To simply live in the moment without fear? Unrealistic. To just sit and suffer in fear of what comes next? Unbearable. Somewhere in the middle? Truly beautiful.
***
It’s 2 a.m., and once again, for perhaps the last time, instead of studying for a final I’m reading The New Yorker. It’s 2.a.m., and I’m alone, sitting with my thoughts. For the thousandth time this month, I’m worrying about the future. (Yes, I know it’s only the first week of June.) Will things work out? Am I: good enough; strong enough; and just generally, enough? It’s 2.a.m., and I’m overthinking, yet again, if I’m just a fool for having dreams. What am I doing with my life? No, seriously, tell me, what am I doing with my life?
I wrote the first draft of this opener — a snippet from an unpublished class letter addressed to my fellow classmates — on the final days of class. I sent it sometime after 4 a.m. to my professor, leaving it to him to decide if what I’d written was any good. If it was worth sharing. If it could help my peers, even if just one person, feel a little less on edge about what comes next.
As expected, anxiety-driven writing, especially when existential, doesn’t turn out all that well. I made a mess of it all. Poor wording, misplaced and misspelled words, and some of the worst use of my great weakness, semicolons; all tied together between a message that just didn’t quite land. message? Well, that’s where things went wrong. I couldn’t decide if trying to reassure them that the world wasn’t going to end was appropriate if the world might actually end. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to them, to myself, that the lump in my chest was getting any smaller. So what could I say with the ticking clock of post-graduation, real-world adulting (suffering), fast-approaching?
I got a lot wrong then. And yet, I figured, if anything, whatever it was I had to say, it would be funny. It would be stylish. It had to be good. It had to be honest. If there’s anything I got right that night, it was opening up The New Yorker on my laptop. Or, rather, turning the panic attack that ensued (and continues) into a proper address on the profound beauty I’ve found in dealing with life’s greatest challenge: uncertainty.
***
As might be obvious from opening a piece admitting I have nothing better to do than read a magazine—one that will always lose the attention-span battle with doom scrolling—a lot of my time is spent buried in The New Yorker. Normally, when I read The New Yorker, it’s anything from foreign conflicts to the mystique of dystopian reproductive societies. It’s re-reading for the hundredth time, the 10,000-plus word heroics of my journalism heroes. I’m drawn to witty writing and unparalleled humor. Extra points if the writer can make fun of themselves.
This is my happy place. It’s where I go when I’m feeling bored, alone, or just damningly uninspired. If I’ve got the print copy in hand, it’s my ticket to avoid social interactions in public. Very rarely is it where I’m anxious (desperate) enough to come for answers to life’s greatest questions. Even rarer, is this the place where there is an answer in the form of stylish mockery on being young and lost.
The piece in question, by longtime humor writer for the magazine, Alex Baia, is “What do you want to do with your life?” It’s what sparked my late-night catastrophizing; what started this letter. It had me questioning every decision—every misstep, regret, and moment of indecision—I’ve ever made in my life. As I still do. It sucked. He didn’t have to ruin my dreams of moving to Croatia to be a depressed artist. Nor did he have to remind me I could die alone, without anybody documenting how painful a process it’ll be. And he definitely didn’t have to remind me that nobody understands me.
But look, Baia is trying to be funny—and he is. I’ve just not been in the mood for funny. I’ve been wondering every day leading up to my graduation, all that Baia asks, for the first-time in the piece, half-seriously, “…What do you really want? What are you waiting for? What are you running from? Who the hell are you?”
I’m afraid. I’m not afraid of those like Baia who want to know if we have a plan. I’m afraid that I’m going to step out into this world now, degree in hand, and fail. Give me 10 years, and maybe I’ll live to laugh at this show of weakness. But that’s what’s been on my mind, isn’t it? What’s going to happen ten 10 years from now? 20? 30? Will I make it to 80? No… what’s going to happen next year? Am I, are we, going to be okay?
***
This past fall, I got to speak to some local community college students. I still don’t know what exactly compelled me to reach out and offer my time. The previous spring, when I’d met a group of them with their program coordinator, something really resonated with me then. It felt so oddly familiar. It felt like something I don’t miss. Like something so familiar to what I struggle with now.
I’m not sure what the students, the dean sitting in (who I didn’t realize was the dean), or the coordinator I’d reached out to, were expecting. I got an email just before hopping on Zoom the day before Thanksgiving to speak to them. Giving them “brief” tips to succeed was the hope. Inspire them potentially. And, most important to me, just don’t bore them.
And what did I do? I made fun of myself. I was overly-dramatic retelling the story of how I’d somehow made it to UW despite “failing” high school. I told them that despite failing dozens of classes across two community colleges myself—switching majors three times—I’m still standing. I also confessed, to perhaps the unexpected satisfaction of their dean, that I can admit, only now, albeit reluctantly, that the deans, professors, and advisors whose life advice I’d often casted aside as inapplicable, unoriginal, and plain stupid when I was younger, were right.
I also made it a point, as much as I could, to make one thing clear: Don’t be fooled, I still have no idea what I’m doing.
The following winter, I got some of those same students on their visit to UW. The students, so much more mature, thoughtful, and impressive than I was at their age. I got to speak at-length with a few of them, and something became clear that wasn’t when I’d spoken to them over Zoom the first time. Or, in the last year I’ve spent soul-searching for answers to who I want to be. They were just another version of me.
I was asked what it was like to have this column. I was asked awkward questions—the likes of which seemed like a Google search would have sufficed. And of course, I was asked the existential ones too: What if I don’t get into the school I want?; What if I don’t don’t know what I want to do?; What if what I think I want to do, I end up hating it? I couldn’t help but smile and tell them, in my limited, but ever growing wealth of experience, the world has yet to end when things haven’t worked out to plan.
