Tag: potential

If You Could See Me Now

The assignment was simple. Write a letter to your future self.

I took the instructions seriously. For I received them during a summer internship in college — when I was inclined to do anything and everything asked of me.

So, I put pen to paper. I turned that piece of paper in. And some years later, I received it back in the mail.

But instead of opening the letter and regaling in my advice from the past, I filed that envelope away.

My words of that bygone summer couldn’t possibly meet the moment of where I was now.

Through lines.

They’re a critical element in almost any plot. For they serve as the connective tissue for the story arc.

When we look at our own narrative, it’s tempting to search for these through lines. It’s commonplace to expect our past to serve as prologue. It’s tantalizing to imagine connecting the dots with Hollywood flair.

Such scenarios might seem aesthetically pleasing. But they’re out of touch with reality.

The cold, hard truth about our narrative is best summed up by a scene in The Shawshank Redemption.

In this scene, longtime prisoner Red Redding is being interviewed by a parole board. When the interviewer asks Redding if he’s sorry for the crime that landed him behind bars, he offers up the following response.

There’s not a day goes by I don’t feel regret. Not because I’m in here, or because you think I should. I look back on the way I was then, a young, stupid kid who committed that terrible crime.

I wanna talk to him. I wanna try to talk some sense to him — tell him the way things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone and this old man is all that’s left. I gotta live with that.

Even while locked away from the world for decades, Redding has grown. And he’s gained enough perspective to realize that this growth happened while behind bars, not before it. As much as he might want to draw a through-line, he simply cannot.

I’m not a hardened criminal who’s spent decades behind foreboding prison walls. But I understand where Redding is coming from. And as such, I’ve stopped trying to connect the dots.

The person I was when I wrote that letter to myself, that was a different person than the one I am now. Yes, my body and mind have remained intact throughout that time, but both have transformed. Any quest for through lines is an exercise in futility.

Still, it’s fun to imagine. So, I’m allowing myself that liberty here — and inviting you along for the ride.

If you could see me now.

That’s how I’d start an address to my former self. The self-assured young adult, freshly immersed into the real world. Or the bratty teenager that preceded him.

The address would read like this:

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

I’ve reached the upper limits of what you think is possible, and then ascended even higher. It might not be the way you drew it up, but the result still tastes oh so sweet.

I’ve faced the struggles you might have assumed I’d confront, as well as some challenges that no one would ever see coming. The process has been painful at times, leading me to wonder if hope was beyond reach. And even now, the scars from those experiences fester. But I’ve made it to the other side.

I’ve tried new things at every turn. Novelties you might scoff at or write off, they’ve become the fabric of my life. The change I’ve encountered hasn’t always been comfortable, and it hasn’t always worked out. But branching out beyond the familiar has opened doors and unlocked so many opportunities I would have once considered unattainable.

I’ve become a TV news producer, then a marketer. I’ve gone back to school, while working full-time, to get a business degree. I’ve parlayed that into a job that I love at a company where I’m valued.

I’ve moved cities twice and forged lifelong connections along the way. I’ve launched a weekly publication, headed up an alumni association chapter, and built myself into a competitive distance runner.

Through all these experiences, I’ve grown into the man I am today. I still have that chip on my shoulder, that drive for continued excellence. But I also have a sense of balance and fulfillment in my life, along with a quiet confidence. I’m grateful for all of it.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes. But in time, you’ll find out firsthand what you are truly capable of. Think bigger.

I know every inch of these words. I wrote them, and I lived them. And yet, they still give me chills.

For the younger version of me would not have been ready for any of this.

The younger me had a fixed mindset. The younger me believed in stability. The younger me took the world at face value, rather than challenging assumptions.

I’ve proven the younger me wrong at every turn. And for many years, I’ve done this without even noticing. It’s only recently that things have changed in that regard.

Perhaps this is the hallmark of growth. A steady transformation in the shadows that unlocks our potential and expands our horizons.

I don’t know for sure. But I do know that I’m in a far different place today than I was back then.

Where will I be a decade from now?

This question is a trap door. And I refuse to fall through the bottom.

You see, I might be more self-assured these days than ever before. I may have a better sense of what I’m capable of.

But the whole picture hasn’t come into focus yet. There’s still plenty of room to grow, to evolve, and to unlock even more of my potential.

Make no mistake, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved so far. But I still believe that the best is yet to come. And that a familiar refrain will still ring true.

If you could see me now, you wouldn’t believe your eyes.

Blank Slate

Every day is a new chance to start fresh.

That is what we’re told, from Day One. It’s what we believe.

After all, we live in a land built on liberty and opportunity. In a culture where we root for the underdog. In a society where we’re motivated by tales of redemption.

