What if, instead of looking back or looking forward, I focus on what’s right in front of me?

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They say, “Comparison is the thief of joy”. If that’s true, why do I constantly compare my present self to my past self? And beyond that, why do I take it a step further and compare myself to a future version that doesn’t even exist yet? Why am I always looking back or peering ahead? What is it about the here and now that leaves me feeling so… unsettled?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been striving for something else – something better. As a little girl, it meant going above and beyond the school reading syllabus. As a teenager, it was doing everything I could to leave school with the best grades. At university, it became applying for study-abroad programs and jobs I was wildly underqualified for.

Now, as an adult, it’s been about moving across countries and circumstances, meeting and connecting with new people, chasing weird yet wonderful opportunities. And it’s been great – don’t get me wrong. But with all the freedoms and possibilities adulthood brings, it has also amplified my propensity to compare every version of myself.

In short, I’m stuck in a loop of constant reflection and anticipation. I’m here, but my mind is elsewhere – lingering on the past, and when that’s done, obsessing over what will or should happen next.

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This time last year…

This time last year – summer 2024 – I was living in Portugal. Soaking up the southern European sun. Sipping sparkling sangria with my best friend on the weekends. Teaching English during the week to make ends meet. Falling asleep to my Brazilian neighbours singing into the early hours.

This time last year, I was living what some might call “the dream”. And honestly, part of me still thinks of it that way – as a dream. It felt so surreal at times that I often wonder if I was just floating through the days. Okay… maybe the relentless heat had something to do with that, but still. On the whole, summer 2024 was all things hazy, lazy, and sometimes, crazy. (Yes, that was a Nat King Cole reference.)

When I think about who I was then – my priorities, my worries, my mindset – I see someone who is completely different from who I am today. A version of me who was desperately trying to make up for lost time. Someone trying to cram years of missed experiences into a single season. Someone who, when she finally got a moment to just be, was on the verge of being overwhelmed – by all the life she had just lived and all the life she knew was still coming.

In simpler terms, I saw someone fighting against the inevitable – the undeniable truth that she was no longer in a place where growth was possible.

It was right after my week-long trip to Italy. I had another week off work, left entirely to my own devices – left alone with my thoughts. Suddenly, what had felt like the summer of dreams morphed into an existential crisis I couldn’t outrun. What am I doing here? What is my purpose? What difference am I making? Just like that, my mind turned on me. Just like that, I went from completely content to completely, unequivocally, unsure.

This time last year, I stood on the brink – the beginning of the end of my time in Portugal.

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This time next year…

Modus Operandi (noun): a method of procedure; especially: a distinct pattern or method of operation that indicates or suggests the work of a single criminal in more than one crime (Merriam-Webster).

My modus operandi – or M.O., as it’s commonly called – is to look ahead, no matter how wonderful the present. Notice I say “ahead” and not “forward,” because if there’s one thing that rivals my excitement about the future, it’s fear. Fear, trepidation, anticipation; tomayto, tomahto. As much as I tend toward reflection, I’m equally guilty of looking too far ahead – of making predictions and assumptions about something none of us, not even the greatest minds on earth, can control.

Sure, the past and what we do in the present can shape the future to some degree. But ultimately, that beast will do as it pleases. And I know this – I really do. Yet I can’t help but wonder how my future will look. Over the years, I’ve gotten better at embracing the whole “what will be, will be” mentality, but I think I’ll always wrestle with surrendering completely to fate. Why? Because I like things a certain way.

This time next year – summer 2026. In my ideal world, I’ll still be in Manchester. Still writing. Still spending Sundays trying out new coffee shops. Still meeting strangers and collecting experiences. I’ll be in a job that fulfills me both personally and professionally – hopefully. And I’ll be infusing magic into everything I do – definitely.

It’s funny… as much as I like to think I’ve “mapped out” my future, if I tried to describe it to you, you’d probably have more questions than answers. For me, “this time next year” isn’t about creating a perfect, foolproof plan. Life doesn’t work like that. Yes, I have a vague vision of what I want – my living situation, relationships, career. But the real source of that fear I mentioned – the anticipation – isn’t about what my life will look like. It’s about how I will feel this time next year.

Will the things I do now still bring me joy? Will my lifelong dreams still matter – or will they have been shelved? Will I have changed – for the better?

Most importantly, will I be happy?

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This time…

This time – summer 2025 – I’m here. I’m writing. Sirens and screeching trains seep through the gaps in my windows. The faintest scent of jasmine lingers from my morning incense. There’s a tickle in my throat from a cold that refuses to leave. There’s so much that has happened, so much happening now, and so much waiting to happen.

At the start of 2025, I promised myself that whenever I could, I’d sit comfortably in the present moment. To just be. I can’t recall how many times I’ve broken that promise. The first half of this year was an ebb and flow of anxiety – of sitting uncomfortably (metaphorically) and itching to arrive at the place I’m in today. Still, I hold on to that promise. In fact, I’ve been holding on to it for as long as I’ve been actively conscious, and somewhat “in charge” of my past, present, and future.

I don’t know why I lean toward reflection or anticipation instead of simply existing. I don’t know why I look back and think, If only I’d done x, y, z differently… Or look forward, and tell myself, If this happens, then I’ll be…

I just don’t know.

What I do know, though – what I can say for certain – is this: I have, I do, and I always will, care. And there has to be something in that, right?

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Candles – C.P. Cavafy

Days to come stand in front of us

like a row of burning candles –

golden, warm, and vivid candles.

Days past fall behind us,

a gloomy line of burnt-out candles;

the nearest are still smoking,

cold, melted, and bent.

I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me,

and it saddens me to remember their original light.

I look ahead at my burning candles.

I don’t want to turn, don’t want to see, terrified

how quickly that dark line gets longer,

how quickly one more dead candle joins another.