[Re]Imagine the future: Don’t cramp the magic
thrive /ˈthrīv/ v.tr 1. to grow vigorously; flourish. 2. to gain in wealth or possessions; prosper.
3. to progress toward or realize a goal despite or because of circumstances.
What does thriving look like? Are the choices being made setting the groundwork for thriving? Is there room in the world of now for hope and growth? If asked “What do you look forward to,” do we have an answer, or are we stuck in a defuturing mindset?
Narrative therapist, Chris Hoff posted on Liminal Lab about how many clients he sees these days are unable to imagine their future. That hit close to home for me. He wrote that many of his clients, when asked what they see the future looking like, can’t put words to an answer. “[Clients] stopped being able to envision alternatives. The future felt less like possibility and more like the present just… continuing.”
Hoff explains that this systematic elimination of future is called “defuturing.”
Yikes. Sounds like the premise of a scary sci-fi movie. And it also feels very real.
“I’m witnessing what happens when the cultural narratives available to [clients] don’t include viable futures. They’ve internalized the defuturing logic. There is no alternative. This is just how things are. The best you can do is cope. That’s not depression. That’s realism in a defutured world.”
It got me thinking how I’d answer the question, “What does your future look like?” It’s been a challenging year and, having recently joined the unemployed masses, I’ve found it harder than ever to imagine what the future might look like. Back to the same old grind, or might there be other possibilities to explore?
Chris’s words gave me new terms to reflect on as I work to reframe my narrative and figure out what steps to take forward. Why is it so hard to imagine possibilities at this time of change? Why do I keep defaulting to a defutured, coping mindset?
Listen to the current news, and I can point to plenty of reasons. Take a look at the past, there are more. I clearly recall a moment that pushed me away from trusting my imagination to create different possibilities.
My first quarter in college, I took a set of classes that were challenging for me, including advanced chemistry (real wise move considering I’d never taken chemistry before). I wanted to major in biology and needed to finish in four years, so registered up for an accelerated program despite being woefully underprepared. When I brought home that term’s report, the response I got was an angry, “Where are the A’s, Teresa?”
Ouch.
In that moment, I threw possibility out the window, and all my attention focused on coping. I changed my major to an easier but uninspiring one. “Future” was about getting by without fear of failure.
Over the years, I've had times where I fought against a no-view view of the future. Those experiences felt like truth—real and optimistic. Like what I was doing mattered, if only to me.
But before long, the voice of doubt would start up in my head, reminding me that I didn’t get those A’s. Make the best of what you have. Don’t imagine too much. Looking back over past choices and times, I never flailed or sank to destruction. Things were never terrible, awful, no good, very bad. But I was always simply coping. And I realize, I havn’t really felt like me in a long while.
Over the last year, I’ve been working hard to reframe my personal narrative. It’s messy and exhilarating. I’ve felt sad thinking about the ghost ships of lives that could have been. And felt incredible gratitude for what I have. I’ve also started to feel hopeful and open, like I did during those optimistic experiences of the past. Words a friend shared many years ago, “the truths we tell ourselves become our reality,” have become loud in my mind. So has my therapist’s demand—“don’t cramp the magic.”
Much of the work I’ve done to transform my mindset toward thriving has included using writing as a means to process. I’ve been examining the stories I’ve told myself—about who I am, my choices, the roles I’ve taken on—because they weren’t all fitting anymore. By rewriting my narrative, I’m helping “me” feel like home again. I’m working to quit defuturing and to start imagining again.
So what of it?
Chris Hoff says that when we use a narrative approach to reignite our ability to create futures, “… it works to restore imaginative agency.”
“Narrative practice… positions them as authors, protagonists, not just characters. It treats them as people with temporal agency, people who can compose futures, not just endure presents. This is fundamentally counter-defuturing work. We’re rebuilding the infrastructure of hope. Not as naive positivity, but as the capacity to imagine and enact viable alternatives.”
I like the words protagonist, agency, enacting viable alternatives, and hope a lot better than coping, enduring, just characters.
A narrative practice gives space to tell our truths and create realities that open doors instead of closing them. I love this. And it’s what I’m focusing on. What I hope to share. What I want to help others do—reconnect with the hopes and imaginations that have been buried beneath the heavy weight of coping. Give the future fresh air, light, sustenance—things to help it grow.
Let the magic stretch its arms wide.