I had spent the last decade as a travel writer and editor
and had filled my previous 28-page passport with stamps from all over the
world: 27 countries on five continents. But now I had lost my job, to my great
distress, and had no upcoming trips on the calendar. With no clear professional
prospects and my identity in a state of ambivalence, I was planning to care for
my 18-month-old daughter at least part-time, if not full-time, which wouldn’t
leave a lot of room for world travels. Watching with a degree of self-pity as
my former colleagues continued to share their jet-setting exploits on social
media, I thought, in Eeyore voice, I had
better get the smaller passport.
But, as thoughts occasionally do, my reverie began to wander
into more positive territory. Passports are valid for 10 years, and a lot can
happen in a decade. I thought back to 27-year-old Erika, applying for a new
passport with her married name, mostly broken in by that point, like a pair of
new jeans after a few washes. She had just started a job as associate editor of
Destination Weddings & Honeymoons
magazine and had the passport application expedited in anticipation of the
globetrotting to come. She never dreamed she would land this job, let alone go
on to become editorial director of the magazine and three others.
She also didn’t know she would try to start a family, only
to keep running into roadblock after crushing roadblock for four years until
finally, she would hold the phone, trembling, as the nurse announced that the
IVF had worked.
She didn’t know how much you could love a tiny human,
despite sleeplessness and endless demands, how she would rush to lift the baby
out of the crib and feel her weight and smell the top of her head, how this
child would be so much more amazing than anything she had imagined during the
dark night of infertility, how each tiny achievement—a roll, a step, a
word—would feel deserving of an Academy Award, would be infinitely more
riveting than the most radiant island sunset.
And she didn’t know how conflicted she would feel day after
day, month after month, as her daughter grew and blossomed while she struggled
to keep all of the plates spinning—work and family and household and
friends—except the one plate that was crucial to the success of all the rest:
herself and her own sense of wellness and peace.
So what will the next 10 years bring? What new gifts, what
losses, what struggles, what serendipities? What will happen with my career, my
family? Where will I fail? Where will I succeed? What kind of person will Elin
turn out to be—what will drive her and bring her joy? What kind of person will
I turn out to be?
There’s no way to know. We’re working on some plans, for
sure. But the outcomes are beyond our control. And, as my dad always says, life
is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
Is it likely that I’ll travel to foreign countries much in the
next couple of years? No. But beyond that … it’s possible. Anything is
possible. It doesn’t cost extra to choose the 52-page book, and there’s no
penalty for not filling the pages. But they’re there, in case you need them, if
life happens to roll in that direction—of wanderlust, of discovery. Fifty-two
blank pages of possibility, waiting for the next decade to be written.
I’ll let you guess which option I chose.