What to Do When Every Decision Feels Impossible
Doesn’t it feel like the world is a harder place to make decisions in than it used to be? I’m usually allergic to the “In my day, things were different” line, but maybe it’s true. Each day, I find that I am increasingly inured to the shocking. From 2024 election updates to climate terror to ongoing geopolitical heartbreak, the alarm and concern of each news alert settles into me in a low simmer of incessant, churning dread. I am mired in agitated information bulletins and bite-size pop-up horrors, and it is from this swamp that I am expected to make a daily suite of calm, confident decisions that keep my life on track.
We’re all facing choices at multiple grain sizes. From the micro (what to have for dinner, what weight of jacket is appropriate for today’s forecast) to the macro (what kind of work should I devote my life to, where to live, whether to have children), each potential decision demands our care and attention. And regardless of grain size, each one feels like a referendum on something else. For example, the every-single-day question of what to eat for dinner feels like I’m making a statement about my parenting philosophies, my anxiety about climate change, and, if we go out, whose livelihoods we are supporting. The world around me seeps into view, complicating the choice in front of me; and while these choices may seem small or insignificant in the moment, the residue of this daily slog of decision-making accumulates over time, clouding the landscape.
On top of this, I’m worried that I’m fumbling the more important decisions—namely, the ones about my children. For example, living in an urban area, I am blessed with options for school: Should I send them to our neighborhood public school or enter them into the lottery for one of the nearby public charters? Decisions like these are about more than my personal preference or what might be individually best for my children. My ultimate decision will say something—to my kids, to my neighbors—about what my values are. What if I send them to schools outside of the neighborhood, and export our energy, time, and resources with them? What message does that send to my kids about what our family thinks is important?
I’ve realized that I flounder less when I can slow down and be explicit about my goals. I’ve been trying to reflect on these questions at the beginning each day: What are my goals for this phase of my life? What can I do today to get me closer to those larger aims? Right now, my primary goal (the goal of parents worldwide) is to raise healthy, engaged children. I want them to feel rooted in a community of friends and family, I want them to know what it feels to be loved and cared for. When I can clearly articulate this each day, it helps me orient my choices toward something, and makes prioritizing the background noise and information a little easier.
Alongside these daily reflections, I’m trying to be really honest with myself about my capacity. Exhaustion—the kind that comes with parenting, with a full-time job, with loving an extended family, and with being deeply (blessedly) embedded in a community of friends and neighbors—is part of the gig of being alive. I find that I’m nearly always walking a line between being too hard on myself (I’m not doing enough, I’m being lazy), and finding myself completely disassociated by the day’s end, as if there is quite literally only enough brain power to scroll social media for 20 minutes before falling into a too-short sleep. Within that twin reality, I’m trying to explicitly state what I’m capable of each day, each week, each year. What resources can I call on? What difference can I effect? Within the goals I’ve laid out for myself, where do I actually have control? When I can make decisions from the place where “what I’m capable of” intersects with “what is within my control,” I’m more confident in my choices.
Of course, there’s a caveat. We can’t let ourselves off the hook for the future because it isn’t “within our control.” In my case, part and parcel of raising healthy and engaged children is ensuring there is a safe, just, equitable world for them to live in. We are all always responsible for integrating our visions of what that world should look like into our personal goals. Yes, we’re living in wildly complex circumstances. But if we can see ourselves as part of something larger, we can consider how our daily decisions can ripple out and support progress around us.
And finally, there must be room for joy. This isn’t a negotiable. It is a critical, necessary component of creating the conditions for us all to thrive in: When we’re all just muddling along trying to achieve something, it’s a lot harder to imagine the future we’re trying to bring about. So, the other day, after my sweet city of Baltimore endured unimaginable tragedy, I made an executive decision. Two hours and two kite purchases later, my kids and I spent the afternoon close to each other, breathing in the scent of cherry blossoms, and we made room for joy.
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