Stepping Into the Unknown

Stepping into the unknown is like walking into a room that’s both an endless void and somehow way too crowded. It’s vast, yet stifling. You’re trying to leave behind your old narrative, gingerly testing out new ways of being, but the sheer number of potential paths feels suffocating. And then there’s that pesky need to “get it right” so no one raises an eyebrow at your awkward stumbling. 

Meanwhile, your old stories, like nosy roommates, refuse to pack up and move out. They linger, sitting on your couch, eating your snacks, and chiming in unhelpfully with, “Remember when you tried this before? Total disaster.”

And it doesn’t stop there. As you bumble forward in this “trial and error” phase, you start collecting more stories. These are temporary ones, incomplete sketches of who you might be. They mix and mingle with the old stories, creating a chaotic swirl of identities that sometimes feels like a bad acid trip. Which reminds me—my childhood friend Dean had a story about this kind of chaos.

Dean was the type of guy who turned every misadventure into a legendary tale, usually fueled by questionable life choices. One night, Dean and his buddy were tripping on acid, hanging out in his room, when things took a surreal turn. Remember that PBS show The Electric Company? They used to have this bit about compound words. One kid would say “cup,” the other would say “board,” and their words would float out of their mouths, meet in the air, and merge into cupboard. Dean swore that night was exactly like that—except way worse.

Every time Dean or his friend spoke, their words didn’t just float out and disappear. They lingered. The room started filling up with these glowing, sticky words, hanging mid-air like helium balloons at a party no one wanted to attend. At first, it was amusing—until there were so many words they couldn’t move. The space contracted. It felt like the words were crushing them. Eventually, they just stopped talking altogether and waited for the acid to wear off so they could escape their self-imposed prison of vocabulary.

Honestly? That’s what stepping into the unknown feels like sometimes. You’re caught between the old stories that won’t let go, the new ones you’re fumbling to create, and the avalanche of “What ifs” and “Should haves” piling up around you. Some days, it feels exactly like Dean’s acid trip—you’re trapped by all the words, all the identities, and all the possibilities swirling around you.

But unlike Dean, we can’t just wait for the trip to end. We have to talk our way through it, figure out which words—stories, identities, possibilities—are worth holding onto, and which ones need to evaporate. And yes, it’s messy and overwhelming. But hey, at least you’re not actually being squished by glowing compound words in a psychedelic haze. Or are you?