It gets better.
Except sometimes things don’t get better. Sometimes, they get worse.
With all of the issues that young adults face, from the personal quarrels that come with the age group to added stressors like the current political climate, a lot of us are hanging on desperately to the thread of “it gets better”. Sometimes there isn’t much else you can do.
It does get better, or so they say. I trust ‘them’, whoever ‘they’ are.
However, as someone who has not quite reached the age where I have enough hindsight on the topic, I realized I had been misinterpreting this phrase for a long time — assuming it means that one day the angst of your younger years ends and life hops onto an upward trajectory in which things get progressively better. This is a tricky line of thinking to fall into, because sometimes—usually at the worst time—things do get worse.
Of course, like all things, I discovered this lesson only when I walked into it blindly and head first. Things WERE better. I had finally reached peak status in college, coasting to graduation with friends and a relationship that I was constantly overjoyed with. I had lots of dreams (maybe too many) for the future. College was stressful, but I was doing things I loved, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I was getting somewhere with my quest of happiness. It wasn’t perfect, but I had hope that this was only the beginning of good things to come.
This was before graduation (in and of itself a difficult transition). Before I moved back to my hometown and far away from all of the friends I made and opportunities I had been a part of. Before I got stuck in a horrible first job during a summer that drained almost every bit of hope and passion I originally had for the future. Before I became anxious and confused about jobs and life and goals. And finally, before someone who I deeply love and care about decided quite suddenly that I didn’t fit into their life after all.
Much like bad days, bad seasons usually consist of every unfortunate thing happening in quick succession. Sometimes, things don’t get better. Sometimes, they get worse.
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What do you do when things get worse? Batten down the hatches, mostly. Give yourself space and time to feel whatever you need to feel (including, most certainly, questioning everything about yourself), and find ways to keep moving until the storm passes. Personally, I recommend a good book. Something short and warm and cozy. This is where the “tea with a robot” piece of this article title comes in.
In the midst of my grief-and-heartbreak-fueled identity crisis, I picked up Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers. It was a curious little book that I had been looking at buying for quite some time. The synopsis talks of a society in which long ago all of the robots in the world wandered into the wilderness, never to return. The story itself focuses on a monk named Dex living in this futuristic robot-less society. One day, Dex decides they want to leave the life they had and become a tea monk — a monk who travels from town to town and offers tea and conversation to whoever may need it. When Dex begins feeling unfulfilled by this endeavor too, they decide to venture into the wilderness in search of what to do next. This is where they meet the robot.
The book is slow and compassionate. It feels very much like a warm hug on a rainy day, but that isn’t the only thing that made it a good book for a difficult time.
Sometimes, there are books that tell you things you didn’t realize you needed to hear. In this case, I finished Psalm for the Wild-Built curled on my sofa. In the end (spoilers), Dex the tea monk finally breaks down over their conflict of purpose and where their life should go from there. The robot (who, by this point in the book, has become a friend), responds by making Dex a cup of tea (it’s a horrible cup of tea, but Dex doesn’t mind), and telling Dex that their life is already meaningful just by existing, and if they find that the life they have isn’t bringing them joy anymore, they can always begin a new one.
At a time when I needed any shred of comfort I could get, this resolution seemed like a good thing for anyone to hear when they’re waiting for things to get better (or when things didn’t go how they originally hoped).
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Shortly after I finished the book, I went to dinner with my grandparents (who are 84 and 90 years old). We sat in a diner booth and laughed about pudding, and then I headed home to where my dog was waiting to greet me (he’s been happier now that I’m done with college and spending more time at home). My mom sat with me as I cried for the 45th night in a row, patiently answering all of my questions about life and love and failure. Later that week I video-called my best friend (who lives across the country now), and listened to her tell stories about her weird neighbor just like she did when we lived together. She listened to me talk for hours about the confusing thoughts in my head, and had the kindness to act super invested the whole time.
You’ve never really lost everything, even when it may feel like it.
Up until my life hit several road bumps in a row, I had always taken “it gets better” to mean that one day a switch would flip. I would be well into adulthood and finally everything would be better and easier than before.
I don’t think that day exists.
Rather, I think living a very good life means always being at risk of everything getting worse (usually all at once) but knowing that when it does, you will find your joy again eventually. You haven’t lost everything, especially not yourself. There are still people who love you (including the parts you struggle to love) and things that will make you happier than you’ve ever been. You are still learning from your failures and growing and changing. There are still things you have left to do (especially ones you never thought you could do), new hobbies to discover and songs that will become your favorite. And in the event that you’ve lost sight of the life you hoped you would have, you can always build a new one.
In the meantime, hold on to what you do have, and don’t be afraid to imagine a robot offering you a cup of tea if it helps.
Featured image by Jewel Miller.
