The culprit was a rogue sidewalk crack.
I didn’t spot it in time while heading to our family car. And suddenly I was off my feet.
The magnetic pull of gravity sent me hurtling to the ground, skinning my knee in the process.
I yelped, and my parents rushed me back into the house.
As they cleaned, treated, and bandaged the gash on my knee, I cursed gravity.
If not for that magnetic force, my knee would still be unblemished. Stinging pain wouldn’t emanate from my leg. All would be fine.
Not long after this, I learned about space travel in school.
As I stared at pictures of astronauts floating around spaceships, I was filled with jealousy.
Why couldn’t we all be free to glide? Wouldn’t it be better this way?
I imagined life without the scab on my knee or its associated itchiness. I daydreamed about soaring near the ceiling without fear.
What I failed to consider was how I’d take a drink of water or use the restroom without causing a mess.
Yes, it seems gravity had its benefits too. Wishing it away might be more than I bargained for.
I couldn’t just throw out the bad and leave the good. I needed to consider the consequences.
My childhood adventures instilled an important lesson.
Some forces are too big to be controlled. They must simply be managed.
Gravity is one of those forces.
Surely, Sir Isaac Newton didn’t desire to get bopped on the head by an apple to experience its pull. But once he did, he understood that gravity needed to be studied further.
This recognition led Newton to derive mathematical theories that solidified the immutability of gravitational pull. And we’ve worked off that premise ever since.
No longer do we attempt to be Icarus, brazenly flying close to the sun with wax wings. We factor gravity into everything we do — whether we’re working with its leverage or counteracting it.
Yes, gravity-induced tragedies do still occur. But we’re better positioned to avoid them than we were in Newton’s day, thanks to increased measures of anticipation and prevention.
I see the value in this now, and I’ve come full circle.
Gravity might prove to be a pain now and then. Still, adapting my life around it is better than trying to navigate its absence.
Gravity might be an immutable anchor in life. But it’s not the only one.
Indeed, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve recognized the importance of three factors – where I live, what I do, and who I spend time with.
None of these are as absolute as gravity. But collectively, they keep me anchored.
Where I am defines what I can do. What I do defines the way I can live. And both help define who I spend my time with.
I’ve tinkered with these factors multiple times over the years. But I’ve rarely done a wholesale rip-and-replace operation.
Only twice, in fact.
My first defiance of gravity came right after my college graduation. I moved halfway across the country for a new job in a town where I didn’t know a soul.
I remember feeling wholly discombobulated.
I liked my new home, but I knew there was nothing tying me to it. Sure, my new furniture was arrayed throughout the place, but my only other connection to the space was a monthly rent check. If I ever couldn’t pay it, I’d be without a home address.
I felt confident with my new job, but I knew I wasn’t on solid ground there either. I was green and prone to making mistakes. And I knew a bad mistake could cost me my livelihood.
And I quickly discovered how challenging it was to meet new people. Unlike college, I wasn’t in an environment full of adolescents seeking to make connections. Many of my neighbors were older or more established. Several had families. And nearly all of them worked a different schedule than I did.
It was clear that I was beyond my depth. I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. But I had no choice but to soldier on.
It was only after I collapsed in the Texas heat — ending up in the Emergency Room in the process — when things started to change. Alarmed by my ordeal, several co-workers urged me to add their phone numbers to my address book. A few of them invited me to socialize with them off the clock as well. I started doing just that, and my social circle started to grow.
Suddenly, my new home and job started feeling a bit less temporary. For the first time in a while, I felt the tug of the anchor beneath me.
But it wouldn’t last.
A few years after my arrival in this once-foreign town, I loaded my belongings into a moving truck.
My contract at work had expired and my lease was up. So, I headed 300 miles east to another city I barely knew. One that offered a bevy of job opportunities and housing options.
For three months, my belongings sat in a storage unit. Meanwhile, I sat in an extended-stay hotel two miles down the highway, trying to earn a job offer in a new field.
Once I signed an acceptance letter, I knew things would fall into place. I’d be able to find a new home, establish myself, and rebuild my social circle.
But in the interim, I was running out of options. There was nothing to anchor me aside from my desire and what was left of my savings. And both were getting critically low.
Ultimately, I did earn that opportunity. And everything did fall into place as anticipated.
I found a place to live. I established myself in my career. I built a larger social circle than I’d ever had before.
I located the anchor, and I set it deep in the soil.
But I never forgot all that proceeded this triumph. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.
And I pledged never to return to those sensations again.
I’m writing this at the tail end of a rocky half-decade.
Our society has been turned upside down by a pandemic, economic turmoil, and partisan vitriol. Much of what was taken for granted has gone up in smoke.
I’m trying my best to stay the course. To keep where I am, what I do, and who I spend time with intact.
But this is proving immensely difficult.
For one thing, the financial system has provided little assistance. The cost of living has skyrocketed in recent years, making it harder to stay where I am. The viability of what I do has been threatened by layoffs, offshoring, and corporate mergers. And these stressors have impacted my ability to maintain social connections.
On top of that, the nature of opportunities has shifted irrevocably. The most lucrative of doors have always opened to substantial risk, but Door #2, and Door #3 seem to open to profound change as well these days. Such is the reality in a world where offices have been replaced by remote work, the stock market has been usurped by cryptocurrency, and human capital has been supplanted by artificial intelligence.
With all this in mind, I might need to raise the anchor to get back to solid ground. Getting ahead might mean taking yet another quantum leap into the unknown.
But this time, I don’t know if I’m willing. It’s too unsettling. And the scars of my past travails run too deep.
And so, I will continue to resist wholesale change. To adapt one thing at a time instead — all while remaining anchored to what I know.
This will be a difficult approach to maintain. And I’m sure to suffer some more setbacks along the way.
But ultimately, I know in my heart that this journey will prove worthwhile.
I understand the cost of giving up the anchor. Of defying the rules of gravity.
And I have no designs on paying that price again.