Let’s talk about… the space between “what if” and “what happened,”

That twitchy alley where anxiety throws confetti and reality quietly sweeps up. “What if” is the carnival barker with great cheekbones and terrible advice. “What happened” is the librarian with the receipts. One sells tickets to the haunted house. The other hands you a flashlight, a broom, and the number for a locksmith. I have paid good tuition in both schools, which is why I’m here with a mop, a grin, and a scholarship for anyone who needs it.

“What if” is seductive because it promises control. If I can think of everything that might go wrong, I can outsmart it. The flaw, of course, is that the universe is more creative than I am. I once imagined a dozen disasters on the road and still didn’t guess the wheel snapping forty-four miles before El Paso. “What if” says, Picture the worst. “What happened” says, The wheel broke. You hauled your emotional support chariot four miles to a bus stop and got yourself to a city where solutions live. One burns calories. The other builds muscle.

New York teaches this lesson daily. “What if the train never comes?” is a lifestyle here. “What happened is the downtown A took a nap, so I walked, discovered a bakery that makes bread that tastes like forgiveness, and I was fifteen minutes late to a life that still wanted me.” “What if nobody shows up?” You learn to host anyway. Maybe only two people come, and one of them becomes a friend who will later help you drag a broken-wheeled metaphor across state lines. The city is a symphony, sure, but it’s also a rehearsal. We don’t cancel the performance because a trumpet sneezed. We adjust the sails and keep playing.

I used to think hope lived in perfect forecasts: if I could just design the right future, I’d be safe. Turns out hope lives in the present tense, wearing scuffed shoes, holding duct tape. Hope is not a guarantee; it’s a habit. It’s the voice that says, Okay, what happened? And from there: what can I repair, what can I release, and where does the road keep going? Hope is practical. It stacks chairs after the party and texts to make sure you got home. It’s funnier than fear because it doesn’t need to prove anything. It knows the punchline already: you’re still here.

“What if” loves to time-travel. It drags you into a future where you’ve already failed, already embarrassed yourself, already been left behind by the parade. “What happened” returns you to your feet. Sometimes it’s tender: You tried something new and your knees shook. Sometimes it’s blunt: You stayed too long, you gave too much, you forgot you had a say. Either way, “what happened” is data, not a verdict. We don’t shame a compass for pointing north.

There’s a certain comedy in how loud my “what if” can get. It’s an amateur playwright that loves a monologue. It says things like, “What if you mess this up?” and “What if you’re too much and not enough, simultaneously, while wearing mismatched socks?” It’s wrong on the socks—I’m having a great hair day—and wrong about the rest for one simple reason: I have evidence. I have a trail of “what happened” moments where I learned, changed, apologized, pivoted, drew a boundary, asked for help, forgave myself, forgave someone else, and kept going. “What if” can’t argue with evidence. It can only get louder. Evidence doesn’t raise its voice. It raises your hand to vote for yourself.

The human heart is a brave little drum. It keeps a stubborn beat, even when life goes off-tempo. On the road, I met people who handed me ice for my water and stories for my spirit. I also met days that knocked me around like a sock in a dryer. Both were true. The question wasn’t, “What if tomorrow is worse?” The question was, “What happened today, and what does that teach me about tomorrow?” Sometimes the lesson was that I needed rest, not reasons. Sometimes it was that I needed to speak up. Sometimes it was that the wheel wasn’t a metaphor; it was a wheel, and I needed a bus.

I know the glamour of catastrophizing. It feels like preparation. It offers the illusion that suffering in advance earns you a discount at the door. Spoiler: the bouncer doesn’t care. Pre-pain doesn’t reduce post-pain. But attention does. Presence does. When I look at “what happened,” I can calibrate. I can notice that I’m tired because I’m carrying more than my share, not because I’m weak. I can notice that the conversation went sideways because I dodged the truth, not because truth is the enemy. I can notice that I’m craving certainty when all I need is the next right step and a snack.

Let’s be honest: “what if” is sometimes disguising grief. “What if I had chosen differently” is a softer way to say, “I’m sad about what is.” It’s okay to be sad. It’s also okay to be done blaming your past self for not being future you. You didn’t know what you know now. Tuition paid. Degree conferred. We don’t retake the class because we didn’t like the professor. We use the credit and sign up for something that fits.

There’s humor in the pivot. The moment you stop auditioning for a role you never wanted and start living the part you were cast for—lead in your own life—the lighting improves. You find your mark. You say your lines with less trembling and more truth. The city applauds in small ways: the crosswalk opens just when you arrive, the bus driver waits the extra beat, a stranger tells you your laugh sounds like it means it. That’s not magic. That’s alignment. That’s what happens when “what if” takes a smoke break and “what happened” gets to drive.

I’ve made peace with the fact that nerves are part of my nervous system. I don’t have to bully my fears into submission; I just have to interview them. “What if I fail?” Thank you for your service. “What happened the last time?” I learned, I adjusted, I lived. “What if people don’t like it?” Some won’t. “What happened when you liked you?” The room got bigger. The air got lighter. The conversation got kinder. It’s wild how much courage arrives when you stop borrowing tomorrow’s weather to ruin today’s picnic.

This isn’t a call to never imagine. Imagination built bridges, books, and better days. It’s a call to use imagination as a paintbrush, not a whip. Dream in color, then check the blueprint. Ask your life for evidence. Let the facts be a floor, not a cage. You are allowed to be hopeful because you’ve survived every moment you couldn’t predict. You’re allowed to be funny because laughter is how resilience keeps its joints loose. You’re allowed to start again because your heart keeps doing it without your permission.

So here’s my working practice, dressed in ordinary clothes. When the “what ifs” arrive thick as summer air, I put them in the waiting room. I go meet “what happened” in the lobby. I say: Tell me plainly. I listen for the part that is mine to carry and the part that belongs to the wind. I pick up my piece. I put down the rest. I take one step. Then another. If a wheel breaks, I improvise transportation. If a door closes, I nap on the stoop and try again in the morning. If a voice inside me starts speaking in doom italics, I hand it a snack and a pen and suggest it write a poem instead.

This is not denial. It’s devotion. To the real, to the possible, to the you that keeps showing up. We will always have “what ifs”—they come free with the human suit. But we also have “what happened,” that unglamorous friend who never lies and always helps you move. Lean there. Build there. Laugh there. Hope there.

Because here’s the thing no carnival barker will tell you: hope is not fragile. Hope is a muscle that grows every time you meet reality and stay kind. Every time you name the truth without torching yourself. Every time you love anyway. Every time you keep the promise you made to your future self: to try, to learn, to rise, to rest, to try again.

Let’s keep talking about it. Let’s keep making a life in the beautiful, ordinary kingdom of “what happened,” with just enough “what if” to keep the windows open. The air is good here. The light is honest. The door is unlocked. And you—you are already inside.