We the insatiables

Is there a right way to want?

Ask me on a bad afternoon and I can tell you how dissatisfied I am with my life. How I had fallen so short of my childhood aspirations, how I am squandering whatever talent I may have had, how I could have pursued any one of a dozen career paths, how I should have played sports as a girl, how I should speak a third language or have published a book by now, how I should be out there, making a difference (how ambitious), building a network (ha, sure), or transcending the level of mediocrity I seem to be stuck in (drama queen!) — on and on goes my spiral soliloquy. A regular Sunday for an overthinker, former gifted child, etcetera, etcetera.

If you think about it, Michael began tentatively, I could sense, treading carefully on a subject I can be quite sensitive about, you are literally where you wanted to be five months ago.

Such was his lucid response to my little self-doubt monologue a few days ago. It felt like a mental cold plunge that shook me out of what, ultimately, was a lot of navel-gazing. I am exactly where I told myself I badly wanted to be, and somehow I feel miserable?

Where I am is the beautiful, terrifying land of self-employment where I am having to understand new financial responsibilities, learn how to run a business, create rhythm in my days, and — deep breath — take myself seriously. I wanted this because above all things I want to write. To write I must live, and to live I must make a living. (Why don’t I write for a living, you may ask? I ask myself that often, and every time the answer begins with pragmatism and ends with a kind of unease. Maybe it’s a lack of faith in myself, or maybe I just enjoy other kinds of work, too.) None of these — writing, living, working — make sense without the other two so I chose the path with the most promise. I did exactly that, and somehow I feel miserable, still?

Looking up from my belly to shake off the bout of narcissism, I realize I am living a life I once only dreamed of. Good health, a fulfilling interdependence, space to play and falter, authority over my work, poetry in my everyday life, an abundance of love. In the mornings I brush my waist-length hair under the soft sun as the cats take their daily walk around our home. Most nights I can pull out a bottle of wine from the kitchen cupboard and pour myself a glass. I can learn whatever I want by reading or watching tutorials. With my body I can run, lift more than my bodyweight, sew books, make bread. By all accounts, I have everything to be grateful for.

And yet, I can find myself deeply dissatisfied some days. I can look at my life — this objectively good, lovely life — and see only disappointment. I can receive what I asked for and still turn it over, inside out, wondering why there wasn’t more.

Desire for more and better isn’t necessarily pathological, seeing as this has been the driver of innovation and superhuman feats that have collectively improved much of human civilization, but this kind of wanting seems to be an art. Like most things, something honed and practiced.

Here, I think of my corner of the internet’s current It Girl, Eileen Gu. Decorated Olympian, fashion model, and Stanford student, she seems to know something about how to want well as someone who “has it all”, as the press likes to say. It’s evident in what she does and what she has achieved at just 22, but I found a key in something she said: “I face each contest ahead of me as though it’s a new one. Just because you’ve done well or poorly in the past is no indication for how you’ll perform in the future.”

AP Photo/Abbie Parr

While she doesn’t explicitly mention wanting anything here, competition implies desire to win, and what amazes me is the sheer simplicity that underscores her sentiment. Her desire, unlike the many desires that occasionally drive me mad, is in the present tense. I think it may be that stupidly simple. To achieve X tomorrow, one must do Y today. To have become the skier that she is now, she must have made straightforward (albeit difficult) decisions in countless present moments. Do I show up to training early? Do I sleep early or stay up? Do I ski the best I can today? Present-tense wanting led by a clear why — it’s all she could do; all we could do.

Meanwhile, I often fall prey to the mental time warp of anxiety exacerbated by being chronically online. Within minutes I witness someone’s hard-fought success, an ad for the supposed best language learning app, news about yet another war, a reel of a lifestyle I want but can’t afford, an inspirational (or depressing, depending on my current disposition) post about someone quitting their 9-to-5 thanks to their wildly successful Substack newsletter — on and on it goes, and soon I am drowning in ideas and possibilities stripped of any meaningful context. I just know — am subtly told — I am not enough. I should have had or done that by now. That goal which I never meaningfully moved towards, never worked hard for, never wanted beyond an idea — I should have it!

The kind of wanting that becomes avarice resembles this. I see now that it, too, is hinged on past and future impulses: What if one day I’ll need more? I’ve made it this far, why should I stop now? Remember when I had nothing? In this din it is hard to discern what desires that belong in this moment are really mine, and I can see how easy it is to get lost. How my desire can be easily co-opted by external forces stronger than my conviction. Taken out of time and context, this kind of wanting lacks direction; purpose.

This isn’t to say that one’s purpose must be clear at the moment of wanting. For most, myself included, I think desires lead to the discovery of one’s purpose. With every desire I meet I know myself better, and in the process catch glimpses of the shimmer of my north star. Just there, behind the moving cloud cover.

Though the flaw in my thinking has been exposed, the process isn’t any easier. There is so much that I want for myself, and it is difficult not to feel small when facing the mountain of work and responsibility ahead, all subject to climate I can do nothing about. This revelation only makes me better equipped to hold my desires without them festering into greed or self-loathing. To want, I must at the same moment be able to answer why. This pause alone will, I hope, curb my appetite.