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I remember being an 18 year-old. I remember it really clearly.
I remember floating through the summer after high school graduation. I remember dragging my six-foot, hundred-and-fifty pound frame out of bed to open the pool at the local YMCA. I remember drinking stale beer with friends around bonfires late at night, long after the pool had closed, hearing their stories about the faraway Universities theyād be attending that fall.
I remember each of these things. What I remember most clearly, though, is the way I glided through the summer without a plan of my own. My grades were fine, my ACT scores were decent, but I hadnāt applied to many Universities and hadnāt thought much about the type of work Iād like to do. I acted with a sort of passive indifference a 17 year-old might have if theyāve never needed to survive on their own. It was the passive indifference of a kid whoād never really needed to do his own laundry or his own dishes - those responsibilities had a way of resolving themselves if I just let them be. And if responsibilities just handled themselves, why should college and a career be any different?
I write about this, because I remember those actions (well, inactions). But I also remember my attitude toward the world. And for some reason, that attitude was seismically different.
I remember feeling that life was an adventure. That it was an extraordinary journey that Iād be undertaking soon. I remember feeling that Iād leave my Northeast Cleveland terrarium and the place Iād leave it for would be big, fun, and teeming with opportunity. Iād do big things, I thought. Meaningful things. My career and my life would matter - others would feel it. People would remember my name.
I write this story because itās a battle thatās followed me for the past eleven years.
Several years ago, I started regularly completing Life Audits. Life Audits are a pretty simple exercise: the participant sets a timer for 20 minutes, grabs a pad of sticky notes, and then proceeds to write every possible thing they could ever want out of life.
Every time I do a Life Audit, I think audaciously big. I write things like āgo to outer spaceā and āhave pieces of writing featured in the New Yorkerā. I write about mountains Iāll climb and foreign countries Iāll visit. Every time I do this exercise, I remind myself of the adventure life can be. I remind myself of the magic we can experience if we just reach a little higher for something wild and substantive.
Every time I do a Life Audit, I also audit my actual life and wonder how closely Iāve been living to my piled-high sticky notes of lifetime ideals.
Passive indifference isnāt always the right phrase, but oftentimes it is.
Every time I do a Life Audit, Iām reminded about the different dimensions a well-lived life carries. A well-lived life collects magical experiences, it produces mastery of certain crafts, and it features the deepest depths of human relationships. My mountain of sticky notes includes things like āearn a Jiu-Jitsu black beltā and ārun the Boston Marathonā. It includes things like ābackpack through Asiaā and āstart a personal investment firmā.
Every time I do a Life Audit, Iām also reminded about how easily we slip into bad habits. Compromising on workouts, working my job with a bit less intensity, eating soft-serve one too many times throughout the week. Itās hard to be everything you could ever want to become. Itās exhausting. Time and energy are finite resources. But thereās also a certain passive indifference that seeps into your everyday life when youāre not careful.
I write that I want to earn my Jiu-Jitsu black belt, but I also havenāt found a permanent home gym after two months in San Francisco.
I write that I want to eventually write a novel, but I find myself publishing on Substack less and less often.
I carry big dreams and big ideas, but my lifestyle often lacks the action required to back it up.
For whoever needs to hear it, whether youāre 18 or 58: the clock is ticking. Use that time intentionally.
Great summary of lifeās challenges.