Faking It with a Compass
You know that scene in Maid in Manhattan — yes, I’m owning up to it, don’t judge me — where Christopher Marshall, the charming lead, tells a kid to hold a handful of pins in his hand to focus all his fears on them? The idea is that the kid should hold onto the pins and whenever fear strikes, he channels it into the tiny sharp objects. It sounds like one of those quirky, “so-weird-it-might-actually-work” pieces of advice you get from someone who has probably read way too many self-help books or possibly lives inside a fortune cookie. But hey, if pins could tackle your anxiety, maybe there was something to it. Maybe all I needed in my life was an oversized bag of paper clips and a little bit of creative problem-solving.
So there I was, 20 years old, pretending to be a fully-functioning, organized, life-having adult. Meanwhile, my assignments were piling up faster than I could Google “how to organize a closet without it turning into a disaster,” and my room looked like a tornado had taken a detour through a thrift store — books, papers, coffee cups, and half-finished projects scattered everywhere, like a chaotic art installation that was _supposed_ to make sense if you looked hard enough. What I needed wasn’t so much pins in my hands as something that could really point me in the right direction — literally. Enter the direction compass.
Now, let me clarify. This wasn’t a compass you’d take on a grand, world-changing adventure or an expedition to find yourself (mostly because if you’re 20 , “finding yourself” means a quick walk to the fridge and back). No, no. This was a cute, novelty-sized compass — so small it was almost more of a keychain than anything practical. But, in my over-caffeinated, stressed-out mind, this little gadget became my life raft, my beacon of control in a world that felt like a perpetual Google search for “how to be an adult.”
The idea was simple: whenever I was feeling lost — whether it was in a pile of unfinished homework, or trying to navigate the minefield of adult responsibilities — I’d pull out my trusty compass and give it a spin. Maybe it would point me toward productivity. Maybe it would show me the way to a quiet, peaceful existence where laundry did itself and professors didn’t assign research papers in the same week. Or, more likely, it would point to the closest bookstore, which I figured was still better than nothing.
The truth was, the compass didn’t really guide me. It couldn’t. It wasn’t magic; it was just a glorified paperweight that made me feel like I was, in some small way, in control. But that didn’t stop me from spinning it, over and over, with all the hope and optimism of someone who really wanted to believe in it. “Should I start the paper that’s due tomorrow or call in sick and binge-watch one more episode of The Newsroom?” I’d spin it dramatically, watching the needle wobble like it had no more idea than I did. “Compass, tell me what to do!” Spoiler: it never did.
Of course, this all went over wonderfully with my friends, who would look at me with the same kind of confusion you might have if you walked into a room and found someone knitting a sweater for a pet rock. “What’s with the compass?” they’d ask, their eyebrows raising in unspoken judgment. “Are you lost? Do you need help getting home? Should we call a cab to take you to the nearest life-coach?”
I’d just shrug it off, trying to look like a wise, serene individual who had everything figured out. “Oh, this?” I’d say casually, twirling the compass like it was an ancient artifact. “It helps me stay on track.” Which, let’s be honest, was mostly code for “I’m way behind on my to-do list, but at least I have this shiny object to make it look like I know what I’m doing.”
But the more I used it, the more I realized: the compass wasn’t about pointing me to some magical destination of success. It was about reminding me that it was okay to not know where I was going. The compass didn’t have all the answers, but it didn’t need to. It was about the comfort of knowing that even if I wasn’t 100% sure what my next step was, I was at least moving forward. Even if that forward movement was just to the couch for a nap and some comfort food.
Eventually, I stopped carrying the compass around — partly because I’d graduated to more pressing problems (like figuring out how to adult without sending emails that start with “Sorry for the delay, I was… overwhelmed by life”), and partly because I realized I didn’t need the compass to find direction. I already had that within me. But every now and then, when I’m feeling particularly lost (like when I try to cook something that isn’t pasta), I’ll pull it out of the drawer, give it a spin, and pretend it’s pointing me toward a future of endless success and self-assuredness.
Does it guide me? Not exactly. But, honestly, sometimes the only direction I need is one that leads me to the couch, with a cup of tea, and a very strong blanket.
