I Knew the Pathway Like the Back of My Hand

About three months into my four-month summer, I became restless. In search of change. I knew it was coming, since for the past four years, I have split my time between San Francisco and Philadelphia. The travel either way always came at the right time. You'd be surprised what a five-hour flight can do to break the monotony. With a flight to Philly off the table, I was forced to be a little more creative, which I took quite literally. On a whim, I decided to remodel my entire room. And it wasn't just a little feng shui moving around of furniture. A wall was extended. Despite the spontaneity of my decision, I had (and still have, the project is yet to be completed) a general idea of where I was going. A "vision" as a real decorator would say.

Things were going well. I had successfully removed the wallpaper and primed the walls. I woke up in high spirits the Friday morning I had designated to ceiling-painting. Before I could even complete the first paint streak, paint was dripping onto my face. By the second streak, I had a kink in my neck. And by the third, my ceiling looked bigger than ever. I felt sucked in by the white space. Like I was drowning in an ocean but upside down. I can't do this. I seriously can't do this. My memory is a little hazy, but I wouldn't put it past myself to have screamed out loud in frustration. It was at this point that I kicked myself (figuratively). The room wasn't that bad to begin with. Was this revamp at all necessary?

By streak thirteen, I was completely covered in paint. An additional drop would not phase me. Would not intensify my emotion. Kind of like the all-or-none principle for action potentials. Or like diminishing marginal utility in economics. In fact, being completely covered in paint was symbolic of the fact that I was so deeply entrenched in the project that the only way out was completion. I pulled myself together. I reminded myself of the big picture, the end goal. I proceeded logistically, approaching one small rectangle at a time.

A couple weeks ago, the Senior Vice President of my division spoke to me and my colleagues about what lies ahead. She is one of the most driven and passionate people I have heard in a while. In explaining how she became a senior executive by the age of 33, she advised, "Have a plan. Verbalize what exactly you want to do. Where you want to be. And if it needs tweaking, someone will help you. But pick something. That's the only way to move up." And then it struck me. For the first time in my life, I don't have a solid plan. I have immediate interests. Ambitions. Idealizations. A maybe-too-vague vision. But no plan. And part of it stems from a fear of pigeon-holing myself. Deciding before having fully explored. Being scared of being "wrong." But she's so right. It's better to have an imperfect plan than no plan at all. With no plan, we lose ourselves in the endless possibilities and risk losing momentum. Sometimes, we just have to pick something and go with it until we prove ourselves wrong. Until we reach that threshold where the only thing left to do is tear the wallpaper off and start all over.

I completed the paint job late last month. I've selected some furniture and am still on the lookout for accent pieces. Not everything is finalized, but I have a plan. And each day, the vision comes closer and closer to fruition.