Many of us are familiar with the Latin expression carpe diem, which translates to “seize the day.” Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve spent my entire life chasing the future, forgetting to live in the present and seize the day.
The aphorism conveys the idea that we should stop worrying about the future and enjoy life as it is right now, with all it has to offer. Instead, for as long as I can , I’ve had an overwhelming sense I’m failing to do what it asks. Often, I’m left to crumble under the weight of the future, gasping for air.
Before setting foot on Canadian lands, I’d been drilled with the idea of achieving a “bright future,” waiting for me in the haven I was seeking when I was 16. I made it my mission from then on to not screw up the only chance I get in building my life.
Somewhere in between trying to make my parents proud and assuring them they made the right decision by immigrating from Aleppo, Syria, I lost myself between the dreams and the anxiety of the future.
Aleppo has been at war since 2012, and growing up with the fear of not knowing whether we would be alive the next day has been a source of anxiety for me since I was nine. During the war, I travelled more than 10 times between the ages of nine and 15, seeking refuge from one place to another, wondering where my next home would be.
After losing our home in the same year, my family decided it was time to find a way to leave Aleppo behind. We said goodbye to the life we built along with friends and family we loved. There was no certainty of seeing them again.
The war took away my childhood—changing me from a nine-year-old kid who dreamed of normality and constantly worried about the future into an overly anxious adult who’s unable to live in the present.
While I’ve always appreciated the meaning of the expression, I struggle to see myself in the present. It’s terrifying to contemplate the life I might have missed out on due to a future that may never come.
Coming to high school as a grade 10 student knowing almost no English and having to skip grade nine due to the war meant I had to spend most of my days with my head buried in books trying to catch up to other students. My mission during those years was to get good grades and get into university.
As I started my first year of university, the pressure to succeed and create a legacy that would last beyond my lifetime hung over me. While my parents’ expectations may have had an impact on me, my first year at Queen’s was no longer solely about trying to make them proud. Instead, it became a journey about easing my anxieties about my future and what I would leave behind.
As I head into my third year, my anxieties have hit an all-time high. Family and friends keep asking, “what’s next after undergrad?” and “got any plans?” It’s overwhelming to figure out what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life. I’ve built infinite futures in my head since I was 16 and now it’s time to figure out which one I want and which will allow me to leave a mark on the world.
Luckily, on a random Friday morning, I was on a call with someone who said, “we’re not in a position to know our legacy,” which made me reconsider all the anxieties and worries I’ve carried since high school.
I began to wonder why I should worry excessively about the future when I don’t know how to make the most out of my day now. I’ve realized it doesn’t matter whether our work touches the heart of one person or 100 people—instead, it matters that we’re pursuing our ions.
That saying made me realize even if we did want to create a legacy, we’ll never have the opportunity to know it.
I suppose that’s what makes us human. We want to rush to the next thing, forgetting to exist in the moment. We think graduating high school, then post-secondary, and then getting a job is where it all ends but it doesn’t. Life always finds a way to surprise us and keep us on the edge of our seat, waiting to see what will happen next.
Despite the complexities we often attribute to ourselves, we’re fundamentally simple creatures in the end. Though we try to live in the present, we frequently find ourselves overwhelmed by thoughts of the future. Perhaps that juxtaposition adds to life’s beauty. Maybe there’s a certain beauty in the worry, in the present moment, and even in the anticipation of what lies ahead.
That said, I don’t think finding the juxtaposition beautiful relieves my anxiety for the future.
Overanalyzing what’s to come next and every worry I have can be exhausting, not only for myself but for my partner as well. They often endure my crying over uncertainties about the next day or whether I’ll be on track to achieve the things I’ve planned in 10 years. I’m thankful I have someone who can understand at least one per cent of the struggle.
Changing to be someone who isn’t afraid of the future is hard, but it’s not impossible. If you’re someone struggling with the same worries, know you’re not alone and you’re not a burden. Reach out to people close to you because often, people are happy to listen.
While life’s beauty with all its complexities is undeniable, I don’t believe it has helped alleviate my anxiety about the future or my difficulty in fully embracing the present moment. Even now, I continue to struggle to enjoy each day as it comes. However, I’m trying to change, and I suppose that’s what truly matters in the end.
I see progress at this very moment, as I write this piece and listen to the rhythmic crashing of Lake Ontario’s waves and feel the warmth of the beautiful bright sun on my face. For a fleeting moment amidst the thousands of seconds in a day, I’m not worried about what comes next.
As time es, days turn into nights, and worries gnaw at your stomach, try to seize the day for a single second. If that proves to be difficult, let it be a goal for the next coming second.
Carpe diem.
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