From Scarcity to Abundance

"Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.

-Jean-Paul Sartre

Choices are hardest when they’re real—when every option glitters, when pros and cons balance so perfectly that change feels less like escape than risk. To change because of a real choice feels different.

In the past, my choices weren’t really choices at all. Change came from necessity. Life often offered me a choice between more pain or less, and I chose the latter… who wouldn’t? Or at least I tried. Sometimes I got it wrong. Did I say sometimes? I meant most of the time. It was just in hindsight that I realized it.

Now—the luxury of true choice. To wonder whether I’d rather stroll along sun-warmed sand or hike through shaded woods. Both are lovely. But will I regret it? You never regret choosing less pain, but you might regret missing the ocean—the scent of salt on the breeze, the way the light dances across the waves.

Even in a house full of gold chains and wristwatches, I worry there might be no silver lining. Now I worry about making the wrong choice. Me—worried about the wrong choice—when I once swung blindly from one bad decision to the next, George of the Jungle style. (Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds—please laugh with me.)

One afternoon, I spent an hour staring at a dumpster, trying to decide whether the cop car fifty feet away would stop me from grabbing the bread an employee had just thrown out. Now I debate whether I’d rather have fewer vacation days but feel confident in my job, or risk stepping out of my wheelhouse for more money and time off. Ha! See? I have become a girl with two dates to the dance—one the quarterback, the other the class president. Don’t you feel sorry for me now? I’ll be prom queen in no time!

Perhaps it’s just one stubborn neuron, trained by decades of scarcity, that stalls at the edge of freedom, whispering: “Please, universe, make it hard again. Force me to leap.” And so I stand, paralyzed before a buffet of perfect choices, secretly hoping someone will push me off the metaphorical diving board. Instead, I find myself condemned to this freedom, accountable for every choice I make. No one else will make the leap. It has to be me.

So I tell myself there’s a pool down there—not a dumpster. And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to jump in.