This is not a post about Pinterest.
I’ve been on Pinterest since February 4, 2011.
As one of the first members of Pinterest, I was told to pin carefully: my pins would help set the tone for the whole community. To use big images, write thoughtful descriptions, and only pin things I really love.
I almost immediately started using Pinterest as a “someday” space. These are the Liberty blouses and wool bloomers I would buy my babies if I could afford something other than thrifted. This is the corrugated tin-roofed chicken coop I’d build if we had a little hobby farm outside of Woodstock. These are the wholesome, heirloom-grained meals I’d make if I had more than $40/week to spend on groceries for my family of four.
I pinned at night on the couch in our 300 square foot apartment in Williamsburg, waiting for the babies to wake up for the first time of many, while Sebastian worked nights at a restaurant in the Meatpacking District. I pinned on my phone while riding the above-ground M train into Manhattan for class.
I was 25 and I pinned because everything felt possible. Sure, things were really hard and we were in the thick of it with two babies between the ages of 1 and 2, but they wouldn’t always be that way and I was going to be ready to make beautiful any shaking out of the future.
At one point, I had over 60,000 pins. For over a decade, everything felt possible. And then, it didn’t.
I can pin it almost to the moment: at the end of 2022, while we were staying in my childhood home in Kansas for Christmas and New Years. I suddenly and absolutely felt time — and the possibility held in it — seize up in a way I never had.
Lack of time is my biggest mental lack. Since becoming an adult, there’s never been enough time to do everything I want.
Time to:
Sew my own wardrobe.
Make cinnamon rolls from scratch.
Become a runner.
Write a newsletter (or a story, or a novel, or anything).
Relearn Bach’s preludes on piano.
Take public transit.
Iron/steam my clothes before they go in the closet.
Rewatch all 7 seasons of Prime Suspect while I knit myself a Misha & Puff popcorn sweater.
Hem the one bedroom curtain that’s too long.
Figure out how to shop on TheRealReal.
Post all of the clothes I cleaned out of my closet to Noihsaf.
Sew Orion his own birthday crown.
Get an MBA or maybe a certificate in brand strategy.
Have sit-down family dinners with candles and real conversation.
Walk everywhere.
Get 8+ hours of sleep each night.
Read all of the books I bought since the pandemic started and I decided that’s where I wanted to put my money (after being a library book girlie for decades).
Finish the quilt I started two years ago for my friend’s baby.
Learn how to properly clean and shine up my shoes so they don’t look so raggedy since I never look where I walk.
Do weight lifting / HIIT workouts 3-5 times a week to help lower my cholesterol.
Negotiate a lower interest rate for my credit card.
Visit Goodwill frequently enough to find the perfect trench coat.
Find a way to get on top of all the pet hair that collects and coats every corner, seam, and fabric surface in our house.
See eastern and southern Oregon (and not just the handful of spots on the coast we always go to).
Post something to my Instagram grid.
Book Lasik surgery so I can see clearly in the middle of the night if there’s an intruder (or a natural disaster / apocalyptic event).
Update my devices when they say I should.
Read through all the pages / tabs I have open on my desktop and phone browser at any given moment (total count as of this writing is 225 across all devices).
Photo document each item in my wardrobe and build a digitized catalogue of outfit options.
Sit down and eat a meal without looking at a screen or reading a paper.
I think about these things all of the time, and often feel something close to desperation at not having the time to do them all. I’ve comforted myself with “someday” my whole life.
And then, in late December last year, it became really clear that the possibility of “someday” was rapidly shrinking.
The trip to Kansas was a big one that checked a lot of boxes: long family road trip (in a safe, reliable car — a new thing for us); being with extended family for the holidays for the first time since the pandemic; doing classic Christmas in Kansas City things with my kids (which they mostly tolerated with grace and humor).
Then, on one of the fuzzy days between Christmas and New Years, Sebastian and I had a conversation about whether or not we’d have another child.
Both of our pregnancies were unplanned. I was 22 and just finishing undergrad when we had Pan; Orion came 14 months later. We lived below the poverty line for most of the first decade of their lives.
I’d always thought I would — and wanted to — experience pregnancy and the early years again: planned, properly resourced, with the knowledge and know-how I have after raising two back-to-back. I really thought I would — someday.
But now I’m 37. There’s less and less time for a pregnancy to happen easily. And Sebastian made it clear in December that he doesn’t want to restart that journey at this point in our lives.
With that off the table, I felt doors closing.
At 37 (almost 38), it becomes less likely every day that I’ll do many of the things I thought of as possible — someday.
I probably won’t:
Get another degree at Oxford or Cambridge.
Live in Paris (or Rome, or Barcelona).
Speak French conversationally.
Marry one of the princes and become the Queen of England (to be fair, I let this one go after middle school).
Start a flower farm in upstate New York.
Train as a pastry chef and open my own bakery.
Renovate a Brownstone in Brooklyn.
Become a tenured professor at one of my alma maters.
Live a lifestyle where I can afford to color my hair frequently enough to be blonde.
Get invited to fashion week.
Try on a minimalist lifestyle.
Have another baby.
All this year, I’ve feel like I’ve been grieving the loss of possibility.
I do know that I’m only 37. And that when I’m 40, my first child will be 18. Life will look dramatically different in just a few years.
And my kids aren’t out of the house yet; we’re still years away from that. They still need me, and I still have something to give (although it becomes less clear what that is the older they get).
But this is what I’m feeling now, what I’ve been feeling all year. It’s likely it will pass. Maybe I’ll start making new lists (and new boards). I’ve already started cleaning up my Pinterest account, deleting decade-old pins that I no longer love, or that no longer feel possible, one-by-one — a process that takes hours of my time and often makes my eyes and stomach hurt.
The truest thing I know is that anytime I’ve tried to map a route (through grad school to a career in writing / publishing and academia; through marriage and partnership; through a wardrobe overhaul that leans into a whole new personal style; through a holiday week), things usually do not go as planned. And, more often than not, the ways they work out are better than I imagined.
I’m trying to remember that now.
Is there anything you’ve tucked away for someday that you’ve had to let go of? What’s helped make the letting go easier?
If you’re reading this in your inbox, you can find a shareable version online here. I’m on Instagram here, and you can reach me at chelseaslaven@gmail.com.