When I was in school, I used to love the beginning of the year. Fresh, clean, unmarked notebooks were the stuff of optimism. I would wrap myself in the promise of those blank pages—resolve that this was the year they would fill up with flawless notes and on-time assignments. Every September held the potential that I would suddenly become the perfect student, impress the teacher and wow my parents.
By October, I barely touched the annoying notebooks that had given me hope only a month before. Inevitably, procrastination would have led to one or two imperfect or incomplete assignments. And once the lofty ambition for perfection was dashed, I spent more time developing unique excuses for missing homework than I would have spent on the homework itself.
When school ended, I held on to that madness that made me love September and loathe the rest of the year. Every new thing found me setting an impossibly perfect standard. Every small disappointment found me rationalizing my way to giving up entirely.
On the first day of a new job, the empty shelf in my office was surely the future home of countless professional awards.
When I signed up for a painting class, the shrink-wrapped canvas would doubtlessly end up covered with a masterpiece that would take the art world by storm.
When I started a new diet and exercise routine, it was only a matter of time before I could buy a slinky size 4 dress than would make everyone at my 10-year reunion marvel at my flawless figure.
And then there was romance. Like the time my eyes met their match across a crowded room, and I understood human chemistry for the first time. I could have reveled in the novelty of connection. I could have focused on the joy of my skipping heartbeat when the beautiful man smiled like he had been looking for me. I didn’t have to make it my latest everything-new-will—soon-be-perfect thing. But I did.
A glance that held the promise of butterflies and flirtation became an expectation the world’s most memorable love story. It became wedding bells and a squadron of beautiful children and a hand to hold on the last day of a long and happy life. When those things didn’t come (and of course they didn’t), the joy of a frenetic fling was overshadowed by the loss of a million unmade memories.
My expectations continued to lead to disappointment, until I gave up on expectations altogether. Perhaps it was the unpredictable chaos of parenthood that did it. Maybe I was brainwashed by cutesy coffee cups and inspirational posters printed with cursive interpretations of Buddhist philosophy. Or maybe it was the yoga instructor who softly said “there is no destination. There is only the journey,” as she gleefully kept her class in uncomfortable poses until our limbs cried out for mercy.
I am greatly indebted to whatever it was that coaxed me away from futile future gazing. Because once I dropped the quest for perfection, I discovered something priceless. A feeling called contentment.
In practice, the relinquishing of expectations is simple. All you have to do is identify things or moments as they actually are—observable realities as opposed to ethereal opportunities.
A chemistry-laden meeting of the eyes doesn’t have to be a foretelling of wedding bells. It’s enough to revel in the feel of tickly butterfly wings just behind the ribs.
A new diet and workout routine doesn’t have to carry all the responsibility of resculpting a new you. It’s enough to get a sweaty endorphin rush and enjoy the soreness of muscles that you didn’t realize you had.
A fresh canvas doesn’t have to be filled with a masterpiece. It’s enough to enjoy the peaceful meditation of gliding a brush along to create something that wasn’t there before.
On the day I was born, my life story was that clean September notebook—empty pages waiting for prose. By setting lofty expectations, it was as if I was trying to make everything fit some perfect ending that would justify my story’s very existence.
Oh, the panic when something didn’t fit! And oh, the joy in knowing now that it doesn’t really matter how the story ends if you give yourself permission to just enjoy the writing of it.
