Guest Post: 'What Is Your Fantasy of Success?'

In which Nora Farahdel, two years since graduation, takes stock of what is and what isn't and decides the future is still bright

Photo by Asher Hansow on Unsplash

Busy summer! I’m lifeguarding up at Will Rogers State Beach. If you find yourself up there, wave at your nearest blue tower. I might be there.

I’m also gearing up to teach summer school, browsing the roster, imagining who among those new UCLA students will one day write for this Substack. Will it be the water polo player on the waitlist, the engineer, or the pre-psychology major? Who knows!

One other thing on my to-do list is kinda weighty: I’m preparing my dossier for a promotion. It’s kinda fun to take stock of what I’ve done and why. For the same reason I used to love applying to jobs in my 20s, a dossier like this is an excuse to reflect and judge and dream. There’s always room for more.

It’s what one of my favorite-ever students is doing this summer, too—judging, dreaming, wanting more. It’s the great Nora Farahdel, who’s written so many lovely pieces for me. What’s special about this one, I think, is how raw and vulnerable it is, but how it’s rooted deliciously in one iconic moment, at a classic L.A. venue. Love it.

How are you all? Let me know in an email. And please enjoy this essay.

My “Greek Theatre” Moment

By Nora Farahdel

I went to a concert this week at the Greek Theatre, my favorite venue in LA. I love that it’s outdoors, in the hills, and that the shows feel like a backyard party in the summer. I was watching the artist’s guitar player and noticed him taking a pause. He enjoyed the song for a moment, mouthing the words to himself, and then, he looked up at the crowd. He was in awe, I was sure of it. Rows and rows ahead of him, so many people, so many stories.

His face lit up: I couldn’t help but cry.

The truth is, I’ve been crying a lot lately. And I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He must be so proud; his dreams must be coming true. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever get there; if I’d even allow myself to dream that big. I’m so deeply afraid of not getting anywhere close. I wanted to steal the feeling, make it mine.

The funny thing is he could’ve been thinking about the burger he was going to eat after the show. He could’ve been counting the minutes till he could get off the stage. I could’ve been projecting my insecurities on him; I could’ve been writing the script.

Twenty-three years on this Earth and my vision is still so blurry. I don’t know much but I could really use a participation trophy, or a fortune teller, or maybe a genie. And nearly two years have passed since my college graduation. Is there a metric stronger than a blink of an eye to use here? It has felt like finishing your favorite latte in two minutes (half the cup was ice), finally falling asleep on a flight and feeling the flight attendant tap you, watching the last episode of your favorite show.

In other ways, it has felt like being on a moving train with the same grassy fields around you for hours and hours. I’m moving forward, I’m sure of it, but so many parts of me feel hardwired.

In high school, my English teacher once declared to the entire class that he’s uninterested in being just a teacher for the rest of his life.

“There are so many wonderful things to be done in this world,” he said. “I would never want to be just one thing.”

It always stuck with me. I don’t know what he went on to do, but I’ve always imagined him hiking Machu Picchu as he wrote a novel, Pulitzer on the way, with a few more career pivots on the docket. I take everything and create my own idealized version of it, some sort of medieval torture tactic that has stood the test the time. It is through these ideas of fantasized success that I leave myself constantly looking back, over my shoulder, checking under my shoes, searching, waiting.

My own reality never feels good enough, but anything new feels like a threat. So I’m often stuck: treading just above water.

I grew up as a shy kid. I was nervous, quiet, and afraid. My mother frantically enrolled me in every activity she could in an attempt to counteract this. (I did grow out of it, but sometimes I wonder if I just became better at hiding it.) She was patient, loving, and sturdy, but I was always upset with her. I didn’t want to do any of it; I fought her every chance I got. I just wanted to stay in my bubble. It was a comfort I knew, regardless of the experiences I was risking, the potential happiness left untouched.

At the dinner table on the eve of Mother’s Day, my family was reflecting on our childhoods and my mother called me a difficult child. She said it so matter of factly, it was piercing. I spent so much time in my own head that I never considered how it all affected her. My bubble must’ve been soundproof, distorted my vision, tampered my judgement. It was nearly impossible to get through to you, she said.

A week ago, I talked to her about doubts I was having regarding my future. She told me she couldn’t tell me what to do anymore. That I wasn’t a kid. She couldn’t force me to get over my fears, spoonfeed me the courage to take the next step. It was in my hands now: my decision.

YULCH! I was 23 years old and wanted to throw up: projectile. She’s right, of course. But ironically, I wish she could just make all the calls for me. I’d take anyone, really. I’m not very interested in being liable for my own life, for popping my own bubble. I’ve found adulthood to be quite tricky as a result.

I spent a lot of my time obsessed with picking my “thing.” The one thing I would thrive at, that would fill the seats in my “Greek Theatre.” And still, I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Amidst it all, there is one thing I believe to be true: the path forward. Somewhere between my catastrophic nightmares and picture perfect fantasies lies my future, and I trust that it will be bright.

I’ve always had trouble seeing the big picture. But, with a wavering hand, I’m trying to believe in what’s next. I don’t want to live my life in this limbo of trying to make all the right decisions and reach this version of me that is fantasy and a hodgepodge of my distorted ideas and so far beyond the clouds that it is indecipherable.

I’ve tried to wrap up this essay in a better way a couple of times. I want to write about being certain; I want to tell you that I’m making the right next step. All I can really say is I’m beginning to pencil in the big picture.

And I’ll still be wishing for my “Greek Theatre” moment. I currently have no musical talent, but I’m open to the metaphor being literal, too.