reality: that even those closest to us and those that care for us most still don’t really know us.

Again, I don’t know how to word this in a way that isn’t melodramatic, and I’m not saying that because we may never be able to truly ‘understand’ another human, that we are all just alone in this world (although this existential-y view does actually seem like one that has crossed the thoughts of many based on conversations I’ve had, and for some, instilling actual consternation at the thought of just how alone they are because of this fact)…but I just think this realization has left me with less certitude when it comes to the assumptions of constancy we often seem to attach to the people in our lives without even realizing it (again, not necessarily in a negative way, but more so in just recognizing the reality of life and change and people)…and perhaps more frustration at the limitations of words. Even in writing all of this now, I can’t help but think just how feeble the words I’ve just written are at actually conveying the thoughts I really want to say (particularly in considering the abstractness of the mind and what often feels like a billion different ideas floating around and intersecting and overlapping and sometimes never even converging into what can be defined as a concrete ‘thought’…as something tangible enough to be translated into a ‘word’…as something which can actually be interpreted by another person through a limited medium of communication). And I also know that whoever is reading this is interpreting it in a certain way – all based on their own experiences and worldviews and personal lens of understanding, as we all naturally do as unique individuals – inevitably rendering the meaning somehow different or altered from the way in which it was intended.

At the same time, I know that regardless of how capable we are of fully understanding another person, we are fully capable of loving another person – and acting in a manner reflective of that; and I think that in itself is the basis on which friendships should be and are grounded in legitimate substance and worth. It is the basis on which people at the very least make the attempt to know and understand other people – which almost renders the end outcome irrelevant in my mind: if someone makes an effort to understand you, purely out of love and respect for who you are as another person (something which is in their power to do), then why should it matter if they actually achieve a point of fully understanding you (something that is ultimately beyond any of our powers). This conclusion became another overarching realization of my visit home. At first, in realizing how even some of my closest friends seemed to have no comprehension of the way the broken relationship with a mutual friend had affected me – of the casualness with which they approached the whole situation, in juxtaposition to all the confounding and unresolved emotions that seemed to flood my thoughts at the mere reminder of all that had happened or of what the memory of the person still symbolized in relation to my own self-concept – the existential thought of aloneness did momentarily cross my mind…but only to be quickly replaced by the reminder of how much these same individuals cared for me, and I them, and how, in the end…the rest didn’t really matter.

I’m not sure what it is about this desire to be understood….whether it is a natural need we all have as humans, or something we tend to equate with closeness to other people… but such experiences in revisiting home have rather left me with a desire to not desire it. But now, having just written this novel of rambling thoughts attempting to convey the realizations of my home travels to a general audience of strangers…largely out of a need to make some sense of everything and render it more concrete by sharing it with others – I am struck by the irony of how much this post seems to have risen out of an unrealized ‘desire to be understood’. So I guess I’ll just file this as another inconclusive life topic beyond my reach of comprehension for now.

3 Things 23 Made Me Realize I Don’t Understand

I have wracked my brain for days, opening new documents and staring at the blank page searching for the perfect words to articulate and condense all the abstract lessons of the last year – each time failing to arrive at a single sentence and finally closing each one in the same blank white state in which it started. When I reflected back on my 22ndyear, the words – and the urgent desire to concretely state the words – to sum up the year materialized into lessons that were so clear it was almost as if they were being told to me by someone else. But now, as I find myself on the brink of 24, feeling as though another year of life must warrant some sort of reflection and insight into myself or the world or simply just something, I’ve come to realize that the reason I can’t articulate the lessons is because lessons are essentially answers, and unlike 22, 23 didn’t bring with it answers – it brought questions, and deeper uncertainty about more things.

But maybe that in itself is the big lesson of 23: coming to terms, and in fact embracing, the reality that the wisdom of growing older may actually just be a greater comprehension of just how much we truly don’t understand. And with this conclusion, it feels only appropriate that my sequel to the ‘lessons 22 taught me’ be the ‘big things that 23 made me realize I don’t understand’:

1. Adulthood.

There comes a point where you can no longer deny the fact that you are fully and completely an adult human being according to most definitions of the word….not just the legal definition (cuz really, who actually considers their 18-year old selves an adult?), but like a it’s-socially-acceptable-to-be-married-and-have-kids-now and I-should-buy-health-insurance level of adult. And once you reach this point of adulthood where you realize that the rest of the world is actually perceiving you as an adult, you come to the strange but inevitable realization that on the inside, you’re still you: there was no single, major life-changing moment where you suddenly realized you transitioned from childhood to ‘adulthood’, and that maybe the concept of adulthood that most of us have subconsciously ingrained in the back of our minds from childhood is all one big illusion – that illusion of thinking that being an adult means we’ll be married by 25, with a solid job and children by 30, and perhaps most importantly, that we’ll just know things.

