Written by Nasir Harrison. Graphic by Avery Melhado.
This summer, I did something I didn’t want to do, and it was the best decision I could have made.
One of my sacred mantras in life is “do the things you don’t want to do.” It’s a saying that I force myself to live by when my days start feeling drab and dreary–when I find myself stuck in my own head, buried under the covers of my messy bed. Every year I tell myself my self-driven productivity is going to skyrocket. I have three months to tell myself this with no classes to worry about, and what better way to spend it than working on my personal projects? I planned to write a poem every day, learn 10 new skills, meet 20 new people, and accomplish 50 random things, all in the span of one break.
Not once have I ever accomplished even a tenth of the goals I set; it’s why I always end up repeating my mantra to myself, over and over, every single year.
To me, summer has always felt fleeting. It’s hard for me to enjoy it in its entirety after setting such lofty goals for myself. I spend the first weeks of my break basking in the sunlight, having too much fun in pools, and letting my mind spill into the pages of my notebook. The rush that comes with my newfound freedom is always exhilarating in the worst way possible. I overdo and underindulge. My creativity flourishes into a garden I cannot tame, while the passion that sparks each of my summers turns into an all-consuming flame, and like clockwork, I overwhelm myself.
I go from leisure to lethargy, stressing over task after task I’ve managed to pile onto my plate. The daily poems I swore I’d write become herculean tasks, and even waking up before the sun peels away from my blinds becomes akin to a fantasy.
That’s how summer feels to me. I had grown used to being the victim of my own brain, and I would keel over before I added “fixing this everlasting issue” to my plate of nonsense. But what’s a summer without a bit of a thrill? A little bit of doing the things you don’t want to do in lieu of dour days.
So, I started learning how to play chess, the most thrilling board game of all time. It was the slowest, most grueling activity I could think of, and exactly what I needed to pull myself out of this slump. I poured an endless amount of time learning how to play because I wanted to feel that thrill of success. Every time I sat down in front of that chessboard, hunger blossomed in the pit of my stomach and beckoned me to the finish line. It was the kind of feeling I was used to finding 15 feet above a trampoline bed or in the middle of a fast-paced tennis match. It was so foreign, but still so familiar.
Chess was a breath of fresh air for me. The rush that came with winning my first game was a pivotal moment that brought life back to my summer. I found joy in something I typically wouldn’t. While it was jarring, it showed me how important it is to involve myself in things that aren’t my normal. My inspiration began to run rampant, and soon, so did my creativity.
I began to relish the slow and methodical parts of everything in my life. From minimalistic art installations to long drives too late at night, and everything in between. Nothing could escape my newfound wonder. Best of all, though, is that chess—in all its simplicity—showed me that I have so much more time to live out my life than I tell myself. There are enough hours in the day for me to fall 10 times over and enough days in the week to find my footing again. There’s no reason to stress over a mountain of work I couldn’t overcome in the span of a break.
