I’ve always thought of evolution as something outside of myself. Something that happens to a species, a process over a long stretch of time. A subtle collection of changes utterly undetectable to the human eye.

Scientifically speaking, evolution is slow and gradual. But what about the evolution of self? What about the transformations that we all experience, the seasons of slow growth, interrupted by events and decisions that change absolutely everything? Perhaps change is the undercurrent of all things, terrifying as it may be. Because when we look back, connecting the dots and weaving the threads together, we can see the make up of our life shuffled and reshuffled, on repeat.

I’ve been reflecting on the notion of change and our human tendency to rejigger our lives. A friend of mine used to joke, ‘Time to Rubiks Cube My Life’. In other words, paired with an impasse and subtle knowing that things can’t stay as they are, it’s time to burn everything down and start anew. Is ‘Doing a Rubiks Cube’ just a symptom of being in your 20s, buoyed by a sense of hope and held in society’s understanding? Or, as we get older, is the idea of tearing down what we’ve built more horrifying than continuing to exist in what no longer fits? What do they say? The devil you know over the one you don’t.

There’s a crooked societal expectation that as we age, we stop changing. By our thirties, our evolution is supposedly complete. We have a keen sense of what we want to do, where we want to live, who we want to build a life with, and what kind of life we want to lead — our values carved permanently into our being. Even if they won’t admit it, people want us to land. To live in permanence. To know they don’t have to worry about us or peer over with watchful eyes.

I’m just on the edge. Twenty-eight and, societally, still allowed to change my mind. I’m permitted to veer off the course I set for myself with only a sideways glance or gentle concern. Should I be ten years older, concern quickly transmutes to shame. I can still slide under the radar. But I’m sure I’ll recalibrate again. Life will unfold around me and I’ll continue to unfold with it. When I feel lost in this, I think of all the people I know. All the remarkable, compassionate, warm, clever people I have the pleasure of knowing. Not a single one of them has it all figured out. Maybe then, I don’t have to either.

So what of the fear? The fear of judgment, of the unknown, of not being able to connect the dots looking forward? The fear of the vastness of what’s before us and the paradox of deciding what to do with all this fertile land. If we can only harvest what we sow, and we only sow what we plant, and we only plant when we know what we want to harvest, where do we begin?

A few years ago, I set out to learn how to surf. I’m still trying. I think I will always be trying. It doesn’t come naturally to me. When I step into the ocean, my blood fills with a familiar fear. It seeps into my wetsuit, covering me with the visceral feeling that I am not Okay. My father never learned to swim and is, naturally, petrified by the ocean. It’s a generational fear. He always tells me, Be careful. The ocean is dangerous. And he’s not wrong — the ocean is dangerous, untamed, and unpredictable. She demands our respect and should be approached with a combination of curiosity and caution.

And lately, I’ve been governed by fear. I can’t seem to find the courage to actually go when a wave is indisputably heading in my direction. I spin around and paddle forward, peering trepidatiously over my shoulder. And when the energy of the ocean lifts me up, my fear comes to a boil. I need to paddle vigorously, shift my weight toward the fall, and plunge forward, not knowing what lies below. But more and more, I find myself shifting back; yearning for safety. Sometimes, my partner will shove me into a wave, knowing that if left to my own devices, I will instinctively pull back, shouting ‘Absolutely not!’

As I’ve had to learn time and time again, the bigger the wave, the more commitment is asked of you. When I hesitate, thinking the energy will get me where I need to go, I find myself flipped over, guzzled in the mouth of the ocean. It’s only when I refuse to falter, trusting in my ability to face what comes, that I can make it out the other side. How I’ve felt in the water is a reflection of how I’ve felt on land. Afraid of unsteadiness; unsure of the future that lies ahead, should I choose to evolve.

And when considering the possibility of our evolution, it helps me to ask: Am I running toward something or away from something else? Am I fleeing my discomfort or consciously deciding to step in the direction of fear? Can I extend myself the grace to change, knowing that perspective can only be found on the other side? Can I plunge forward, not knowing if my jump will be considered brave or foolish by those around me?

Evolution is the art of choosing the devil we don’t know. It is hurling ourselves over the ledge — feverishly, blindly, sometimes foolishly. It is admitting that we don’t have it all figured out; that we never did and quite possibly never will. It is a cocktail of uncertainty and potential, and you’ll never drink the same one twice.

How freeing to think that permanence wasn’t meant for us; we weren’t built to stay the same.

So perhaps it’s best to stop trying.

Until next time,

Amy