Because apparently the universe didn’t get the memo
It’s Christmas Eve and I had to make an ill-timed last-minute run to the grocery store.
Of course, it’s packed. Carts overflowing with junk food nobody needs. Frazzled people navigating the aisles like zombies, grabbing items off shelves without thinking. The same fifteen Christmas songs on repeat since the day after Halloween blaring from the speakers. Again.
I watch a woman argue with her husband about which cheese they should buy, probably for people they see once a year. A grumpy man loads his cart with expensive wine for a get-together he clearly isn’t happy about. Someone’s kid is melting down at the checkout lane. Everyone looks exhausted. And it’s not even Christmas yet.
God, the sheer waste of it. People spending money they don’t have on things nobody wants for gatherings they don’t want to go to. And they’ll do it all over again next year without ever stopping to ask why.
Meanwhile I’m standing in the meat aisle with my own cart, holding a pack of expensive organic chicken breast. This is all my senior dog Rumi will eat since his recent surgery. Hours of research spent carefully selecting the ‘right’ human-grade limited ingredient dog foods that cost more than my own meals. Detailed ingredient analysis. Small bags ordered to test. Everything about these foods says they should work.
But he won’t eat them.
And I catch myself. Frustrated. Irritated. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
I notice I’m also tired, even though I got enough sleep last night. My stomach is literally growling, but it shouldn’t be because I just ate 2 hours ago.
That’s when I hear it. The same refrain running underneath everything in this store, underneath the entire holiday season: This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
And suddenly I’m exhausted. Not from the circumstances themselves, but from this constant carrying around of imaginary versions of reality and the repeated disappointment when the actual one doesn’t comply.
***
The holidays are basically Supposed To Season.
The family gathering should feel warm and connected. Everyone should be getting along. You shouldn’t still be triggered by that comment your Uncle Phil made last year. The meal should turn out perfect. You should feel joyful, grateful, festive.
You shouldn’t be eating that third cookie. Or that fourth glass of wine. You should have more self-control.
And then there’s the money. You should buy gifts for everyone who’s ever been within five miles of you. It doesn’t matter that you don’t actually want to see most of these people or that they don’t want the gifts you’re buying. There’s this invisible obligation that says this is what you’re supposed to do.
So you spend money you don’t have on things nobody needs, forcing yourself through gatherings you’re dreading, all while your mind runs this constant comparison between how the holidays are supposed to look and what’s actually happening.
Which is usually: dysfunction, awkward conversations you’ve been avoiding all year now suddenly mandatory, and someone getting drunk and saying what everyone’s been thinking but not saying.
But the real torture? New Year’s.
The annual inventory of everything that didn’t happen this past year that should have. All the goals you should have reached. The weight you should have lost. The person you should have become by now.
And then you construct this elaborate simulation of next year. This is the year you’ll finally get it right. Lose that weight. Become perfect. Be nice all the time. Never have any “bad” feelings. Finally be the person you decided you’re supposed to be.
It’s exhausting. This constant comparing of reality to a fiction made up from childhood conditioning, old beliefs, magazine covers, Instagram feeds, what you think other people expect. None of it based on what actually IS.
***
So when I say “this shouldn’t be happening” or “it’s supposed to be different,” what exactly am I comparing reality to?
A fantasy. A simulation. Something my mind constructed based on hopes, old conditioning, what I read online, whatever.
I’m standing in actual reality, comparing it to my imaginary reality, and suffering because they don’t match.
The absurdity is: I’m not really upset about what IS. I’m upset that what IS doesn’t match what I MADE UP.
The weather doesn’t consult my preferences before it rains. My body doesn’t check in with my mental schedule before it gets hungry. Rumi doesn’t care how many hours I spent researching his food. He likes what he likes.
But somehow I still walk around carrying these elaborate mental models of how things should be, and then get genuinely shocked and upset when reality has the audacity to be reality instead.
***
Here’s what I keep forgetting: Reality is often better than my simulations.
When I was in college, I was in my first serious relationship. I was absolutely certain he was The One. When it ended, I was crushed. Devastated. I genuinely thought my life was over. That this wasn’t supposed to happen. That we were supposed to be together forever.
Now when I look back on that relationship, I laugh. And I thank the universe it didn’t last.
Because from where I stand now, I can see how clearly it wouldn’t have worked long-term. How limited my understanding was then of what I actually needed, who I would become, what kind of partnership would truly fit my life.
My nineteen-year-old’s simulation of “how it’s supposed to be” would have been disappointing. Constraining. Wrong.
Reality knew better.
***
Reality is what it is — whether I approve or not. The only question is whether I’m going to waste my precious energy arguing with it.
Lately I’m trying something different. When I catch those words — “supposed to,” “should be,” “shouldn’t be” — I’m asking myself: What’s great about what IS happening?
Not in a toxic positivity way. Not pretending everything is wonderful. But genuinely curious about what’s actually here instead of what I decided should be here.
When Rumi won’t eat the food I chose? He’s communicating clearly. His body knows what it needs better than my research does.
When I’m tired even though I “shouldn’t be”? My body is giving me information I can’t consciously access yet.
When the weather doesn’t match the forecast? I get to practice flexibility instead of rigidity.
It’s still a practice. I still catch myself in the grocery store, frustrated that reality isn’t following my script. But at least now I can see what I’m doing.
And sometimes — not always, but sometimes — I’m surprised by what’s actually there when I’m not too busy arguing with it.
