You can’t get somewhere new with an old map. So it’s time to start drawing.
When change is what you want, it’s a direction and a destination. Old maps always become a weathered cartography of the self, bearing the topography of who you believe yourself to be. Contours trace the valleys of repetitive behaviours that make way for your limitations. War-torn pavé portrays the countless marches that always return you to the same vantage points. And these landmarks accumulate over the years, becoming dense with the sediment of past versions of you: the person who couldn’t speak up in meetings, who avoided certain types of intimacy, who believed renowned creativity was for others.
We cling to these with startling tenacity, even as they lead us in circles. Once more, it’s to the comfort of our own constraints, because at least here, we understand the rules of engagement with our own inadequacy. And the longer we are here, the stronger we accept it. As if the aged map whispers to you like it’s enchanted: This is who you are. This is what you’re capable of. Stay within these borders.
But consciousness, in the most generous moments, offers you glimpses of unmarked territory; if you catch yourself acting with unfamiliar courage, or uncovering startling reserves of patience you didn’t know existed, pay attention. You’re not seeing anomalies. Your old map appears to be more extensive than the borders you keep drawing around it.
Somewhere along my way, I began to suspect life contained more excitement than the people in it were making it seem. It sells well to be a curator of complaints and collector of evidence for why things are getting worse. Negativity finds its tribe easier today and misery loves company as it always has, and now there are some nasty people spending billions to amplify it with algorithms that profit off our collective doomscrolling.
The world has lost its way in certain respects—but then again, it always has. Every generation inherits a planet that feels broken in new and urgent ways. The Romans worried about an empire crumbling from worn knees and its own moral decay, while the barbarians pressed on. Medieval Europeans convinced themselves that the end times were upon them as the plague wiped out chunks of the population. Children worked widely in factories. Empires carved up continents. War was aggressively back and forth. The early 1900s brought economic collapse and the rise of fascism. The 1960s had nuclear annihilation hanging over every breakfast table.
Each era carries its own catalogue of legitimate grievances. Yet people kept falling in love, creating art, raising children, and finding ways to laugh over dinner.
All of this is to say, let what excites you start what consistency is willing to finish. I recently found more excitement in socialising, the European way. So I started talking to strangers. Really talking, not just transactional exchanges. Because we share the world with many hearts, and I believe you may never know the effect you leave on someone, to feel more joy and pass it on. Even if it’s a subconscious thing.
It in part comes from my partner’s time working in speciality coffee. You realise the importance of a conversation and a smile as warm as the coffee they hand over. So it’s nice to find out from the elderly lady at the train station that she’s about to share infectious delight with her friend who’s about to be granted citizenship. It’s nice to laugh with the Dutch shop owner who’s helping me with directions and recommendations while I’m on holiday. These small encounters become small rebellions against a narrative that humanity is fundamentally broken, but where all you were going to do originally was contribute to it.
Think about what you chase and attract together at once. There’s a curious alchemy in this simultaneity. When you’re genuinely interested in connecting with people, you behave in ways that make others more likely to want to connect with you. When I chased (not desperately) a natural connection with strangers, even for just thirty seconds before we moved on, I attracted their openness in return. When I pursued my curiosity about their stories, their willingness to share became the unexpected gift. It isn't the law of attraction's hollow promise, but something simpler: what we actively seek often creates the conditions for its own fulfilment.
One final thing. A lady said to me during a recent trip in the netherlands, “Don’t forget to dance”—which reminded me of that old video where the man dancing on his own, slowly, and then exponentially, attracts an entire crowd. I think let’s live a little more like that.