“Whatever you’re doing with your life, I hope it’s not boring.”
Those were the words I wrote in a letter to my future self when I was a sophomore in high school. I was writing to an adult version of me that I imagined would be living an enchanting life filled with mountaineering expeditions to Kilimanjaro and cocktail parties in Paris—Oceans away from the study halls and clarinet lessons that colored what I thought was a drab adolescence. 15-year-old me had big plans for her life, and they didn’t include an office cubicle and a white picket fence. I would grow up to join the circus, live in France and sail around the world. I would lead an extraordinary life.
20 years has passed since I wrote that letter and during that time I’ve accomplished many of the items on that 15-year-old’s bucket list. I’ve lived abroad and have studied three languages. I’ve backpacked solo through India and watched the sun rise from atop Mt Fuji. And though I never joined the circus, I did sail around the world while working on a cruise ship. In many respects, my life has not been boring. 15-year-old me would be proud.
And yet, something has felt off.
A couple of summers ago, I hiked to the top of Mt. Whitney, the largest mountain in the continental US. Ordinarily, that fact alone would have made me feel elated—another adventure badge earned—but this time I felt only a listless grief. While the other hikers celebrated around the camp fire, I retreated to my tent—cold, blistered and exhausted from 12 hours of hiking in the high altitude and unable to shake the feeling that maybe this endless adventure-seeking loop I’d been on wasn’t what life was supposed to be about. Something was amiss.
In the film Passengers, Jennifer Lawrence’s character, Aurora, decides to leave her friends and family behind on Earth to travel to a planet light years away. By the time she completes the journey, 150 years will have passed (the passengers are all placed in a cryogenic sleep that stalls the aging process) and everyone she has ever known or cared about will be long dead. “If you live an ordinary life, all you’ll have are ordinary stories. You have to live a life of adventure,” Aurora’s father tells her. About mid-way through the film, Aurora watches a recorded video message from the best friend she left on Earth. Her friend wishes her luck but cautions her against sacrificing all chances of happiness in the present by striving to achieve greatness in the future.
“I wish you an ordinary life,” she says.
That line resonated with me.
What I’ve slowly come to realize over the last couple of years is this: For those of us obsessed with achievement, living an extraordinary life is easy. What is far more challenging is learning to find the extraordinary in the ordinary; in the mundane. Like lavender-scented bubble baths. Or dog walks in peachy sunsets. That first morning cup of coffee. Long naps in comfy beds. Learning to appreciate the ho-hum of day-to-day existence is a far greater challenge—and a far worthier goal—than collecting stamps in a passport or crossing off mountains in a guide book must-see list.
Of course, this advice won’t apply to everyone. If you’re reading this from a soul-smothering job and sheltering a secret desire to climb Mt. McKinley or kayak the Amazon, then by all means, buy that plane ticket and go. But if you’re one of those people who feels trapped underneath the weight of an Instagram-travel feed of #bucketlist expectations, if you’re someone who is struggling to rise to society’s challenge to be different, to be somebody, I challenge you to do the opposite. Instead of striving for happiness, aim for content. Instead of pushing toward greatness, be satisfied with goodness.
I spent the better part of my 20’s aiming to live a life that other people wrote novels about. The Helen Keller quote “Life is a daring adventure or nothing at all,” wasn’t just a quote on my Facebook profile page, it was my life motto; a mantra. And it was exhausting.
Today, my life is a lot quieter. I still enjoy hiking. I still travel when I can. But mixed in between are long stretches of days days filled with Netflix binges, trips to the mall and frozen pizzas. I’m committed to letting go of the endless striving, the list writing and the goal setting.
If I could somehow reach back through time and re-write that letter, I would tell both my past and future selves: “Great or boring, extraordinary or average, whatever you’re doing with your life, I hope your life is yours.”
