No one I knew had died, not recently anyway. That wasn’t the problem. Even so, some strange and persistent half-formed idea about loss tormented me. It was the end of the semester. I was overworked and overwhelmed, still drowning in papers, exams and projects of all kinds. In the college coffee shop I ignored all of those for the moment, focused on trying to articulate to my professor over lunch what exactly was bothering me.
It was a number of little things. For one, a literature class I took occasionally required someone from each reading group to illustrate something from the reading. I like drawing so I consistently volunteered to do it. I don’t consider myself artist, though I can fake a decent sketch every so often, but I was surprised to find my classmates actually liked them. Not merely in an “I appreciate the effort” kind of way or an obliging “those are some nice stick figures” compliment. No, this was a genuine enjoyment.
Second, a friend from the same class keep pressuring strongly encouraging me to draw a comic of the book instead of writing the syllabus dictated research paper. I ended up doing so, but not without remembering a distant memory of a long forgotten identity.
When I was little, I loved to draw. People made the mistake of telling me I was good at it (maybe I was, relatively speaking, for an 8 year old) and I made the mistake of listening. Thus, 11 years old and clutching a lackluster portfolio of crayon and pencil sketches all on white printer paper, I made appearance at the local art school open house. The professors must have thought I was adorable and precocious. They weren’t condescending and showed me how to color with fancy markers and colored pencils. Afterwards, upon being asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I confidently told my listeners that I wanted to attend this college of art and design majoring in either graphic or interior design.
How things change. Now, about 10 years later, I’m an English major and haven’t seriously picked up and art pencil in a good long time. The thing was, somehow, I slowly must have realized I wasn’t that talented. I don’t remember a big or unpleasant revelation. My interests just drifted. I spend more time reading and less time scribbling, with short passions for psychology or teaching dying off along the way.
With these thoughts muddling up my mind in that college coffee school, I finally got down to the crux of the matter.
“I don’t think people really mourn their losses. Not just when someone dies, but the loss of potential. It’s the loss might-have-been,” I said. “No matter what you choose, even if it’s good, you’re giving up something else.”
For me, one of those losses was art. Sure, I had never been as talented as I had fancied myself at 11 years old. I feel like, at that age, accurate self assessment is rare. But that doesn’t stop me wondering if had chosen the art, whether I would have practiced and improved or floundered on before giving it up.
My professor revealed she feels the same way about piano and music. She’d wanted lessons as a kid, but it never worked out. I mention other people with conflicting interests and we continued to talk.
This I what I've gathered since that conversation. I imagine almost everyone can think of something that they’ve lost. All humans give up interests and passions. Sometimes consciously and other times not, slowly over time. This kind of loss can go unrecognized and forgotten. We live our lives and that’s okay.
I don’t want to endorse a world where everyone mopes about, sulking over some unfulfilled childhood dream or questionable decision. Needless and consuming regret is far from everyday losses. That’s not healthy and not all losses reach back that far. Some are a wish that you made better friends with the guy you sat next to in Chemistry. Others are a questions about careers and friends and families. We need to realize and recognize who we used to be, what our passions were, even the friends we had.
Without realization, we can’t mourn all that might have been. By “mourning” I mean giving yourself permission for a little solemn contemplation. In my case, to muse over how, without even knowing it, I chose writing over graphic design. My “mourning” I understand myself better. Like when I overreact to a poor font choice, I have some perspective; the potential graphic designer in me isn't completely gone.
The particular losses are different for everyone. Some are recent and others aren't. The importance come when we better understand who we are and how far we’ve in relation to the past.
That last bit is crucial. Right now, I can choose whether I want to rediscover art, to relearn to draw, to talk to someone I miss, or whatever loss I notice. But this is key: my theory of loss isn’t just about reclaiming our them. It more of a celebration. We see our past decisions and how they’ve shaped us. This helps us make better choices for the future, more attuned to what we’re giving up and better equipped to know whether it is worth it.
Morning loss like a good funeral. We laugh and cry. We see ourselves for what we are and what we were. Celebrating loss isn’t looking at yourself to see what pieces you’re missing. It’s looking at the person you are and searching for the person you strive to become.
