The Illusion of Everything

In our formative years, parents and teachers motivate us by driving a powerful message into the fontanel of our self-perception: “You can be anything you want to be.” With good intention, they weave a vivid tapestry of possibility, inculcating us with a growth mindset. We are taught that with the right admixture of hard work, focus, and luck, we can achieve anything.

Amidst the chorus of encouragement, subconsciously we blunder, confounding anything with everything. “If I can be anything I want,” we whisper to ourselves, “then I will be everything.” An astronaut, a poet, a polar explorer, a ballerina. We stand mesmerized by the many possible lives before us, like a child, their first time at an aquarium, in awe of the cloudlike waltz of fish. 

Our caretakers leave out the fine print. You can be anything you want… but you can only be that thing. And there’s the rub.

Fig Trees and Options Paralysis

Why do we find ourselves so debilitated by options paralysis?  Is it a quest for the elusive “right choice”? I think not. Human nature has a documented preference for avoiding losses rather than acquiring equivalent gains (aka loss aversion). In other words, it’s not about the desire to choose the best option but about the gnawing fear of losing out on all the others. All the figs look so juicy and none look yummier than the sum total of all the rest.

Choice is a subtractive process which requires us to sacrifice infinite options for one (in the here and now). When we say yes to one path, we simultaneously bid adieu to all the others. And as the weight of our finite knowledge collides with the dizzying array of permutations before us, we are left grappling with the probabilistic near certainty that whatever choice we make will not be the one we would have chosen with complete knowledge (i.e. we make the “wrong” (not the absolute best) decision).  The paralysis of choice, a consequence of the immense opportunity cost, is therefore understandable.

Thus, we cling to the illusion of “right” choice, biding our time in the hope that the perfect opportunity will reveal itself, the one worth losing all others for (as if we’d even know it if we saw it). We keep our options open and label this state “freedom”. If we miss out on something good along the way, BFD, we have infinity to choose from and surely something better will come around the corner any minute now.

Like hunters with a single bullet in the rifle, we’re reluctant to shoot whatever crosses our path, hoping for bigger game, we await the unicorn of perfection that we will supposedly know by its porcelain white horn and rainbow mane. Why settle for a deer when you can wait for unicorn meat that tastes like truffles and marshmallows and keeps you sated for eternity? And so, unlike Chekov’s gun, ours run the risk of never being fired.

The Problem with Infinity

As we sit in our perch, waiting for this the elusive unicorn to enter our crosshairs, we start to get hungry. Facing us is the truth which we dare not acknowledge: that we are creatures of time. And as our time slips away, so too do our options. The hunter becomes more desperate. The forest seems less full of life (even measly deer). We begin to question if a unicorn even dwells in these woods.

The problem with infinity is, well, that it is infinite. It never ends. You can’t count to infinity – not in this life, not in the entire life of the universe, not even in the lives of infinite universes. It’s a blurry wave of possibility that appears solid but resists capture. You will never reach the asymptote of perfection as you will never kill a unicorn because… a unicorn doesn’t exist. As the saying goes, “perfect is the enemy of good” and a lot of people are living lives they would classify as “not good” while on the hunt for their unicorn.

But perfection after all is the promise of the system. Our egos will soon be whole and gratified, with one more purchase, one more swipe. The whole hustle and bustle of the world runs on an unquenchable desire, perpetually triggered by clever ad campaigns that bypass our conscious minds and lure us in on a subconscious level. In a world with infinite things demanding our attention, focus and commitment become increasingly rare. How can we commit when one thing when everything looks so damn appetizing, if not necessary?

And so we march through the desert of possibility, our thirst for perfection driving us ever onward in a relentless pursuit of the unattainable. We pass one mirage after another, each promising fulfillment yet ultimately proving as barren as the last. The caravan continues as we always see another oasis not far off. The quest for perfection leaves us parched and weary yet oddly reluctant to stop.

If we only did and started digging, water would spring from below the very sands we so mindlessly trample.

The Power of Commitment and Leo’s Law

In the face of such existential uncertainty, a friend of mine once remarked, “If you commit to something, you might lose. But if you don’t commit, you’ll definitely lose.” Those words, spoken with the gravity of hard-won wisdom, cut to the heart of the matter. In the crucible of choice, indecision is the ultimate betrayal – a refusal to stake our claim in the desert of life. 

Yet, let’s not mistake commitment for conformity. This isn’t a traditional call to work a 9 to 5, get married, have a house with a white picket fence, and 2.5 children. If that is your thing, more power to you. But I don’t want this to be read with a “selecting a life partner” filter. Commitment is much more expansive than that. (For those past the age of 30, you know scrolling on Zillow for the perfect home is as addictive as swiping on dating apps once was - the search takes many forms).

We commit to a city - if I live in the Lower East Side of NY, I am not living in Paris’s 18^th arrondissment, nor an Ecuadorian llama ranch at the foot of Chimborazo. We commit to a craft – if I am (say) writing a philosophy newsletter, I am not playing the piano, mastering sushi knife skills, or brushing up on my Swahili. Similarly, we sacrificially commit to a career, a community, a value system, and yes, people.

In this commitment, we trade in the illusion of freedom for actual freedom. What is freedom anyways? Most of us have a misguided concept of it. We think it means to do whatever we want, whenever we want, like some unhinged Roman emperor. In fact, in excess this leads to the paralyzing indecision discussed earlier. But with commitment, what seems to be a constriction is in fact a sandbox in which we can gleefully express our authenticity and fully live our human experience. Commitments provide us with identity, meaning, purpose.

There is an asterisk here. You can commit to the choice to not commit. Let’s call this Leo’s Law (I’ll let you guess the namesake). Many people purposely forgo a particular branch of commitment. Lifelong bachelordom still comes with sacrifices (e.g. having or at least getting to meaningfully know one’s grandchildren). Perhaps spending your life on yachts with centerfolds is your calling. Bravo! May you do what is right for you. Whether you choose a traditional or an unconventional path is not the point. The important thing is choice - that you are actually making one and not floundering about in an unhappy life, waiting for perfection while life happens.

Regret and the Myth of Right and Wrong

Life is complex. There are no clear-cut solutions. You don’t get to check your work when it’s all over and see what you got right. When we make decisions, will they always be the “right” ones? What does that even mean? Right and wrong, perfect and disastrous – when it comes to choice, these are as illusory as the hunter’s unicorn.

When we live with Manichean judgment, we walk right into a trap of our own making. If we can’t reconcile our decisions or the options paralysis lingers after the choice is made, we call that regret. We find ourselves mired in the quagmire of indecision, forever trapped in the heavy tar of “what ifs” and “might have beens”. This is the natural byproduct of sacrifice if we don’t fortify our minds with acceptance, if we don’t surrender to the past but futilely try to alter it, and in turn drive ourselves mad. Losing ourselves to regret is like yelling at a loaf of bread and hoping it reverts back to flour and yeast. Just eat. Eat and be happy.

Instead of lamenting the roads not taken, let us celebrate and embrace choice. Let us accept that sacrifice is an inevitable part of living, and that the freedom to make suboptimal choices (which we will exercise frequently) is the price we pay for the privilege of free will. Smile at regret when it pops up. Don’t be dragged by fate, kicking and screaming like it’s bath time. Instead, take it by the hand and lead it confidently into the unknown. We have the power to deduct one from infinity and call it life - our single, beautiful, terrifying, highly improbable, individual journey. Honor it with commitment. Pick your chains and be truly free.