A huge part of this I think comes from the mindset we have throughout our school careers that the whole first part of our lives is about developing ourselves to one day be functioning adults contributing to society, and that in the meantime, it is okay if we don’t know what we’re doing with our lives or have stability or understand everything because we’re constantly told “you have time” – that awful misleading statement with deep implications not only of the nature of our adulthood but also of our youth. Because ‘having time’ implies that we will eventually reach a point where we don’t have time – where we are suddenly expected to be putting to use everything we have developed and learned up to that point and making something of ourselves by then – thus undermining the important fact that what we do as youth can also have incredible impact on the world and that the period of youth should not simply be about looking inward and preparing ourselves for the ultimate day of ‘adulthood’ when we suddenly need to be something more.

And, probably most detrimental, is that it casts a huge shadow of expectation on adulthood. And, for me at least, expectations – particularly expectations for who you should be at any given time – represent one of the biggest challenges in the transition to adulthood and coming to accept oneself as an adult. While I still have no idea what it means to be an adult, the one thing I do know is that it shouldn’t mean any single thing – and that my fear of getting older has never really been a fear of ageing but ultimately a fear of not meeting the self-imposed expectations of what I should be at any given age or period of life. Being an adult means being you (and hopefully striving to be the best you that you can be)…but older. It should be that simple. And hopefully, as I get older, it will mean chipping away at all the deeply embedded expectations I didn’t even realize I had for myself that stand as heavy obstacles in the way of self-acceptance and contentment with whatever age I happen to be.

2. Relationships.

Just in general. Romantic relationships, friendship relationships, family relationships, relationships to strangers, relationships to hobos, relationships to people we haven’t even met yet, just all of it. And actually, I can’t even really articulate what it is about relationships that 23 taught me I don’t understand – but somehow, in the path of forming new ones, losing old ones, deepening existing ones, and reflecting on past ones, I’ve found myself just uncertain on how I feel about it all and the role they do or should play in my life. More specifically, how our relationships with people shape who we are, how much we should allow them to govern how we see ourselves, how much we should rely on them for happiness, and how much we should nurture the ones we’ve physically left behind.

This topic is probably too broad and vague to really mean much in writing, but I do feel there is a certain usefulness – if nothing else, by way of coming to a sort of acceptance about it all – in simply acknowledging the fact that I just don’t have the answers (or the questions for that matter…highlighting the extent of my perplexity on the whole subject). And recognizing that adulthood or more relationships and experiences with people don’t necessarily bring greater clarity – but by prompting us to question more things, including ourselves, they do inevitably still bring growth.

All of it might really come down to grappling with the concept of loneliness – and especially the fear of loneliness. 23 has really opened my eyes to the power of future loneliness – and the absurdity of the fact that the fear of potentially having the emotion in the future can actually make you concretely feel it in the present, and to some extent, start to blind you from the amazingness of everyone in your life in the current moment by overshadowing your actual relationships with them with a fear of what they will be to you in the future. Essentially, the fear of loneliness can actually make you lonely in and of itself by preventing you from fully experiencing what you have in the present.

And while I don’t have a solution to this, I do have some semblance of a theory: There are some things in life that are mostly in our control and some things that are minimally in our control. While this is probably debatable and also extremely contextual depending on a person’s life circumstances and probably on how often they move around, I feel like relationships fall more in the latter – we can’t predict who we’ll meet in life and when or where we’ll meet them. We can’t predict how we’ll change in relationship to the friends we have and whether our life paths or growth will converge or diverge. And when you go to a new place and leave people behind, you can put in effort to maintain and deepen what you have but you can’t fully control who will still be in your life 50 years down the line.

And for the things in life that are largely out of our control, it seems the best way we can deal with them is to strive to accept them as they are and appreciate them for what they are – and this includes the people that cross our paths in life. Meeting someone in the most random place in the world that you know you will likely never see again should not create a sense of sadness before you’ve even left them – it should leave you with a deep appreciation of whatever mark they’ve left [or continue to make] on your life for whatever period of time that may be (not to say that we shouldn’t make every effort to keep the people in our lives that matter to us, but just to accept that this is not possible for every single person).

And for even more abstract things like ‘love’ or finding ‘the one’, I may just be extra cynical, but I also feel like this is largely out of our control and that it is not guaranteed that every single one of us finds that person that we will end up spending the rest of our lives with. And because it is out of our control, maintaining an expectation that this will be a given in our lives creates a destructive mindset in which at least a part of us – that part that has internalized all the societal messages of what it means to be an adult and have a fulfilling life – feels as though something is wrong or missing, either in our lives, or worse, in ourselves. Rather, why not live each day focusing on the relationships you do have at any given moment and how beautiful and fulfilling those are – whether or not it’s your friends or families or even the exciting strangers that come along? Or focus on whatever it is that gives your life meaning and purpose and dedicate all of your thoughts and passion into that, rather than the expectation of a future fulfillment to come from someone else entering your life.

