Living everywhere except the now.
On escaping into memory when the present feels heavy, jumping to fantasy when that doesn't work, and what it actually costs you when you're not fully here.
Welcome to issue #046 of Unsubscribe. Each week, I send one essay that helps you step off the default path to build a life you love, supported by work you enjoy.
I was scrolling through old photos on my phone last week, looking for a very specific picture my mom asked me to find, when I stumbled upon a totally different photo. One that caused me to stop and stare at it for a moment.
It was my wife Jennifer and I at a beer festival in Brooklyn back in 2012. We’re standing there with these huge smiles. Like 10/10 smiles. The kind you absolutely can’t fake.
Behind us, you can see the crowd and the tents and hundreds of other people having a great time, but we look especially locked in on whatever moment we’re in.
I stared at that photo for a little bit, and then I did what I always do when I come across some piece of nostalgia. I kept scrolling, looking for more. More photos from that year. Our tiny apartment on Waverly Avenue in Clinton Hill. Jennifer and I at some random bar. A friend’s dinner at my buddy Matt’s place in Williamsburg.
And all I could think was…I want to go back to that moment in time.
Yesterday was a Monday, and I felt like shit, to be honest.
Not sick. Just tired and uninspired. I found myself unconsciously scrolling through social media and consuming all the negativity that comes with it. How terrible the economy is, how the stock market’s going to crash, and more fear-mongering about everything.
And I caught myself doing something I’ve started to notice lately.
When the present feels heavy, I look to escape.
I started reminiscing. “Remember when everything was so much easier? So much lighter? When we didn’t have to worry about quarterly taxes and business decisions and could just walk down to Putnam’s, see our favorite bartender Nikki, and grab a beer? Damn, I miss that.”
Then Jennifer walked in, and I made the mistake of saying it out loud.
“Sometimes I just miss how simple things used to be. Back when we lived in Brooklyn. Remember?”
She looked at me like I was insane. “Why? Our lives are SO much better now.”
And she’s right. They are. In 2012, I was making $80K a year, stuck in an office building from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., cold calling medical practices all day. We were living in a 600-square-foot apartment with $55,000 in credit card debt. The floor literally buckled in the middle of the living room, and the ceiling dripped when it rained. We were living our lives paycheck to paycheck.
Now I’m 44, and I run a successful business I’m proud of. I get to help thousands of entrepreneurs every year. We live in a house we love with zero debt and actual financial security. We built something together out of nothing.
After Jennifer shut down my trip down memory lane, my brain immediately jumped to the other place it sometimes goes. The future.
“Well, maybe when business slows down a bit, I’ll finally relax. Maybe when I learn to let go of control a little, I’ll have time to work on that book. Maybe when things ease up, I’ll feel different.”
And that’s when I realized what I’ve been working on understanding about myself.
I’m not always as present as I want to be.
It’s not constant. But I’ve started noticing a pattern. When something feels uncomfortable or heavy in the present, part of my brain wants to be somewhere else.
Sometimes I’ll be dealing with something stressful in the business, and I catch my brain jumping to “remember when you didn’t have to deal with this?” Or I’ll be looking at financials, and suddenly I’m thinking about that beer festival photo. Or something feels heavy and my mind immediately goes to “maybe when things slow down...”
I’m realizing I sometimes vacillate between two places: the past and the future.
When the present feels hard, I retreat into memory. Remembering when I was younger, fitter, had fewer obligations. When I didn’t carry this weight around. When ignorance was bliss.
And when that doesn’t work, I jump to the fantasy future, imagining a time when there will be less stress, less worry, more freedom. When I’ll finally have time to do all the things I want. That magical someday.
What I’m working on understanding is: What’s the cost of doing this?
It’s not that I’ll feel bad sometimes. The real cost is that I’m missing parts of my actual life while they’re happening.
I think this type of behavior is a coping mechanism. The brain’s way of avoiding sitting with the uncomfortable parts of right now.
Getting older. Having to provide for my family. The stress of running a business that’s dependent on attention and relevance. Never feeling like I’m reaching my creative apex or finding time to do all the creative things I want to do.
Those things are real. They’re heavy. And sometimes they’re uncomfortable to sit with.
So occasionally, instead of sitting with them, I escape. Either backward into a time when I didn’t have those problems, or forward into a fantasy where I won’t have them anymore.
But I’m realizing that neither of those places exists.
The past I sometimes romanticize? It had its own weight. In 2012, I was stressed about money daily. I was grinding at a hardcore job, had a lot of debt, and no clear path forward. But I don’t remember those parts when I look at old photos through rose-tinted glasses.
And the future I sometimes fantasize about? I doubt it will arrive the way I imagine. Because when I get there, there will be new stresses, new problems, and new reasons my brain might want to escape into memory or fantasy.
The only place that actually exists is right now. And I don’t want to miss it.
After Jennifer called me out about my trip down memory lane, I sat there for a while, just feeling it.
And then I decided to do something about it.
I picked up my phone and texted my friend Michael. “Dinner Monday night at Foxfire? Need to get out.” He responded in ten minutes. Done.
Then I started searching online for things happening this month here locally in the Hudson Valley. I found a murder mystery dinner in Rosendale and grabbed two tickets. I didn’t even ask Jennifer first. I just bought them because if I thought about it too long, I knew I’d talk myself out of it.
Then I texted a few old high school and college buddies about planning a trip next year. Not someday. Not when things calm down. A specific weekend with a specific location.
All in all, the whole thing took half an hour. And when I was done, I felt different. Not because I’d fixed anything or solved my time-traveling problem. But because, for half an hour, I was actually here in the moment. Working to make the present better instead of wishing it were different.
I’m trying to get better at noticing when my brain wants to escape. And when I catch it happening, I’m working on pulling myself back. I’ll ask myself, what’s actually good about right now? What can I do with this present moment instead of wishing it were different?
It’s not perfect. I still catch myself doing it. But I’m definitely getting better at recognizing the pattern.
I think a lot of people fall into this trap. We escape into memory when the present feels heavy. We escape into fantasy when memory doesn’t help.
And we call it nostalgia or ambition or reflection or planning. It doesn’t matter what we call it. We’re just avoiding being here and now.
But the past had its problems, too, and the future will have its own new set of problems. The only place we can actually live is here and now. And if we’re somewhere else in our heads, we’re missing it.
So here’s what I’m wondering this week: Do you ever catch yourself doing this? When the present feels hard, where does your brain escape to?
Leave a comment and tell me. I read every response.
I appreciate your time.
When the present feels hard, where does your brain escape to?
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PS- just gave my wife a thank you kiss for many, many memories shared
Anxiety is living in the future and depression is living in the past. I tend to live in the future a bit too much. My escape is simply going to sleep, but what happens is if I don't address my worries from the day, I wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back asleep. It's hard and happens too often. Hard to fix.