Photo: David Kanigan on Pexels
For the past few summers, I haven’t missed a trip to the sea. I don’t have the luxury of living very close to it, but I make sure to find the time and the money to spend a few days at the seaside. I swim in the salty waters, look at the endless blues from the shore, journal and read while the waves come in and out. This year was going to be no exception.
The sea has always held a special place in my heart. It somehow exposes my loneliness and melancholy while simultaneously validating and soothing them. It draws me in with its vastness and beauty, leaving me in awe and cautious admiration of its wildness and an air of mystery. We only see each other once a year, the sea and I, with the exception of the one year I lived in a coastal city — you couldn’t have dragged me off the beach.
But this year brought a kind of trouble I hadn’t faced before. My cat, Katara, was diagnosed with cancer, and ever since March, I’ve been spending unprecedented amounts of money on surgery, chemotherapy, and other medical necessities to give her the best chance of beating this illness and growing old by my side. I’ve had limited pleasures and haven’t put any money into my savings account in months — the vet bills won’t allow it. I haven’t traveled, and the one time I went out of town to celebrate a friend’s birthday, my best friend spent the night at my place, keeping Katara company. My decisions, as of late, have been focused on what’s best and safest for her.
Then, summer has come. The time when I make my way to the seaside. I started thinking about the trip a couple of weeks ago. I researched accommodation, checked train tickets, and attempted to calculate how to budget a seaside trip into my monthly expenses in the least financially devastating way. My sister was coming to visit me in the second half of August, so that’s when the trip would take place.
Could I afford to go for longer than one day and one night? Would my best friend be available to spend a couple of nights at my place again? What were the odds that the weather was going to let me down again like it had done the year before, and I’d end up running back and forth between my accommodation and the beach every time the rain began or stopped? And did I even want to go in the second half of August when usually I’m tired of summer and looking forward to autumn by then?
The annual, summer-centered, never-failing dream felt off all of a sudden. I still wanted it — I still want it — but there is so much resistance coming from every direction, and most importantly, from myself. When I picture myself on my way there, or reading on the beach and soaking in the sun, or swimming in the sea, I can sense some discomfort at the very idea of going. Who would look after Katara? What if something happens while I’m away? Would I be able to afford this without taking any money out of my savings account? (I did the math, and the answer is no.) What if I plan it all, spend the money, and we’ll be greeted there by endless rain? Do I feel like taking that chance? Is going to the sea really what I want at the moment?
And this is when I realized that while the desire is still real, it’s not aligned with my needs at the current stage of my life. I’ve been stressed and worried for months. I don’t want more stress and worry. I want to stay in my city, be present for my cancer-battling cat, take my sister to the park to read under an oak tree or play badminton, or take her cafe-hopping, maybe sharing a paella at a Spanish place I discovered recently, and spending way less money on all of this than I would have on a sea trip. I can’t spare the finances or the mental effort required of me to accomplish a trip like that right now.
I don’t need this.
What We Want vs. What We Need
There’s a huge difference between our wants and needs. I want a beautiful seaside vacation, with tan lines and sand castles and photos taken with my new film camera. I wanted it last summer, and the summer before, and true enough, I want it this summer, too. But what I need is calm and peace and predictability and the comfort of the familiar. I need to know at all times that my cat is well, that she’s not lonely. I need the bliss of simple and affordable pleasures that don’t depend on my betting everything on them. I need to know I can treat my sister to a coffee and a piece of cake because I can afford it, not having spent a scandalous amount of money on a summer trip for which the timing couldn’t possibly be worse.
Our wants are often valid even if we’re wanting something we don’t truly need — a trinket, a cute mug, a new pair of shoes. It doesn’t mean we should ignore them or tune them out. But we should listen very, very carefully to ourselves to make sure our wants don’t go in the direction completely opposite to what we genuinely need at the moment. When our desires don’t serve us, the greatest good we can do for ourselves is to let go of them.
My longing for a sea vacation is habitual. It’s what I want every summer — why would this year be different?
But I’ve never faced the particular set of circumstances I’m facing this year. The stakes are much higher, the priorities have reshuffled drastically, and so this is where I honor my true needs by putting them above my wants.
Putting the quiet above the exciting. The familiar above the novel.
I’m still learning to accept that this year, there’s no sea for me, but I’m confident in my decision. Not everything I want is meant for me. Sometimes, not right away; sometimes, not at all. Wanting things is a part of being human. But questioning our desires can sometimes lead us to unexpected levels of clarity and self-awareness.
It can also build trust between ourselves and our inner voice. As soon as I made up my mind about staying, my body relaxed and I exhaled with relief. If that’s not a sign I made the right choice, I don’t know what would be.
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