the great unknown

what keeps us going when the outcome is uncertain

William Merritt Chase, Idle Hours, 1894

The start of summer has always been a time of optimism. As a kid, those first few days of freedom were pure bliss: the entire three-month break stretching before you like taffy. Zero obligations. Pure potential.

Lately, my summers have been full of striving and grinding. Last year, I wanted to be on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean but never got around to planning a trip because I was too busy working on my novel. By the time I looked up, it was October. People are sometimes amazed I stuck with it for so long, but the truth is, the longer it took, the more I wanted to finish it. Call it a curse or a blessing.

For the first twenty-five years of our lives, we’re trying to find our footing in the world, and the only concrete steps are the ones that lead to economic security: graduating with a degree from a respectable college, securing a good internship, a high-paying job, that first promotion. There’s a playbook to follow, and with enough discipline and grind, you have a fair chance of succeeding.

At some point, you begin to realize there are other things you might want that have no guarantee of success. These roads lead to a great unknown that inspires you to dream big, but treacherously, promises nothing.

June has felt to me like slipping down a muddy embankment on one such road. After struggling to get pregnant for over a year, I was diagnosed with unexplained infertility, which led me to IVF, which resulted in an unexplained pregnancy loss. Despite all the bloodwork and scans and biopsies and extra testing I opted into, it still failed. What’s especially cruel is “unexplained,” and I got hit with it twice. When there’s an identifiable cause, when you know what went wrong, you have the power to act on that information. But when all the diagnostics are normal, there’s nothing you can do. I will never look at small probabilities the same again. If an event has a 2% chance of occurring, I will not discount it.

This coincided with my book going out on submission. I’ve been warned by writer friends that being on sub is the culmination of your worst anxieties amplified tenfold. They are not exaggerating. Ironically, I was happier working on my umpteenth revision than I was with the novel done and out of my hands. The act of creation—whether that’s a song, a film, a book, a child—is inherently optimistic. As much as I tried to distract myself by working on a new novel, I struggled to give it my full attention. I wondered if the book I labored over for five years would ever see the light of day. I’d be lying if I said I only do it because I enjoy writing. I want to get published. I want to be read. I want to put a piece of myself out into the world.

Many years ago, when I was first querying agents, I tried to decipher some useful bit of feedback between the lines of my rejections. If one mentioned not connecting with the voice, I would agonize over my choice of POV. This was before I learned that most rejections are form rejections. You can hone your craft up to a point, but beyond that, you are at the mercy of timing and taste and luck.

For days after my loss, I kept trying to find an underlying issue. Silent endometriosis? Natural killer cells? Was I running too much? Was it that one time I thoughtlessly ordered a hibiscus tea? If I had an answer, I could do something about it. I could regain a sense of control. Just like analyzing those rejection emails, I was trying to find something wrong with me—my body, my diet, my habits—something I could fix.

They say that how you relate to luck reveals a lot about your worldview, and I do think luck has a self-fulfilling quality. People who believe themselves to be lucky tend to be more open. They increase their surface area for serendipity. They keep trying. They don’t give up.

After learning that the little life I was carrying had stopped developing, I lost interest in my usual activities. Watching the Knicks was the only thing I felt like doing, the only spot of joy in an otherwise bleak month. So many things had to align for them to win the championship, and I’m certain the power of a fervent fanbase had no small part in it. As heroically talented as Jalen Brunson is, no final is won by the sheer willpower of a single individual. Talking to Lisa Salter after Game 5, Brunson mentioned “working hard every summer.” I seized upon this because I recognized myself in his focus and discipline. As much as I know the sober truth that no amount of hard work and preparation can guarantee success—that you can pour your heart and soul into a project that never sees the light of day—I need to believe that luck will eventually find me if I keep going.

When I look at athletes who fulfill their lifelong dream of winning a championship, my joy for them is tinged with sadness. I wonder how empty it must feel to have achieved it all, to have your greatest moment in the rearview mirror. There’s so much anticipation and excitement in the journey, the sweat and grind of working at something you love, not knowing the outcome, but hoping, dreaming, believing. That, in itself, is a privilege.

Embarking on any endeavor where the outcome isn’t guaranteed requires an abundance of optimism. After my surgery to remove the unviable pregnancy, I felt intense relief bordering insanely on exuberance, and it wasn’t just because of the lingering effects of anesthesia. The worst was over: the agonizing days of uncertainty and denial, sadness and terror, acceptance and depression. It was over. I survived the thing I most feared. The only direction to go was forward. I could feel the energy of summer again. Anything is possible.