It has come to my attention that I live for the future.

Since I was a child, my focus was always on a goal, or an experience, or a reward situated in a time yet to come. That Future Thing was what motivated, beckoned, and teased me forward, out of my humdrum or challenging present and into my sparkly future. (It is also what made my difficult childhood bearable.)

I don’t know if I am less or more oriented toward the future than the average human; what I do know is that I’m often more excited about what I think is going to happen than what is happening. Looking forward to things is what has (until now) gotten me through many tough times.

I didn’t really know how much I lived for the future until the pandemic intervened. I’ve canceled more plans than I’ve executed, and the ones penciled into my calendar may well be erased. In almost all aspects of my life, there are more things I don’t know than that I do. My adult life has never felt more unpredictable or volatile.

This shouldn’t have been news to me—it’s always been true that life has no guarantees. But this protracted level of uncertainty has revealed how much I have used the Future Thing to distract myself from the less-than-alluring present. My future-based coping mechanism has all but collapsed during the pandemic, where Future Things are repeatedly postponed. Or canceled altogether.

Predictability is a mirage these days, and so is control. This has always been true, but my pre-pandemic life had relatively more stability. In contrast, the pandemic is uncomfortable and seemingly interminable. I can’t make any of it speed up, or go away, or feel safer or fun. I would love to more effectively direct what happens to me, when, and with whom. But this does not seem to be in the cards.

I’ve found myself wondering where I can go, literally or figuratively, to feel more secure, more engaged, more alive? It turns out that the answer is the exact place I’ve so often tried to escape: the Present Moment.

Living in the moment is not my forté, especially when that moment is barbed, difficult or life-threatening. Some part of me wants to escape or distract myself, rather than seeing with clear eyes what IS in this moment. I would rather dream about my limitless future, where anything delightful and expansive can happen. It has been deflating to be confronted with so many temporarily and permanently closed doors.

Still, despite all the uncertainties and losses, there is beauty, appreciation and fulfillment if I only notice. In this moment, I am sitting in a light, airy room on a bright red couch, listening to my dog snore in front of the fireplace. There are hydrangeas blooming outside my window. I just had some cauliflower quiche and it was really tasty. I’m going to coach one of my favorite clients in a few minutes.

There’s a ton I won’t be able to do today, or this month, or possibly this year–and I’m sad. Fortunately life is not an “either/or” proposition. It is both a time to grieve what is lost or missing, and to delight in what is here right now.

It is also a time to learn about cultivating hope even when the future feels a bit iffy. Fortunately, hope is not solely available in a fantasy future state, it also resides in the here and now. I noticed myself feeling hopeful and enthusiastic when I met a new puppy recently. And I’ve felt hope before, while potting tulip bulbs, meeting someone new, cracking open a book.

The thing about life is that there are always new beginnings (grounds for hope!) alongside the losses. I can’t control or predict what any beginnings may lead to–there is no guarantee, no promise–but I can choose to notice and enjoy them in the moment I’m in.