Serendipity and Unpredictability
Serendipitious moment-stranger’s thoughts left on the ground at a park in Pasadena in 2022.
Life is unpredictable. It's the kind of unpredictable that can leave you feeling exhilarated one moment and completely undone the next. This unpredictability is what makes life both scary and thrilling. Some people focus on one aspect over all others, like the unknown, which is undeniably terrifying. As humans, we’re hardwired to crave certainty—we want to know what's coming so we can brace ourselves for impact. The unknown, with its open-endedness, can feel like an abyss.
Research shows that intolerance of uncertainty can increase anxiety and lead to negative outcomes in life. Psychologists have found that when we struggle to accept uncertainty, it can make everyday life feel overwhelming. We get stuck in loops of “what ifs” that amplify our anxiety, making it harder to make decisions or even enjoy the present moment. From a psychoanalytic perspective, uncertainty taps into deeper fears and desires. Freud would argue that our need for control is a defense mechanism—an attempt to shield ourselves from the chaos of life. It’s a futile fight, of course, because control is just an illusion.
Late 2023, I was on cloud 9, feeling the best I had ever felt in my entire life. But then, without warning, life hit me with a series of events that I could never have predicted. Everything changed so fast. It became hard to emotionally grapple with myself, to reconcile my convictions with what was happening around me. I’m a person with strong beliefs, and if things don’t align with my values, my conscience tells me I must make a decision on how to move forward—often after intense self-reflection. So I made the difficult choice to leave my job. Not just for myself, but for my clients, because I couldn’t give my all. (but my job wouldn’t let m go, so I stayed until recently).
I’m grateful to have people who believe in me, who see my skills even when I can’t. They remind me that it’s okay to feel this way, that even a part of me is better than what most people get. I’m hard on myself, and sometimes I think it’s a good thing because it drives me. I’m ambitious. I hold strong convictions but am open to difference and dissent. I respect people, and I am kind. But there’s always this voice in the back of my mind—negative self-talk that can sabotage even the best moments. And strangely enough, the thing I hold most dear—my ability to feel deeply—is also my kryptonite.
I’m intensely aware of others, a sponge soaking up every emotion around me. It leads to a kind of hyper-awareness, a meta-metacognition where I’m aware of being aware. And it’s exhausting. It leads me into this negative, almost nihilistic mindset that kicks my ass sometimes. I wish I could turn it off. But at the same time, this sensitivity fuels my creativity and passion. I know it sounds like a cliché of the tortured artist, but there’s truth in it. Feeling too much hurts, but it’s also what keeps me alive.
Talking to my friend recently, we both agreed—I feel too deeply. I carry the weight of others’ pain and can’t seem to let it go. I feel like I’m meant for a different era. I think I would have loved to be in Sarah Bakewell’s “The Existentialist Café,” sitting with philosophers in smoky Parisian cafes/bars, talking about life and meaning. For those who don’t know, the book is about the philosophers of the existentialist movement—Heidegger, Sartre, de Beauvoir (among others)—and the cafés where they debated life’s big questions. I think I’d thrive there, drinking coffee, smoking, discussing Husserl’s phenomenology and Aron’s statement, “You can make a philosophy out of this cocktail.” That’s my kind of vibe.
I miss Europe. There’s a social awareness there that I don’t find in the U.S. Everyone reads in Europe, while Americans are glued to their phones. I know nostalgia can be problematic; it glosses over the dark parts of history and often excludes the experiences of marginalized people. But I can’t help it—I’m nostalgic. I’m weary of what I’m seeing now, with this societal obsession over the exterior, surface level, as if what you see on the outside says anything about you on the inside. I miss being on the grassy Oxford campus, laying on the ground, reading books, and talking with friends about things that matter or talking about nothing at all while reading together.
Writing is my way of processing my thoughts and feelings. It’s cathartic in a way, a release. Today, I’m writing because I got a job offer yesterday that I didn’t even try to get. This happens to me often. I do well, I’m smart—sometimes too smart for my own good. I usually get what I want. I’m hard on myself, but I know my worth. It’s taken years of life experience to feel that. So when they made an offer, I asked for more money, just to see what would happen. And they said yes, immediately. It was a weird mix of self-sabotage and self-worth. I still haven’t decided if I’ll take it; I need to mull it over. There are other things I want to work on. (god, I hope they don’t find my blog lol) They said they’d even wait as long as I need.
Whenever something good or bad happens, I miss someone. Sometimes, when you miss someone you’ve lost, you go to places that remind you of them. You listen to songs that take you back. Yesterday, driving home late at night, I turned on a song that reminds me of someone I lost. I wish I could hold her again, sit in silence, watch the stars. I miss you.
Maybe there’s no point to all of this. Maybe I’m just rambling because it’s early and I haven’t slept in weeks. I feel too much, and that’s both my greatest strength and my biggest weakness. But I keep going because, deep down, I know that this unpredictable, messy, beautiful life is all we have.
August 31, 2024