The Power and Pain of Choice
Lately I’ve been thinking about choices.
In a city like New York, the choices are endless: From big (where to live, what career to pursue, who to date) to small (where to eat dinner tonight, whether to take the subway or a cab), we’re bombarded by infinite options that can make it next to impossible to pick anything at all. (Friends on dating apps, I know you feel me on this one.)
At breakfast not too long ago, a friend recommended I listen to a TED Radio Hour episode about decisions, and it was eye-opening—especially for someone who’s going through a substantial period of change. Here are some of the most interesting observations from social scientists like Malcolm Gladwell:
- Having more choices isn’t necessarily a good thing.
- Choice architecture (meaning our choices are heavily influenced by our environment) is real, people.
- From big to small, you’re never, ever, ever going to be able to correctly predict the outcome of a choice and whether it’s the best one, so commit to it and move on.
The last point really stuck with me. It can apply to everything from what to order for lunch (Torn between the chicken and the steak? Pick one and try not to ogle the rib eye at the next table) to all-important life decisions like where to live (Will I be happier in New York or Los Angeles?). The best thing to do, the argument goes, is to go full-steam ahead with your choice, focusing on making the best of it—rather than fixating on what could’ve been.
The reason this has been of particular interest is that for the first time in quite a while, I have a lot of decisions to make. I spent my twenties and the majority of my thirties climbing to the next rung of the editorial ladder, only to discover that when I got to the top, I didn’t really enjoy what I was doing. It was all management and meetings and numbers, with very little of the creative work that got me into the field to begin with.
After leaving my job, then taking a short-lived position that ultimately just wasn’t a fit, I’m hitting pause to figure out what’s next. Sure, I’m dabbling in freelance writing here and there and working on a couple of projects, but I’m ultimately thinking about what I’m good at, what I truly enjoy, and what I want to do next.
Which means there are a lot of options flitting about in my anxiety-prone brain. Do I want to keep writing? Is it time to do a 180 and try something completely new? Do I want to stay in my very small, very expensive Chelsea apartment (which I chose to live in, mind you) or do I want to leave New York City altogether?
Committing to any answer hasn’t been easy, because this is the big-picture, life-changing sort of stuff that carries an impact greater than picking out which pair of shoes to wear in the morning.
At times I’ve felt like Jason Segel’s character Peter in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. In one scene, Peter and his love interest Rachel are standing at the edge of a cliff, overlooking crystal-clear Hawaiian water below. After Peter jokes about jumping off, balls-to-the-wall Rachel (Mila Kunis) eggs him on, saying, “Just do it. You’ll be fine. Jump.” She then promptly hurls herself over the side and into the waves. After hemming and hawing (and nearly dying, for comedic value, of course), Peter eventually takes the plunge and not only gets an incredible rush, but the girl, too.
The thought of committing, of just doing it, is liberating. At a certain point, it’s time to stop debating and pick something—because the alternative is staying stuck. And at least trying to, say, get the girl is better than the regret of not doing anything about it at all.
