What my first apartment taught me about letting go
I am a person who, for as long as I can remember, did in fact put the cart before the horse, despite the well-known idiom warning me against it.
Not only would I put the cart before the horse. I’d find the cart. Secure decorations for the cart. Measure the dimensions of the cart. Make a 3D model of the cart. Make a mood board for the cart. Name the cart. Design a flyer for the party celebrating the cart. I’d love the cart, not only before the horse, but before the cart even existed.
Since I was a little girl, I was obsessed with the details and very rarely zoomed out to see the bigger picture. This has been both a blessing and a curse.
In general, being detail-oriented is, in my opinion, an excellent trait and one I've found quite helpful in lots of endeavors. For example, I attribute part of my academic success in my undergrad studies to my high school self's hunger for, not just attention to, detail. I single-handedly formulated my four-year academic plan using the university’s academic catalog while I was still a senior in high school. Needless to say, I got along very well with my academic advisor and our semesterly meetings were spent less on advising and more on chatting about her grandchildren. I knew the academic experience I wanted and I spent hours before my freshman year pouring over the details of how I would go about it.
When I was in middle school – and convinced I would go into the film industry post-college to become a well-regarded 1st Assistant Director – I researched normal things like what schools had the best film programs and how to get into the Directors Guild of America. But there were, shall I say, less fruitful ways I spent my time on the details.
I researched not-so-normal things, spending hours long past my bedtime scrolling through Zillow. I wanted to know things like where I'd live in Los Angeles once I became a world-famous 1st AD, how much house me and my non-existent husband would be able to afford, what property taxes were like in different counties in the Southern California area, and – perhaps the silliest of all – what schools my non-existent children would attend. Again, I was in middle school at the time, pouring hours in between homework and reading A Series of Unfortunate Events into researching details that I would never actually need to know.
And now, many years later having experienced both the fruit and faults of living in the weeds, I've perhaps finally learned my lesson with the biggest logistical endeavor to date: my first apartment, Monet' Manor.
I approached Monet' Manor like most endeavors in my life: enthusiastically details first. Long before it had a name or an address, I had a clear vision of it. I saw the cart well before I lived in it.
I saw the dinner parties I'd host in it. I saw the decor I'd have in it. I saw the restorative naps I'd take in it. I saw it all so clearly, in great detail.
What I also saw – though without much clarity, as if it were on a fuzzy, terribly distorted television screen – was the cost of moving out, the reality of living alone, and the logistics of having an apartment. And it was that lack of clarity, the pixelated view of the details I felt such a desire for, that kept me from actually getting the apartment for years. I was afraid because I felt like I couldn't actually know what I was getting myself into and therefore I couldn’t actually know if I was ready. I couldn't boil it down neatly into a pretty, color-coded chart like I could most other things. I didn't know what it would be like. I couldn't know the details. But that doesn't mean I didn't try.
Months after I committed to preparing for Monet' Manor despite my fear, I pestered my (kind, patient, and generous) friends endlessly with the question: "How do y'all pay your rent?" I wanted to know how in the world people were actually managing to get and keep their apartment. What I actually wanted to know was if I'd be okay. In hindsight, I was hiding my lack of faith behind the neutral trait of being detail-oriented and, in many ways, I took it too far, leaving me exhausted, frustrated, and in a self-induced decision paralysis.
Only after I got into Monet' Manor in February of this year, did I finally start to consider that my obsession with the details was not always a benefit to me, but sometimes a genuine hinderance and, at its worst, evidence of my desire for control and lack of faith in my God.
Funnily enough, this insight was discovered in a conversation about dating. I was telling a friend, after previously deciding to date again, that I wasn't sure if this was the right time for me because I couldn't really see exactly how I was going to fit a romantic relationship into my life logistically.
I was hesitant to be open to new relationships because I could not see how it would fit into my calendar. Baby, talk about being in the weeds. I was veering into making relational decisions based purely on my schedule and my lack of imagination that there was room. I didn't see space for it so I assumed there was none. But I caught myself! I zoomed out.
I delayed my move into Monet' Manor for so long because I couldn't see how paying rent would fit into my lifestyle. I didn't see apartment living for me logistically, so I assumed there was no space in my life for it, despite wanting it very much. But finally moving in, and now on my 6th month of paying rent on time (HALLELUJAHHH), I see now that there was plenty of room for it to fit (as my friends had been telling me for years).
The reality I live in now is much more easeful than I literally ever imagined. Where I could only see grief and pain and strife and sacrifice, there is much less of that to be seen here in the present. And to see my reality be so different from what I imagined, I've learned that being incessantly focused on the details is just not very helpful. What's important, as is true with most things, is finding a balance. There are indeed times where focusing on the details is critical and beneficial. But there is also a time for knowing when to zoom out, letting things progress organically and take shape as you go. I'm doing it now, but I do wish I would've started years ago. It would've saved me so much time and allowed me to be far more present.
But what's the other idiom? A bought lesson is better than a taught lesson. And this lesson has certainly cost me. But I pray I can continue learning and applying these lessons for the rest of my life.
Cheers to putting the cart where it belongs, being grateful for the horse, trusting God, and just enjoying the ride.
