Potential as a hiding place

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.” — Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Lately, Sylvia Plath’s fig tree has been circling the internet and my mind. I don’t know if this is a continuation of my last post, in many ways I suppose it is.

The analogy has been sitting with me for some time now, almost like it won’t leave until I write about it.

In The Bell Jar, the fig tree represents the paralysing fear of making life choices—each branch holding a different path, a different version of who you could become.

In my last post, someone left a comment saying there is a strange comfort in having “potential”—because as long as it remains potential, it still feels full of promise. I responded that not becoming is a far greater risk, one I can no longer afford to take.

I’ve been someone who has started many things, but never fully finished them. Now I’m at an age where regret has started to bloom not because I can control outcomes, but because I wonder how my life might look if I had committed to something sooner.

For a long time, I told myself it was because I had too many options. That I was overwhelmed. That I just hadn’t figured myself out yet.

But I’m starting to realise that wasn’t entirely true.

Because if I’m honest, there were always certain things I felt drawn to, paths that kept quietly calling me back. Yet I never allowed myself to fully step into them, because doing so would require me to become someone I wasn’t sure I was ready to be.

So instead, I stayed in my potential.

I would imagine the different branches my life could take, holding onto the comfort that all options were still available to me if I wanted them, one day.

But living like that meant I never had to test myself. Never had to risk being seen. Never had to confront the possibility that I might not be good enough.

And in that way, potential became less of a gift… and more of a hiding place.

Now comes the question—good enough for who?

I can name a few people who became the quiet voices in my mind. But the truth is, I gave them that power. They had no real control over me, yet I let the fear of their judgment shape my decisions.

So I remained in between neither fully choosing, nor fully letting go.

And the thing about indecision is that it doesn’t feel like a decision at all. But over time, it becomes one.

Because refusing to choose a path doesn’t mean all options stay open forever.

It means, slowly, that none of them are lived.

I think that’s why this analogy stayed on my mind for so long, especially now that it’s circling again.

I’m starting to realise that potential is rarely the problem. Most people have it.

But potential on its own doesn’t become anything.

Because becoming requires something deeper, it requires a foundation. A sense of who you are that’s strong enough to hold the weight of what you’re trying to grow into.

And I think that’s where I struggled.

It wasn’t that I lacked ability, or even opportunity. I understand that the chance to pursue certain things comes with privilege and luck.

But even when the opportunity is there, it still asks something of you.

To become anything, you have to allow yourself to become it.

And that means stepping into it before you feel ready. Before you feel certain. Before you feel good enough.

And maybe that’s what changes everything.

When you begin to understand who you are, the fear of missing out on other paths starts to quiet down. Not because the other branches disappear, but because they no longer pull at you in the same way.

Your tree can still grow in many directions. Opportunities will still exist. But they don’t hold the same weight, because you’re no longer choosing from a place of uncertainty.

You’re choosing from a place of knowing.

And that knowing becomes your roots.

The things that bring you joy, contentment, and peace—those are what ground you. That is where your life grows from.

Not comparison. Not fear. Not the need to keep every option open.

So I write this as a reminder—to myself as much as anyone else:

Focus on what is already calling you.

Don’t look at where someone else’s tree is growing from. Don’t measure your path against theirs.

Center yourself.

And let your life grow from there.

Because a tree that knows its roots doesn’t need to chase every branch.

With love, Laila🤍