On Pessimism
To plans that never work out.
I’ve become a pessimist.
It happened in the same way that Hazel Grace Lancaster felt about sleep in The Fault in Our Stars,
slowly, and then all at once.
But I wasn’t always like this—at least, not that I remember.
There was a time when I was an optimist, when I believed in good things, in bright futures, in paths paved by the best intentions.
If you read enough self-help books growing up, you start to think that way too.
It’s not that I don’t have hope.
It’s not that I don’t wish for the best.
I do.
But I like to think I’m more grounded now, more practical. I don’t plan for the best-case scenario. I prepare for the worst.
And I think—
there’s a bit of peace in that.
But, like most things, it’s complicated.
I like to plan for the worst, the man-with-the-plan, always thinking three steps ahead.
If the worst happens? I’m ready.
If the best happens? Then it’s a pleasant surprise, something to savor, something to celebrate.
But if I were an optimist—
if I always expected good things, always counted on the best—
then wouldn’t disappointment follow me more times than I’d like?
Maybe I’ve just been disappointed too many times before.
Maybe this is just a coping mechanism, a form of protection.
I don’t know.
But I like this approach.
I like being realistic, being grounded.
The man with the plan.
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