“I don’t think I can get out of the car.”
I looked down at my shaking hands. They clutched the printed departure information so hard that the sweat on my thumb had begun to smear the ink. Vehicles of various sizes and levels of aggression rushed around our white Toyota Highlander so fast that the car shook. My mom looked at me and I shook my head.
She sighed as she put on the turn signal and pulled out into the passing lane before taking several loops around to the short-term parking area. She rolled into a spot right next to an overfilled trash can, which was convenient, as I felt dangerously close to throwing up.
This was my junior year of high school. I was (supposed to be) on my way to a weekend-long college visit in rural Illinois. At the time, I had never been on a trip that long by myself, let alone taken a solo plane flight. Spoiler alert, I did get out of the car. It took another 20 minutes of looking longingly out the car window at the terminal entrance though, and then a period of feeling like I couldn’t breathe all the way through security. That 3 day trip was the furthest into the non-comfort wilderness that I had ever traveled. I went so far I couldn’t even see the comfort zone anymore.
I felt triumphant after making it through this experience. In fact, I rode that wave of confidence nearly through the rest of high school—feeling like I could do anything. Like all things of course, this petered out eventually. I’m now three years into college, and a variety of new and scary experiences have swept in—a new relationship, more difficult and unfamiliar schoolwork, and a study abroad trip not just for a few days but for a whole month—among them.
Like anyone might, when I find it too frightening to look forward, I look back instead. This is what got me thinking about that college visit, and the car that I almost didn’t get out of. Looking back at what I had done was encouraging, but not for the reasons I first thought.
There’s a common misconception when talking about getting outside of the comfort zone that doing so results in some kind of fairytale movie scene. The main character makes a difficult but worthwhile decision to try something new (bonus points if it’s a trip away from their small town or a new school activity). They struggle at first but finally break out of their shell, not only succeeding but having the most pivotal experience of their lives. I’m sure it’s happened that way in real life for somebody, somewhere. That’s certainly the narrative that’s advertised by college study abroad trips and parents talking about the formative college years. More often than not, however, I find that getting away from the comfort zone feels just like that…uncomfortable.
Let’s take another look at that college visit.
I felt triumphant for sure. I excitedly told my friends and family about it when I returned and I appreciated the good little things that were sprinkled in during my experience. I didn’t regret the trip, but one of the things I kept hidden just to myself (and maybe my mom) was just how miserable it was. When I look back on the trip I see not only how I took walks along the Mississippi river and went ice skating with a group of nice people. I see that I cried almost every day I was there because I missed my family, or I felt alone, or I didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the students on the trip. Now that I think about it, actually, most of the trip was a heaping mess of newness and discomfort and loneliness.
Well, that’s encouraging, you may be thinking.
No, but I really think that last part is the kicker. It’s always good to keep in mind that trying new things can result in something extraordinary, but that wasn’t what I learned from my first-flight experience. I realized after a closer look that the reason why that trip made me feel so confident moving forward wasn’t because it went surprisingly well, but because there were a lot of unexpected struggles and disasters—and I made it through anyway. And just like that, the little bubble that was my comfort zone expanded to include solo flights and three day college visits (and slowly and surely a variety of other things too). My biggest fear when sitting in that car was that I had no idea how it was going to turn out, and that so many things could go wrong. I was so afraid that I failed to stick up for my own ability to handle what was thrown at me.
I came across this quote recently—in a very cheesy Instagram reel posted by an inspirational quote account—which is what made me draw this important connection in the midst of my current struggles. It went like this:
“A bird sitting on a branch is never afraid of the branch breaking, not because of its trust in the branch, but because of its trust in its own wings.”
I couldn’t find for sure where this saying came from, but as far as cheesy quotes go, I think it’s one of the better ones.
I often tend to feel like there’s a certain sense of perfectionism associated with trying new things. There’s a pressure to 100% succeed at whatever we do. Otherwise, what was the point in doing the thing in the first place? I’m not sure that delving into all of the personal benefits of getting out there and doing hard things is part of the purpose of this essay, so I’ll save that for another time. Let’s just assume that it is.
With that in mind maybe we can just know that doing hard stuff isn’t about trusting that it’ll all work out right, but rather knowing that we have the ability to adapt and survive regardless of what happens.
I’m afraid of a great many things at the moment. I’m afraid of studying abroad for a whole month this summer, so far away from my family and friends. I’m afraid that my relationship will inevitably fail. I’m afraid as a college student that once I graduate I’ll be alone outside the safety of academia with a degree unable to lead me to success. I’m afraid of a great many things that involve dipping my toes into the unknown. For all I know there’s a chance that not a single one of the things I just listed will work out the way I’d like it to.
And that’s okay.
For now I’ll just focus on getting out of the car, making it through the terminal doors, and trusting that I can handle whatever comes next.