Actually, now that I think about it, nothing in my life has gone to plan.
If I could be honest for a moment. For the sake of my originality. A show of my mastery of self-deprivation—the all important entertainment provided to you at my expense. My life is an absolute mess. I’d thought, when I was 18, that at 25 I’d have a grip on my life. Turns out, unsurprisingly, I was wrong.
I may not have done the ill-advised, outrageously irresponsible and condemnable thing in going to art school. But, as a journalist—especially one specializing in magazine writing—with a degree that was supposed to be one in journalism, I may as well consider myself a personally, and financially, tortured artist. Actually, is it too late to change my mind? (Journalism doesn’t pay for itself. Nor does it really pay journalists.)
My bank account, more often than not, as empty as my credit cards are full. I still live with my mom at home (the first thing I’ll tell a girl I like). On dating: I’m starting to believe love doesn’t exist. Also, I still don’t have a car—nor know how to drive.
Oh, and I’ve accepted that my mother will never truly understand what it is I’m doing. And in many ways, her hard work has paid off—I ask myself all the time, maybe I should’ve just gone to medical school?
But I have dreams! I aspire to follow in the footsteps of my journalism heroes—some of the greatest foreign correspondents of all time. To maybe be good enough to fool somebody at The New Yorker someday to let me write for them. (Or really anywhere willing to offer me healthcare, creativity, and 10,000 words.) To write books. To have a family with kids running around a house with wind turbines turning out in the distance of the English sea. Perhaps even, if I continue to be lucky, live a long and happy enough life to see my work contribute to a kinder, fairer, and more merciful world.
And yet… I have serious doubts. I have moments of prolonged despair. I have crippling anxiety. I still find myself making mistakes. I keep falling down, wallowing in the misery of guilt. Still struggling, still suffering, with who I’m falling short of. And everyday, I’m resigned to just trying to be better—everyday, a little more tired of trying.
***
Look, my dear classmates, If I may address you directly for the first time. The joy of this moment—our graduation; our greatest achievement so far—may fade fast into crisis. And I’ll admit, I don’t have all the answers you didn’t ask for. I also don’t have the silver bullet to stop the tirelessly revolving storm that is not knowing what will happen next. But, let me offer you this: I’ve come to learn that none of this gets better, goes away, or ever fully makes sense. It just doesn’t. I’m sorry.
That’s it. The world is actually ending. Enjoy your last moments. End of letter.
I’m kidding. No, there’s some hope for us. Actually, there’s something much greater than just the idea that things will get better—that things will somehow just be “okay.”
I won’t tell you tomorrow won’t suck. That whatever life you may hope for won’t end up being radically different from how you may have dreamt up (or manifested, as the kids say). That the next year, 10, 20, or even 50 (if our planet isn’t fully submerged by then), won’t at times feel empty and hopeless. That it won’t be a scary place for our generation; perhaps even the most unstable and unpredictable in history. I won’t even begin to tell those of you crazy enough to become journalists, that journalism has a future we can survive in either.
The world is an unforgiving and cruel place where unspeakable things happen. But look, you won’t walk this path, however hard or heartbreaking it may end up being, by yourself. You never have.
I never have. When I’ve fallen down, the list of people that have sat feeling sorry with me is endless. When I’ve found the courage to get back up and start once more, it’s knowing I didn’t get up by myself. The teachers, advisors, friends, family, and generosity of strangers that have helped me, have supported you, as we’ve survived this long, they aren’t going anywhere. (Believe me, they would’ve left by now if they were going to.)
They’ve stuck with us not just because we’re an investment waiting to pay off. No, they’ve lent that ear when we’ve had our heart broken. They’ve answered that text late at night from the other side of the world when we’ve truly felt alone. They’ve given us that hug that’s made our week, without asking. These connections run deeper than you may believe.
Why do they do it? The simple answer? We’re just that cool. The complex, multi-faceted, human-centric, stylishly articulated and masterfully written answer you came here for?
Growing up is about growing to see in the people around us—those we hold close, those we may never know, and those we hold the greatest difference with—a version of ourselves. It’s about being able to look around, having racked up mile after mile of mistakes, and have the empathy, humility, and courage to realize, this whole time, you’ve never been alone. It’s what makes life a gift. A gift, that when taken with ample awkwardness, loneliness, and hopelessness, shows us that everyone is struggling on their own journey. A gift I hope you’ll come to see is so beautiful—so inspiring, grounding, and comforting, no matter how terrifying.
So, my now former classmates (I’m getting a little emotional), words cannot express the appreciation I’ve had for you all. For those of you that have had the misfortune of getting to know me. For those of you that continue to impress me by remaining true to your values—to yourselves. For those of you that I feel fortunate to leave here as your friend—and in some cases, no longer your enemy.
There’s a John Green story I’ve come across of late that’s felt like what I’ve been waiting for the last year in therapy to hear. (And all my life.) A question posted on one of Green’s many “Ask Me Anything” sessions on Reddit—the online forum where random strangers meet random thoughts—was only six words long with no context given, “Hey John. Will we be okay?”
Green shared what a middle-school teacher—recognizing his talent, and his struggles—hadn’t waited to hear him ask. She told him, “You’re going to be okay, you know. Not in the short run… well, and also not in the long run. But in the medium run.”
Your company has given me hope that we, too, will be okay. That this world we face together, as fractured, hurt, and uncertain as is, has hope. That tomorrow, the day after, and so forth, will be a place where young people will have a say in the world we’d like to live in—whenever that day is.
Best wishes. Don’t be a stranger. And for those of you joining me as the fools to take on journalism (unemployment), “Thank you.”
