no excuses

“We are alone, with no excuses. That is the idea I shall try to convey when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet, in other respects is free; because, once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.” -Jean-Paul Sartre*

Almost exactly four years ago, I flew halfway around the world to spend 10 months abroad in Barcelona, Spain. At 20 years of age, I had never lived outside of California, my Spanish was approaching – but still lacking – fluency, and I was still emotionally, financially, and physically quite rooted in my youth. Like many who studied abroad, my transition from native to foreign soil was a clusterfuck of logistical bewilderment, cultural embarrassment, total lack of relevant common knowledge, and staggering immaturity. Suffice it to say that when the shit hit the fan – and it did often – it splattered terrifically and in all directions. However, it was precisely my multidimensional naivety which succeeded in vindicating me when disaster struck. “He was young! Ignorant! Confused! Drunk!”, declares my shoulder angel in my defense, when I relive my fondest and most cacophonous memories. Yes, my excuses were manifold and undeniable. In nine days, however, I will be unable to make such claims. On August 11, I will be soaring across the country in seat 28A of Delta Airlines flight 32, destination: New York City.

In all honesty, I’m nervous. I’m anxious. I yearn to begin the adventure like a gourmand about to try a new recipe, and yet I have no clue what to expect on the other side. Also paradoxical is that my apprehension is at once dense and layered, and yet unsurprising, even to myself. I realize that my preoccupation is a healthy excitement, and that I’ve been here before. Indeed, it might actually be beneficial. Cognitive and evolutionary psychologists have long recognized that humans developed a sense of anxiety in order to prepare ourselves for the task at hand, whether it’s killing a mammoth or studying for an exam. What makes this instance unique is that things are different. I’m different. This time around, I’m far less emotional, far more sure in my abilities. I have an additional four years of experience behind me, plus the common sense one supposedly garners from those years. And the scenario is different. My destination is closer to home, geographically and psychologically, and the language spoken there is my own. I’m an adult, financially independent and stable. And my purpose is my passion.

It is precisely these generally positive elements, however, which leave me no excuses for failure. This is the root of my anxiety. Not the fact that I’ll be several time zones removed from my family, or that I will be arriving homeless, or that I can count my NYC connections on just one hand, or my first, rapidly-approaching winter. It’s my knowledge that I possess the skills to prevent calamity, and that nonetheless calamity will befall me. It’s the fact that I can no longer blame my blunders on my youth or regional language barriers (unless I’m in Queens). It’s because I am throwing myself into the world, and I am solely responsible for everything I do.

Is there a cure for uncertainty?