Xander S.
Photography by Alex Gogo
If you’re reading this, you don’t have to do it all at once.
If you're reading this, I encourage you to take a breath. Might I add, a real one: focus on the cool rush of air entering your nostrils, then on the slightly warmer exhale that follows. No matter how similar they feel, no breath is truly the same. Whether we think of this literally (like on a sick day with only one functioning nostril) or figuratively—as a means of staying in touch with the present moment—each breath allows us to learn a lesson from the last. It's only natural here that we change, big or small: inhaling deeper to help ourselves feel more relaxed, pretending we're not smelling that odor on University Place to continue speed walking to class, or giving ourselves a few more breaths of time for a bed rot.
I've spent years chasing this feeling of arrival: of closure, release, and moving on for the sake of progressing to the next thing. In search of the certainty of having it all figured out, my meager interest in computer science, Stanford University, and a six-figure salary (in that order) from my sixth-grade self has since unfolded into taking my kindergarten teacher’s advice of creating an education and career entirely my own while loving the coast and city I grew up in. In the process, I've tried to map myself onto timelines that weren’t mine, fitting into versions of myself I hadn't fully grown into yet. Think of the High School “who got less sleep” Olympics and career goals I find myself rewriting now—and think I always will be.
I learned the hard way that becoming is far from a straight line, or even an identifiable shape at all. After all, how can you describe this process of layering? I definitely do it differently from you, from the FIT kids in Midtown, from the tradespeople of Industry City, and from the parents just trying to keep their kids warm. It’s been quite sondering and grounding to think of my time in the city this way: layering up or down for the spectrum of weather, my fields of interest, or the bandwidth I have for things straying from the plan for the day ahead.
But I know, it's hard to trust this internal wayfinding if you feel like a cheaply made white tee in a sea of ethically made, sustainably sourced cotton wardrobes. Who wouldn’t? But in the same way that these pieces can brag about the sum of their parts—what is an outfit without a literal foundation? What are any of these pieces of clothing without the invisible labor responsible for their production? Nothing. But something must come from nothing.
All the more reason to trust the process of your becoming. The things that hit the compost pile now—whether they be projects, ideas, conversations, or even people—can one day be the fertilizer for your next garden, with stewards just for one or for many. Even better, what is there to force when you own the yard? Why rush when you don’t even have to wait for Spring to come? Keep building. Keep learning. Keep letting yourself be surprised by what takes shape, color, or form. And don’t hold your breath—the world is trying to share the next one with you, no matter how you layer.
Xander S., New York University
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