Conveyor Belt Existence
by Jess Hope Katz
What is it like to live a life without purpose?
What is it like to come home from work and have nothing to do except relax yourself?
I have always felt that my life was like a conveyor belt, like there was this invisible platform pushing me forward. Even if I didn’t want to move forward, inevitably, I would have to. Whether it felt like pressure from my family, friends, bosses, or partners, it was always me. I have always been my harshest critic and judge.
I’d like to blame it on someone, but I look around and there is no one to blame. I was having a conversation with colleagues today about something, and I asked the group where they went to college. Did I really want to know? Not necessarily. I was just curious if anyone went to a school “better” than mine. Why? I was measuring myself up against people. I didn’t do it on purpose. I guess I was just just trying to see where I stood in comparison to these other teachers. Most said very average and run of the mill responses. Then a man turned to me and said, “Cornell” and I’m like, oh lord. My parents are double alum from Cornell, and even though I went to good schools I have always felt like a failure because I didn’t go there.
Whenever someone tells me they went to an Ivy, I always feel exceedingly self conscious and ashamed, as if I’d done something that was worth punishment. It’s only me punishing myself though, so it seems pretty counterproductive. I was raised to believe that a college education was worth something, and had meaning in the world, was a social currency of sorts. In today’s world, no one cares whether you go to college, because everything is about money and technology, and popping out more babies. Men compete about their money, women about who married the most money, and whose children are better. I have no hand in this game because I didn’t marry for money and do not have children.
I like to think that my art is something that leaves a lasting impression on this world. I’d like to think that it doesn’t matter that I don’t have kids or a lot of money.
Somewhere in my mind, it still does.
I wish I could untrain, unlearn these beliefs, but they seem to stick with me, after all these years. I think about the people in the family who married certain people “with money” or “success” and have the “cute grandbabies” and I develop a deep, profound sense of sadness.
My life isn’t bad. I do not lack for anything. Yet, I see relatives with their little kids and it hits me in the gut that I do not have a legacy to leave. Who will take care of me when I’m old? Who will I tell all of my ridiculous stories to? Who will I love and take care of?
I don’t need to have a biological child. I think that time has come and gone.
But when I think about the trajectory of my life, more than ever, I so deeply want to raise a child.
But maybe it’s not in the cards for me. And maybe other people are meant to be rich, and I am not.
Then what am I meant to do? To teach? To help kids learn? These are noble pursuits, but I often feel like something more is waiting for me, yet it remains unnamed. I try to fill that yearning with making more art, seeing more friends, doing more for my students, yet I come up short. Was I meant to be a parent?
It is not even important anymore.
I’m not one. Nothing will change that.
And somehow, I need to be okay with that.
I'm right there with you Jess. Supposedly comparison is the thief of joy but I still can't stop doing it. My life really didn't turn out how I expected it to and got badly derailed right before covid...I often think a lot about how I really only have one close friend in my age group, and it's mostly because most people my age are either married or having families or big successful careers doing something important. It's hard not to feel small or like a failure, but there's nothing for me to do but keep going forward and seeing what life has in store.