Embracing Pit Stops: 1202 Alaska Highway

“Promise me. If we aren’t married by age 30, you and I will get married.”

Those words have come up in umpteen romantic comedies. But, my 16-year-old self had a much more specific plan. I told my ‘university prep’ counsellor, Ms. Fraser, “Listen, I don’t want to go to university. I just want to get married and have children. And, if I don’t have a father for those children by age 30…well, I’ll be artificially inseminated.” 

I probably didn’t really know what artificial insemination was, but I said it with such conviction that Ms. Fraser surely squirmed in her chair. This was a private girls’ school that prided itself on graduating career-driven students. And I wanted none of it.  

At 16, I had a plan. Who doesn’t? Partner in a law firm, millionaire and semi-retired, owner of two homes, writer, painter, Hollywood star. But, today, on my 30th birthday, I can say with absolute certainty, that every aspect of my life so far has been in opposition to my so-called “plan”. 

I have no children. I’m not married. I went to university. I did a BA. Then an MA. And here I am, 11 years later, still in university. (Yes, Ms. Fraser, you were right!) 

So much for my plan.

We are told that planning is important. We should plan our trips to the grocery store. Plan for that next big vacation. Plan for retirement. We are taught to brace for when life does not go according to plan. Taught to have that earthquake preparedness kit at the ready. Taught to put money aside for a rainy day.

But what about changes? What about when life opens a door you didn’t see before? What about when you’re thrown a curve-ball? What about being open to re-routing? To side roads or alternate paths? 

In October, I learned my partner’s work would take him to Beaver Creek, Yukon. At the time I was scouring the Vancouver real estate pages, envisioning a condo on Cambie Street. A labradoodle. A pair of bikes. Consistency. 

But it hummed in my mind: Beaver Creek. The Yukon. A new beginning. A new challenge. A new experience. Change.  

I had big apprehensions. What would a move like this mean for my career? I’m in the 4th year of my PhD. I’m doing research, teaching, networking, building up my professional portfolio. How could I reconcile these things with such a major change?

Thankfully, as I was experiencing this plan-oriented crisis, an academic mentor offered some advice: “Hilary, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that will be both personally and professionally beneficial.” 

And, so, that settled it. I mean, it wasn’t quite as simple as that, but sometimes you just need a reminder that “the plan” isn’t based on much more than guesses, wishes, and fear of the unknown.  

Think back to the clichéd movie scene in which a plan of a future last-resort-marriage is hatched. If I were to take a wild guess, I’d imagine that plan was the product of future-self-worry. Concern that life just wouldn’t turn out if you didn’t have a plan.  

But 30-year-old me is conceding that we can’t always see the horizon, let alone past it. We need to learn to go-with-the-flow at least a little bit, and know that even the best laid plans will go awry. So here, I am, embarking on a new chapter. The non-plan chapter. 

These are the tenants of this chapter.

1.     Recognize that opportunities exist everywhere

I used to work at a bakery. I worked there for 15 years. It’s hard to imagine working half one’s life at the same place, I’m sure, but this was a special place. It’s been a neighbourhood bakery since 1935. Some (many, in fact) of the customers have been regulars their entire lives. This might mean they had their first Moore’s Sugar Cookie at age 2, and now they’re 85. Although their predilection for Sugar Cookies may have shifted to Brown Bread over the years, they remain loyal customers. 

During my shifts, I talked to many, many people. Old, young, and in between. At first I knew nothing about their lives. But over the course of 15 years of slicing, bagging, and twist-tying their bread, I grew to know them. Some were reticent or shy or newer customers and I imagined their lives, what brought them to Moore’s and for whom they were choosing Hovis over Brown, Danishes over Nanaimo Bars. Others opened up and shared insights that have served me well over the years. All of these people helped shape me. They came from all walks of life. I met accountants, lawyers, plumbers, retirees, artists, home-makers, academics, homeless people, musicians, teachers, and so many others who contributed to the development of my academic and professional life. 

I learned that the people you meet, and the relationships you foster along the way offer opportunities to learn and grow and discover about yourself and the world around you things you might not have been open to before.