It’s invigorating knowing that we can write our own story. It’s revitalizing knowing that no matter how rough things might be today, there’s always the chance to start anew tomorrow.

Yes, the blank slate is central to our being. It’s how we define ourselves.

Yet, that very definition iss a myth.

 

We see it on the news all the time. Celebrities having a meltdown.

There’s that infamous clip of Tom Cruise jumping up and down on a couch during a taping of the Oprah Winfrey Show. There’s that avalanche of embarrassing Britney Spears headlines from 2007. There’s Antonio Brown — perhaps the most talented wide receiver in football — burning bridges with three National Football League teams in one year due to a series of off-field antics.

It’s a sad sight. People we recognize — people we think we know — hitting rock bottom.

Tom Cruise and Britney Spears have managed to revitalize their careers, and their images. The jury’s still out on Antonio Brown.

But in all cases, the slate isn’t exactly blank.

In the world of the 24/7 news cycle, of YouTube and of social media spotlights, those moments of infamy live on. Even if those involved have since moved beyond their lowest moments.

And this phenomenon isn’t restricted to this digitally-enabled millennium either. Politicians in the United States and Canada have recently been accused of wearing blackface in their younger years. While the evidence of these transgressions often comes in the form of grainy yearbook photos, the backlash remains fresh as the morning dew.

We can’t just wipe the slate clean. We can’t treat the past as it if didn’t happen. We can’t just start over.

For even if we don’t have paparazzi following our every move or a criminal record sullying our name, we have baggage.

The choices we’ve made have left a mark. Whether officially — such as on a credit report or resume — or unofficially.

No matter what we do to reboot, we have a history.

Time accumulates experiences. Those experiences become lodged in our memory banks, stimulating our senses and forever altering our perspective.

So long as our mind remains intact — that is, so long as we remain free of a traumatic brain injury — our judgment will be biased by what we have seen, felt and learned. Our past experiences — good and bad — will inform our future decisions, regardless of whether we’re sticking with old routines or looking to start new ones.

No matter how hard we try, the slate will never be clean.

I find the blank slate conundrum deeply personal. For I have encountered it, time and again.

I’ve moved to three new cities in my adult life. And I’ve cut my teeth in two different careers.

That’s a lot of change for anyone. But it’s particularly grueling for an introverted control enthusiast.

Why would I take myself so far out of my comfort zone? Why would I break with the routine I rely on, over and over?

Money and ambition are two reasons. I aspire for a brighter future, just as many do. And the bills don’t pay themselves.

But that’s only part of the story.

The true catalyst for the changes I’ve made has been the illusion of the blank slate. The myth of the fresh start.

At each turn, I’ve relished the chance to unleash my untapped potential. To explore new possibilities. To become a new man.

That often meant downplaying my prior history. It meant shunning my origin story. And it meant forgetting about all the left turns I took along the way.

After all, I didn’t want my past to define me. I was all about my present and my future.

It was only after years of adulthood that I realized how ridiculous this notion was.

I now recognize that the past is an indelible part of me. It’s allowed me to gain new friends, unforgettable moments and invaluable lessons at every turn. It’s what made me who I am.

These days, I can finally embrace that fact. A fact I should have understood a long time ago.

So now, as I reach an age where many second-guess the decisions of their youth, I refuse to do just that. For I can see that those decisions — and all that they unlocked — made me precisely who I am.

And I wouldn’t trade a thousand blank slates for that.

There is no moving on. There’s only moving forward.

This is the gist of Nora McInerny’s brilliant TED Talk about grief.

McInerny proves a powerful point.

After we lose someone we love, we can’t just turn the page. Our bond with that person remains a part of us, through our memories.

So, while we might yearn to start a new chapter, starting over is out of the question.

We move forward. But we don’t move on.

I believe this philosophy applies to life as a whole, as well.

For while our journeys may differ, we are all sure to face tough times now and then. We’re sure to face moments of doubt, of fear, of yearning.

In these moments, we’ll want to step away from the pain of the present. We’ll find ourselves magnetically drawn to the potential of a brighter future, and repulsed by the shackles of circumstance in our past.

We might take this leap. We just might break free from the ordinary and launch ourselves into the unknown.

But this break will not be clean. This will be a new chapter, not a whole new start.

That trusty rearview mirror will still guide us, for better or for worse. The joy, the pain, the gains and the losses will all provide direction for our next escapade — either vividly or subconsciously.

This is a beautiful thing. A powerful thing. A human thing.

So no, the blank slate does not exist. But we should be thankful for that.

For it is only through the its absence that we can truly experience what it means to be alive.