byChrisWhite – 2015

Life, as we like to imagine it, often has a tidy little map at the outset, where we march forth with the assurance of a Napoleonic general, convinced our charted path will lead us straight into the arms of success. We declare our intentions with all the fervor of a motivational speaker: “I will marry someone spectacular, bear X number of offspring, dwell in a house with a white picket fence, and gaze fondly upon my splendid achievements by the sea.” And for some of us, those who watched too many Disney movies, that also meant a shiny crown, glass slippers, and a dashing prince with an accent that wasn’t entirely American.

Now, it turns out that finding someone who merely showers daily and manages to avoid the dreaded middle-aged paunch is closer to the jackpot than the idea of prince charming. And as for the crown? Well, perhaps it’s more of a metaphor for the bargain sunglasses we wear while navigating Costco on a Saturday.

Still, there are those few who live in the opulence of fulfilled daydreams, basking in the warmth of goals met without deviation, and without a speck of disappointment, likely the sort who never got acquainted with Murphy and his famously misguided laws. But for the rest of us, a more universal scenario is waking up one day, thirty years older than we care to admit, somewhere between cursing our parents for giving us unrealistic expectations or simply being grateful we have managed to accumulate a halfway decent mortgage, an adequate car, and an income that barely outweighs our debt.

Where I stand today and where that fifteen-year-old version of myself thought I’d be at fifty couldn’t be further apart. Back then, I thought I would be a psychiatrist, enlightening minds in a cushy office adorned with mahogany furniture and an air of gentle wisdom. Instead, a short spell in college taught me that while I had a natural gift for talking (and plenty of opinions about people’s problems), I lacked the stomach for all that “science stuff,” specifically the tedious rituals of dissecting frogs and memorizing bones.

So here I am, hardly a doctor but still prescribing my unsolicited wisdom, only in blog form rather than behind a desk with an embroidered nameplate. Turns out I can still dish out advice, just without the medical degree. Maturity might have played a role, or maybe Murphy decided to teach me a lesson in humility. Either way, here I sit, sharing my life’s absurdities for anyone willing to lend an eye.

I suppose our parents are partly to blame, nudging us toward paths they thought would suit our aptitudes, or worse, paths that fulfilled their dreams rather than ours. Teachers urged us to seek those big, profitable professions, doctor, lawyer, airline pilot, without quite realizing some of us preferred to dance in the moonlight rather than be stuck in a courtroom or cockpit. My own dreams danced between psychiatry and becoming a musician, though I soon learned that the stage was a harsh place for a soul who preferred a little less spotlight and a lot more sleep.

School was easy, maybe too easy. I never did take school too seriously, floating by on just enough talent to keep me out of trouble, without the trouble of hard work. I had a friend named Ray who was placed in the “resource” class, which essentially meant it was an easy ride, and since my idea of a good time didn’t include analyzing Shakespeare, I joined him there, simply for the thrill of skipping out on the honors course I’d been assigned to.

Turns out, fooling the system was a two-edged sword, sharp enough to make me laugh at the time, but with a bluntness that came back to haunt me later, when I faced the harsh reality of real academic effort. College demanded what high school had never asked of me, and I came up wanting, though not for long, as I’ve always been too stubborn to linger in self-pity.

So, what happens when you realize your dreams were more illusion than possibility? When you understand that the pilot’s license or psychology practice you imagined was just a flight of fancy, and you were never really equipped for it? You pivot. You find new roads. You embrace the unexpected pools you’ve dived into, and you relish the different view when you come up for air.

I once heard that the secret to life is resilience, not that I learned it in school or from some self-help guru. No, I’ve learned resilience from the relentless lessons delivered by good old Mr. Murphy. You see, Murphy doesn’t care how well-meaning you are, how kind you’ve been, or whether you put a tip in the jar. Murphy only cares about knocking you flat when you least expect it and forcing you to either get up, or stay there in the dirt.

And so I kept moving, physically and metaphorically. There have been more homes, more cities, and more mistakes than I care to count. There were stints in places that ranged from lovely to laughable, and countless episodes where optimism outpaced reality, leaving me to scramble in the aftermath. But in every place, there was learning, and the subtle art of building a thicker skin—resilience. You see, every time we fail, every time Murphy gets the better of us—we have a choice: stay down or stand up. And somewhere along the way, after enough times standing up, you stop doubting your own strength.

My wife, Emily, often jokes that we should build the simplest house imaginable, just to prove we aren’t out to impress the neighbors. And you know what? I think she’s right. There’s something powerful about simplicity, about resisting the urge to show off or prove something to others. Maybe that’s part of resilience too, the courage to live the way you want without worrying about anyone else’s judgment.

We make our way through life, accumulating scars and stories, gaining, if we’re lucky, not just the strength to stand back up, but the wisdom to know what’s worth standing for. If I’d been the psychiatrist I once imagined, maybe I wouldn’t have half the stories I do now, or the depth to understand the beauty in a broken road. Maybe I wouldn’t have Emily, or our son, or the perspective that tells me each twist and turn, each detour from the path I’d mapped out at fifteen, was exactly what I needed to lead me here.

You see, resilience isn’t about never falling, it’s about learning how to fall without breaking. It’s about letting go of the baggage that weighs you down, not because you don’t care, but because you finally understand that holding onto pain and anger serves no one, least of all yourself. It’s about knowing when to cut loose the people who pull you down and embracing those who lift you up.

I’ve found that resilience also demands a sense of humor, especially the kind that lets you laugh at yourself when life goes awry. And trust me, life will go awry, often in spectacular ways. But once you’ve got a few scrapes and bruises, and once you’ve learned to find the lesson in each misstep, it starts to get a little easier. Murphy may still be lurking around every corner, but you learn to expect him, and you learn to grin when he shows up.

And, perhaps most importantly, resilience means no longer caring so much what others think, it means recognizing that the only one truly qualified to judge you is God himself. We’re all flawed, all struggling, all trying to make sense of our own stories, and each of us has our own unique struggles. Maybe you’re not where you thought you’d be at fifty, but maybe, just maybe—you’re exactly where you need to be.

Life is messy, unpredictable, and often downright ridiculous, but it’s the way we respond to that messiness that defines us. So if you’re sitting there wondering why you’re not wearing a shiny crown or perched on a throne somewhere, know this: resilience doesn’t come from sitting on a throne. It comes from dusting yourself off, day after day, and finding the beauty in broken roads and unexpected detours. And it comes from knowing, deep down, that wherever you are, however different it is from where you thought you’d be—you’re still on a journey worth taking.