So this fig thing with Sylvia Plath, right? Everyone always talks about the fig tree in The Bell Jar like it’s just about being indecisive. But I woke up yesterday thinking nah, it’s gotta mean more for us now. Grabbed my notebook and my old battered copy of the book – the spine’s basically taped together at this point.
Digging Into Old Pages & Coffee Stains
Started by re-reading that fig passage, like really reading. You know, where Esther imagines her life as branches with different futures? Job, marriage, travel… all those figs shriveling up. Hit me like my coffee mug this morning – it’s not about indecision paralysis. It’s about the terror of choice in a world screaming “HAVE IT ALL!”
Remembered my own messy twenties trying to juggle:
- Building a freelance gig while my parents begged me to “get a real job”
- Planning solo backpacking trips everyone called “reckless”
- Watching peers settle down wondering if I was broken for not wanting it yet
Sounds familiar? Yeah. That’s Plath’s fig tree screaming into 2024. Poured another coffee, scribbled this down: “Not fear of choosing. Fear of other choices dying when you pick one path.” Felt like a lightbulb moment.
My Weirdly Literal Art Attempt
Okay, bear with me. Decided to make it physical. Grabbed sticky notes, wrote stuff like “Stable Career,” “Creative Chaos,” “Roots Somewhere,” “Always Moving.” Stuck ’em on actual branches from my dying fiddle-leaf fig (irony appreciated). Tried touching one note without crumpling two others. Branches snapped. Notes fell. Total disaster.
Sat there staring at the sticky-note carnage on my carpet. Perfection? Impossible. Chasing every single fig? They all rot. Realized modern life feeds us that lie: “You can reach every branch.” Plath knew the brutal truth back then – reach for one, the others likely wither. Felt strangely comforting, accepting that loss is baked into choosing.
Why This Hit Different Today
Confession time: Last week, I almost burnt out trying to:
- Launch this blog series
- Train for a half-marathon I don’t actually wanna run
- Attend every networking event “just in case”
- Force family Zoom calls while secretly resenting them
Acted like I could cling to every damn fig. Result? Sobbing into cold-brew coffee at 3am feeling like a failure because I hadn’t reached some imaginary “all.” That broken fig branch on my floor? That’s the reality check. Picking focus – choosing maybe two ripe figs right now – isn’t failure. It’s survival.
Plath wasn’t weak. Her fig tree is the sharpest mirror held up to our hustle-culture nightmare. Choosing one path means watching others fade. But trying to grab them all? That’s how you starve with your hands full of rotten fruit. Dropped the half-marathon. Feels like air rushing back into my lungs.
