I’ve said that I want to structure my life to maximize meaning. Philosopher-type boys will shove their hands in the air, eager to point out that life is inherently meaningless. Fine. I get it. I know that on a metaphysical level, it’s hard to argue that anything has meaning, much less my blip of a life doing yoga and writing blog posts that hardly anyone reads and trying to strengthen my chest voice.
But whether meaning is real and can be achieved doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve chosen. What matters is that I act as if everything depends on my dedication to my choices.
For me, life begins when commitment begins. Committing to something helps me get to know myself. It helps me see what my limits are and watch what happens when I push them. Commitment snaps me out complacency. It snaps me out of the wispy, untethered feeling I’ve had toward life and grounds me in something “real.” What’s real is not the yoga, singing, and writing—those are just tools. What I’m grounding myself in is myself.
I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to reach this point. But neither can I look back at the past two decades of indecision, of flitting from one thing to the next, and regret it. Somehow, it all led to here. Many times during the past twenty years I’ve wished some God-like being would descend and tell me exactly what I was supposed to be doing with my life. Now, I can be that God-like being; I can travel backward in time to those past selves and say, “I’m proud of you for working so hard to grow. It doesn’t matter right now that you feel unfocused. Keep working, keep experimenting, and trust that you’ll get there. You will figure this out someday, and when you do, you’ll be ready for it.”