Living the Dream Life
Lately I have been dwelling in the recognition of my own fortune. My therapist resists the word 'luck,' sensing how it diminishes the choices that brought me here. Perhaps she fears that crediting chance erases the thousand small decisions that built this life. Rationally, I understand her point, yet something in me dissents. Fortune feels like the only word vast enough for this feeling. I am grateful for this precise coordinates of my existence, even as my life remains as unmoulded clay. The questions multiply faster than answers arrive: where to plant myself, how to spend these irreplaceable hours, which version of myself to become. Like so many others suspended between youth and whatever comes next, I find myself beautifully, terrifyingly lost.
Once, someone asked if I would be happy if I died today. My immediate answer was no—never! There is so much left to do, so many things to see, so many people yet to meet. But sitting with it longer, maybe I would be. I have lived the dream. I grew up in a safe household with privilege. I went to a prestigious university and met some of the most beautiful humans. I hugged my friends. I danced until the hours grew late. I kissed the ones I loved. I cried when they left.
I have had it all. I have lived the dream life.
Recognising this makes me happy - makes me feel like I can be appreciative Gaurav instead of thinky Gaurav. But I want to reach for something more profound here. Understanding that I live the dream life isn't just some instrumental thing to make me comfortable. I want it to permeate everything, colour everything. I want to fix it at the centre of my attention like a star by which to navigate.
Yet, sometimes I feel insecure about my place in the world. When depression and anxiety take hold, I don't feel like my life is a dream. I'd give anything to feel the opposite. This is the true south, where my true north vanishes.1 In those moments, I wouldn't wish my life on anyone.
It became my practice then to reflect on how my life differs from those suffering atrocities elsewhere. To remember I'm not a child struck by poverty, malnourishment, or lack of water. Not suffering from cluster headaches or locked-in syndrome. But now I'm reaching for that same profound gratitude I spoke of, and I can't even grasp the first rung. I'm trying to feel that my life is a dream when all evidence points to the contrary. In some ways I have the almost opposite effect, reminding myself of the atrocities makes me sadder. It feeds into the story I am telling myself at this point in time. The world sucks, I suck, everything sucks. It takes a while to pull myself out of my own head to see how beautiful things can be. Maybe I go to an event and I am sunk in again. I get reminded how joyous my life is.
This ebb and flow confuses me. It feels wrong, as if fortune only counts in happy moments. What would it mean to feel grateful even when I'm not? This is the life I have, the life given to me. Perhaps I can embrace it with vigour: this, exactly this, is what dreams are made of.
