I find myself paralyzed by a burning desire to be everything. 

See everything, do everything, consume everything.

When I tell people that I feel a crippling ache in my stomach every time I think about the fact that I will die before listening to every album ever produced, every movie ever made, every play and musical ever performed, they laugh—even my therapist.

And I wish I could say I was joking, because really, what a silly thing to be burdened by. Art is supposed to be enjoyed—a break from all of my lists. And yet, here I’ve gone and turned it into another list.

I’ve been in denial about this for longer than I’d like to admit. Always a logical person, I’ve played it off as my affection for data and order. Oh, my 1,122-movie-long watchlist on Letterboxd? Well, I need to have it organized somewhere. I can’t just leave it all in my head.

In the modern age, my phone has become a crutch to this disordered desire. There’s an app for almost anything if you look hard enough. I log the restaurants I visit, the musicals I see, and view an array of data on at least two different apps that analyze my music listening history.

It’s almost like the consumption of art has become a game.

Completion is of utmost importance. Progress is quantifiable, concrete, and analyzable. My religious adherence to these rules has perpetuated a cycle of seeking data over experience. 

A hollowing of the art itself.

Nothing will ever be sufficient, for there is always more to consume, to complete.

I worry that, should this pattern continue, I will end up sucking all the joy out of art. I want the reason I listen to a new album or pick up a new book to be because I’m craving a new sound, a new feeling. Not to check it off a list.

It’s almost too easy to get on the internet and find someone who has absolutely mastered every one of my interests. A narrative begins to form in my mind that I must now figure out how to achieve their level of mastery.

The problem lies in the fact that I am one person, and they are many. The person who has seen every show on Broadway this season is not the same person who has listened to what seems like every album in existence and can tell you what caused your favorite band to split up. The person in the gym five days a week is not the same person who can explain international relations and current political discourse at a scholarly level over dinner. Each of these individuals I compare myself to has managed to excel by narrowing their focus. I do myself a major disservice by juxtaposing my knowledge and capabilities with a crowd of specialists on the internet.

Why, then, do I expect myself to be everything?

Moreover, why do I need to be everything?

Why must my interests, my hobbies, be mastered? Completed?

I view myself, my life, as a project.

I was a perfectionist from a young age, stressing my ten-year-old self out over Ancient Mesopotamia. So much so that at night, I’d wait until my father finished work so that he could walk me through my homework assignments.

There was no question of my intellectual ability; I simply was so anxious about not doing my work proficiently that I couldn’t attempt it at all without the page going fuzzy.

As an adult, with responsibilities extending far past the comprehension of Ancient Mesopotamia, I find my world going fuzzy.

The years have gone by before my eyes. In many ways, I feel like I am playing catch-up with my life, racing this myth of a person I’ve imagined who’s able to do it all.

The same fears that kept me from doing my homework have manifested in the many facets of my adult life, disguised as a contradictory mixture of apathy, determination, laziness, and ambition.

At night, I lie awake, my mind racing with all that I want to accomplish in the following days, weeks, months, and years. 

Bigger picture, too, not just the seemingly trivial consumption of media.

I want to travel the world. To get my degree. To fall in love. To invest my money. To have a fulfilling, stable job. To support myself. To explore more of my city. To learn more about my parents and grandparents before they’re not around to answer my questions. 

But when I wake up in the morning, sometimes I can hardly get out of bed. The weight of all that I expect of myself crushes me before I can even begin to pick away at the bricks.

The terror of doing any of it wrong, or not being able to get to everything, is so debilitating that my vision blurs. 

Anytime I’m not checking a box, I’m thinking about checking a box. 

When life is a project, rest loses any meaning; instead, it becomes failure. Procrastination.

I so desperately want to feel alive that I inhibit myself with the regulations I place on what that must mean.

Last night, I attended the closing performance of Liberation on Broadway, a play about feminism and generational legacies. As I entered the theater, my phone was placed in a locked pouch that I couldn’t open until I left. How fitting—for a play of that name to liberate me in such a way. At least, for the 180 minutes I spent at the Jones, I didn’t have to worry about logging the play, my notes app, or anything other than the incredibly moving performance I had the privilege of witnessing.

I don’t expect my curiosity to lose its fervor, nor do I want it to. My curiosity is a blessing. Maybe the answer lies in allowing myself to be complete as is. My life doesn’t begin when I’ve checked enough boxes; it’s happening now. Dispelling this myth—that being everything is attainable—is long overdue. Maybe I need to flirt with the idea of this version of myself being enough.

– L