Like A Ship (Without A Sail)

“So, what’s next?” is a question I find myself being asked a lot these days. It usually comes from well-meaning people who genuinely want the best for me—which, unfortunately, doesn’t take the sting out of the unsatisfactory answer I know I’m about to give: “I don’t know.”

I’m a forty-something-year-old woman, and despite not having children or a spouse, people still expect me to navigate life with the same sensible decision-making as all the other adults. That expectation exists largely because, up to this point, I’ve done just that—what was expected. Last August, I decided to test this assumption by moving across the country for what was supposed to be a temporary change, leaving behind a great job, a city I loved, and a comfort that had started feeling too tight to be good for me.

As I sit in the final two months of this temporary move, I find myself falling in love with the possibility of a future that offers what I’ve coined “survivable discomfort” alongside more life questions than answers. This is unfamiliar territory for me.

Thanks to a summer youth program, I got my first job at fifteen, spending my days on the office floor of a civil courthouse filing paperwork for adults being garnished by every manner of finance company—from department stores to car dealerships. If you didn’t pay your bills, there’s a chance a brace-faced teenager named Candice processed your garnishment in the summer of ‘96. That job gave me an early look at how terrifying adulthood could be (admittedly, it didn’t keep me from finding myself on the other side of that paperwork as an adult—but that’s a story for another day).

This was a “special” assignment from the youth program, meant to give the "brightest and best" a taste of what we could expect if we achieved our educational goals. The answer, it turned out, was papercuts and a grocery store sheet cake on my last day. Even then, I could see that this job—this path—was designed to get me on the track, with no expectation that I’d ever step off.

Even as a teenager, I treated life like one long test, constantly trying to prove I was worthy of existing by consuming a steady (and sometimes unhealthy) diet of achievement. The problem with living like this is that you never actually pass the test—because it’s a trap. You think you’ll stop after the next milestone, but the truth is, you’ve likely never even paused long enough to enjoy the things you’ve accomplished. Instead, you’re too busy worrying that if you don’t hit the next big target, people will sit around their dinner tables whispering about what a flop you turned out to be. They’ll know—declare, even—that you never made it to worthiness.

Oh, the horror.

The brain can be scary when it’s running on the anxiety of achievements not yet achieved. So, you keep running.

For the last seven months, thanks to an incredible opportunity (Ok, fine achievement), I've stopped running sprints just long enough to realize I wasn't even sure which direction I was running in and to what end. Where have I been going for the last two decades?

As I pull out the map—literally and figuratively—I’m attempting to make joy-led choices as my life’s pace begins to pick back up. The battle between the logical path and the uncharted one is in full swing, complicated further by the wishes, dreams, and demands of others who have visions for my time, talents, and energy.

What happens when the runner is tired of the track?

Right now, I can’t clearly paint a picture of what my life will look like in the coming months or years. Just last week, my landlord texted me to ask if I was planning to extend my lease. I ignored the message for a full day before replying, “Can I answer you at the end of this week?” Because, honestly? I don’t yet know where I want to be living in sixty days.

I'm not chasing the next achievement for the first time in a long while. Instead, I’m grounding myself in what I can expand while being expanded—including how my geographical location impacts my options.

Like you, I have big-girl bills that I like to pay on time (lesson learned). But if the purpose of all this running was to end up feeling stuck, then maybe it’s time to rewrite the rules. These last few months have shown me that it’s not that I dislike running—I just needed new paths. New ways to experience the endurance-building sport that is adulthood.

Now that I know the test is rigged and my worthiness was never up for debate, my options for designing the next chapter of my life are wider and murkier. And thankfully, I’m no longer afraid to run a little in the fog.

That ambitious fifteen-year-old is still inside me, holding onto dreams my middle-aged self has yet to bring into the world. As I work to unlearn and relearn the rules of this game called life, she reaches forward, offering me her optimism for the road ahead—and, thankfully, a good dose of her energy. I go back to remind her of her innate worthiness.

A tag team.