When I was growing up, my mom often quoted her favorite movie. “When the Lord closes a door,” she said, channeling Maria Von Trapp, “somewhere he opens a window.” Though I’m not one to live my life based on corny lines from The Sound of Music, I do think that there’s something wise about this particular platitude.
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I had never been to a protest before. I had been content, I had been comfortable, I had been quiet in my place of privilege. I had cared, but just enough. I had signed a petition here, donated a few dollars there. I had never acted with any urgency or fear or intention.
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Refreshing my inbox won’t make an awaited email appear any faster. I know this. Of course I know this. But that certainly doesn’t stop me from clicking that little circular arrow every thirty seconds. Waiting for good news—in this case, a coveted job offer—is excruciating, and if constantly reloading my Gmail makes it marginally more tolerable, then I will continue refreshing all day long.
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