On fear of failure in modern times

I once attended a high school reunion. I was 20, a college student with a boyfriend, good grades and a social life; my future looked promising. That was 10 years ago. Now, the sole thought of attending another one of those makes me feel dizzy.

Wow, time has passed. I drunk my uni years away - and passed some subjects by the skin of my teeth although I certainly could have done better -, I joined a metal band, and a riot grrl band, and a music collective; I changed countries and left all that behind, became a teacher, then a teaching assistant, then a waitress, then went back to uni and here I am: a 30 year-old audio production graduate in lockdown looking for work, convincing myself that every day is another opportunity to reorient my music projects and follow my dreams while feeling overwhelmed by the vast array of possibilities out there and freaking out every now and then because of, well, adult life. I am also happily single. Would I want to attend another high school reunion? I don't think so.

Although I am very happy with my life decisions and proud of my achievements, I can hear the thought of my own failure in life in the back of my mind. It feels like living in a limbo where, if I don't move at all, I am only doing time. There is so much I could criticise about today's ideal of success and, in particular, the pressure on creative people to clearly define a personal brand that is aesthetically appealing, relevant, consistent and very well thought and put together but also fresh and relatable. Nevertheless, the thought persists. Now that I am not a tween anymore - I am still coming to terms with that... - some days this thought is much weaker than it used to, and some days it is much stronger.

Young success is very much romanticised. The girl who started saving when she was 17 and owned her own house by the age of 20, the 19 year-old who got invested in cryptocurrency two years ago and is now a billionaire. Almost like highly photoshopped Instagram pictures, we consume these stories like they represent reality and are not either a very rare exception or the consequence of coming from a very privileged background. Still, we take these as examples, and, somehow, end up believing that money and status are as accessible as supermarket groceries if you work hard enough. The myth of meritocracy strikes again.

You can always embellish the truth - we have all applied for jobs, right? -. You can always make yourself sound more interesting, avoiding less appealing details about your personality and enhancing your best qualities - dating apps, anyone?-. The same way we choose our best pictures for our profiles, we cautiously craft our personal stories. And yes, there is beauty in doing so, but to me, the beauty relies on the display of vulnerability, passion, kindness, self-growth; because they allow us to connect with others. The ability to monetise such connection, the so-called 'success' in social media/modern day terms, has very little to do with its quality. In a sum: your value does not depend on how much people are willing to pay for what you do.

As an artist, the possibility of succeeding according to today's standards haunts me. I have this recurring dream: I dream of airplanes forced to land halfway through the trip. No need for Dr. Freud to come tell me what that means. Yes, I fear failure. But what does 'failure' really mean anyway? I hear stories now and then of people who 'made it' in terms of money and status, and many came to a point when they realised they were unhappy - some even went through depression-.

If even that can be not good enough, what is? I don't think I have the solution, but I have come to the realisation that success if subjective: what is good for you could be shitty for somebody else. Also, success is a marketed good: in our quest for it, we pay for things that we are made believe that they will 'get us there'. At the end of the day, what is left is the memories of the journey, as cliched as this may sound. The next time I dream of an airplane force landing, maybe I should take some time to explore that middle ground; who knows what I may find.