I also find some truth in the way a friend had articulated her theory on loneliness and relationships: that the fear of loneliness is less a fear of not having people in one’s life, but the fear of one day finding that you are left with only yourself – in other words, that the fear is actually a manifestation of lack of love for oneself and the thought of finding yourself alone and forced to face the reality of who you are.

I am yet to come to a conclusion on any theory related to loneliness and relationships and how best to function in the world in a way that allows us to fully appreciate each person that comes into our lives without letting the depth of our appreciation for them result in sadness at their absence or lower esteem for ourselves by way of comparisons with those that we regard so highly. But I assume this is just one of those life-long questions that doesn’t have any real answers, but maybe just becomes less of a ‘question’ through the inevitable insights to be gained with age and the wealth of experiences/perspectives that come with it.

3. The mind.

Underlying all the uncertainty about my own fears and relationship to relationships, I feel that this year has allowed me to more fully grasp something that I perhaps knew all along but maybe not the full depth of it: that I don’t really understand my own mind – in fact, to the extent that I am somewhat fearful of how much I don’t understand it. People are complex, and I’m sure we all can recognize that there is so much we don’t understand about others – which is also largely why we have so much to gain from our interactions with others – but I feel like there’s always that part of us that feels that we at least know ourselves. Whether or not we even consciously voice or think it, there is just that sense that since you are in your own body, and your mind is essentially ‘you’, that you must inevitably have a deeper understanding of that entity than the things outside of you.

Or maybe that’s just me. But either way, whatever pretense I had for myself that I understood my own mind was completely dissolved after going through a period of depression – realizing that not only do I not understand my mind but that, if we allow it (assuming it is something in our power to ‘allow’), our minds can take on meanings and perceptions outside of our control and in a way come to control us (and I also realize phrasing it in such a way then presumes that whatever it is that defines ‘us’ is separate from the mind…but that’s another complex topic in itself that I won’t attempt to unravel now). But perhaps one invaluable thing I have come to grasp from the whole experience is a better comprehension of how much power is latent in the mind – and that our entire world, our perceptions, our lived experiences, our memories…just everything – is shaped by it. Which I realize in itself sounds like such an evident statement: that our mind shapes how we see the world and navigate in it. But it’s so much more than that…

Just think, how much of our happiness or unhappiness is a reflection of our actual lives versus what our minds make of it? I keep thinking, for instance, of my fears of loneliness and how much they have come to shape my actual lived experience of loneliness. When I actually step back and look at the reality of what’s around me, loneliness stands in stark contrast to what is presently, physically, and concretely there in my life. And yet, images of the future and of all the ‘what ifs’ weave their way throughout the images of the present, creating a picture tinted by doubts and fears that, regardless of whether they will ever even materialize into reality, in a way do become a part of the current reality purely by existing in my mind.

But then again, how much control do we truly have over our own perceptions? Going so far as to say “happiness is a choice” is a concept I find extreme and harmful to a lot of people – often creating the sense that, if you are not happy, it is on you. If you are sad, it is because you chose to give into the emotion and perceive things in a particular way – which for many, rather than instilling a sense of power and freedom, can rather incite guilt or helplessness in being unable to achieve something they are told is in their power to control. On the other hand, to fully concede to the opposite notion that the mind is an entity of its own, and that the emotions that come from it are largely out of our control, perhaps has equally harmful implications. Perhaps allowing ourselves to believe that our moments of sadness or fear emanate from something outside of our control contributes to the reification of the thoughts themselves, however irrational or skewed they may be.

But again, who knows….

And maybe, to ever come to a point where we can confidently say that we do understand how our own minds work – or how relationships work or what adulthood really means – would be cause for greater concern than not knowing. While I sometimes find myself perplexed and overwhelmed when reminded of the sheer volume of things I don’t understand in the world – or the fact that now, as an ‘adult’, I no longer have the excuse of ‘I’ll understand such things when I’m an adult’ to justify how little I know (although, to be fair, maybe it is a bit extreme to be hard on myself for not being able to understand things like how exactly computers and electricity were invented – by other human adult minds – and came to exist out of the raw material of this earth) – but anyways, as overwhelming as it is to know how much I don’t know, it is also somewhat comforting to know that at least I recognize it – and for now, simply being humbled and inspired by all that I am yet to learn or really comprehend seems an okay state of being as I embark on yet another year of overwhelmingly-perplexing-yet-strangely-and-beautifully-enlightening adulthood.