Beaver Creek was not part of my plan. Life outside of Vancouver, maybe, but the Yukon certainly wasn’t on my radar. But here I am. And if I’ve learned anything from my years at the bakery it’s that even if this chapter doesn’t entirely align with my chosen field of study, there are, nonetheless, many, many lessons to be learned. 

2.     Remember that we each walk our own path

I am a naturally competitive person. If I see a person eying the last container of mushrooms in the grocery store, you better believe I’ll race them to it. I don’t even like mushrooms. If a stranger walks faster than I do, I pick up my pace. My competitive nature is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, it’s great to push myself, but it also leads to comparison. 

“Well, she bought her first condo at age 25.” “They had a baby when they were 28 and look how happy they are!” “He had a tenure track position right after finishing his PhD.”

These are definitely things I’ve said to friends. I’ve used a proverbial yard stick to measure up my accomplishments against others. I’ve wondered why my life isn’t playing out with quite as much ease as his or hers or theirs. You get my drift: Compare, compare, compare. 

I’m trying to let my competitive edge soften a little when I consider others’ life trajectories. My life is unique, and my life is mine. Surely, we’ve heard it enough—“the way their life looks to the outsider is rarely the way it’s actually unfolding.”

So, I figure now, why not try to let go of that comparison. I can still compete for that last container of mushrooms or race the person on the sidewalk (both near impossible in Beaver Creek where there is neither a sidewalk nor a grocery store). But stop comparing. Choose instead to recognize my achievements, even if they don’t necessarily align with those of my peers. 

3.     Appreciate the process

I remember eagerly awaiting a vacation (where to, I forget, but never mind) years ago. I told my mum, “I just can’t wait to be on the plane.” She replied with wise words, as she often does (don’t you hate how mums have a knack for that!?). “I’ve always thought the process of awaiting a vacation is almost as exciting as the vacation itself.” 

And, it’s true. I think of the days I’ve spent getting ready for a vacation. Whether it’s making sure I have all the right outfits (yes, yes, before my need versus want realization), getting my hair done, studying maps, reading reviews, or planning days, that process of preparing is absolutely exciting. 

But it is easy to forget to appreciate the process. Process means work. You might be cooking dinner, or writing your dissertation (ahem), but the process is always more work than the energy involved in enjoying the result. We think of the result as being what we should look forward to—what we should anticipate, but we should remember that we can savour the process, too.

So here I am. 30. Embarking on the non-plan plan. Which is to try to look at the things in my here and now. Embrace the moments, happy or sad, exciting or dull, action-packed or lonely. Know they contribute to my non-plan chapter.

When I was little, I wanted to be a medical doctor, ride my horse to work, and live on a farm with my mum and dad (I think I may have wanted to marry my mum and dad, but let’s not get into that. I was young, ok?!). That plan changed pretty quickly when I realised that as a medical doctor, I’d have to tend to sick people. I wasn’t that fond of all that comes with being sick. (Of course, I also realized I couldn’t marry my parents). My plan changed.  

At age 16, told Ms. Fraser, without hesitation, where I’d be by age 30. I thought I knew what my 30-year-old self would want. I thought I had life figured out. Sure, if being smart meant doing relatively well in school, I was smart enough, but I wasn’t wise. How could I be? I was 16! I had no perspective, no experience.

Hence the importance of high school guidance counsellors. Or parents. Or wise bakery customers.

Note: Wise, been-around-the-block Ms. Fraser acknowledged my 16-year-old desire to get married and have children, and steadily continued to suggest university, knowing full-well that my 21-year-old self would reluctantly appreciate her for it, and that my 30-year-old self would feel indebted to her for it. 

It’s all about perspective.

I have a lot of perspective in Beaver Creek.I can stand atop a mountain, look out and see nothing but nature. No crowding of sky-scrapers, cars, and people. It’s the big picture. And in that picture, I’m pretty damned small. Lots of room for growth. Endless possibilities. Umpteen challenges, unforeseen tribulations or unexpected joys.

So long and short of it, I don’t know where I’ll be in 30 years. I’m just starting to know where I am now.