beach town hermit crab

In a superb example of, as my therapist would say, “not being gentle with myself,” this year I have, without realizing the gravity of it, analyzed each and every minute decision, held it up against the yardstick of what the idealized version of me would do– WWOKD (what would Old Kayla do)? I hadn’t felt like myself in a while, but I expected (read: delusionally hoped) that recreating the life I once had would bring me home to her. At each turn, with each attempt and subsequent failure, I felt further than ever from the person I recognized. 

So it was a state of limbo, I figured, or maybe more like an intermission— I wasn’t me again yet, but I was once and I would be again. I just had to preserve as much of my life as possible so the life I loved was there for me when I regained the capacity to love it. No big changes, no life-altering decisions; a time for maintenance.

But life, with its aggravating agenda, has refused to comply with my idea of what this phase of life is meant to be. Opportunities have continued to flow my way and demand, as opportunities do, answers. Cross-country moves, new connections, creative pursuits: each one is given a cursory consideration and is then brought before a jury of my peers (friends, family, and anyone else I can trap into giving an opinion on my potential life plans). Rinse and repeat. Endless cycle. No decisions made. If I could have a proxy make all decisions for me, I’d opt for that without second thought. (Well actually, I’d probably need a proxy to make the decision to have a proxy.)

I just have to get by until I love my life again, I’ve been thinking, kill time until this feels better. But I hadn’t considered the possibility that my discontent stems from attaching myself to the life I’ve outgrown, rather than some innate inability to be happy. I’ve been forcing myself to remain within the mold I’ve been living in for years, loathing myself for it no longer fitting me. And that self loathing has made me cling harder to the life I’d known, in desperate hope that it would save me from this new version of myself. 

The life I’ve made for myself is beautiful, and the discontent with it has felt like a moral failing. If I can’t be happy with this life, could I be happy with anything? What would it be like to change my whole life in search of happiness to find the problem is me? I’m not sure, but it’s been my biggest fear.

The thing is, though, isn’t life a constant search for what makes us happy? And aren’t we constantly changing and learning and growing? Were I a crustacean or a snake, I wouldn’t feel shame over molting or shedding– that’s life. We grow and we change and the growing pains hurt but the hurt prepares us for the next stage, the next shell, the next skin.

I think, from fear of making the wrong decision, I’ve tried not to make any. No movement whatsoever. But abstinence from decisions is a decision in itself. I’m realizing, too, that making the wrong decision gives me more information than making no decision at all. Moving somewhere different and completely despising it would show me what I don’t want, adding to the basis I have for further decisions. Staying in one place out of fear that I’d be unhappy elsewhere does not happiness make. Avoiding discontent is not the key to being content. 

I’ve been so afraid to do anything new, but this life I have is not all I yearn to experience. I’m not sure what the answer is or where I’ll find it, but I am leaning into the excitement of the exploration and experimentation that awaits me rather than the fear of misstep. Because above all else, I refuse to doubt my strength. If shit hits the fan– and inevitably it will– I’m capable of managing it. When things are working in my favor, I’ll relish them, probably even more so because I know the work I put in to get there. With my obstinance repurposed into a refusal to let life pass me by, I’m ready to discover a life I love, even– and especially– if it looks different than I thought it would.

“…courage to me meant ploughing through the dull gray mist that comes down on life— not only overriding people and circumstances but overriding the bleakness of living. A sort of insistence on the value of life and the worth of transient things.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Offshore Pirate”