I, like many other women, have read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and found myself spiraling into an introspective early-life crisis. Her metaphor of the fig tree stays in my mind like a scar- ever present and never fading away. The quote goes as follows:
“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.”Â
Sylvia Plath
There are so many versions of me. In another life, I am a ballerina studying the art of dance. I am an adventure seeker, leaving home to start my own adventures, rather than staying where it’s safe. I am a creative writing major, working on my next poem in a cafe.Â
Right now, I’m sitting in my bed, at my childhood home, thinking of all the people I could have been: longing for all the figs which seem to have fallen to the ground in rot. When I was 18, I chose the fig of least resistance; I chose to study French in my home town. I had always done well at French in high school, so this seemed like the right choice. As time passes, I wonder who else I could be. Even though I’m still only in my second year, I still feel the weight of time perched upon my shoulders, burdening them with uncertainty and regret. I am happy with the fig I chose, but could I have been happier? Should I have waited for a greater fig to grow, or would it too leave me just as unsatiated and unsure.
Every girl I know is standing under her own fig tree. It is comforting to know that I am not the only one trapped waiting beneath its branches. Being a girl in your 20s is arduous. You must make the choices which will define the rest of your life. It is easy to compare myself to other girls my age. Why can’t I be more like her? Everyone else seems to have it all together. For instance, they are all members of a club of certainty, snacking on their perfect figs, whilst I stand and watch from outside the gate, alone and confused. However, to other people, the roles are reversed. No one is a member of this club; we all stand together gawking at the idea of certainty. Togetherness unites us as we look up at the branches of our own fig trees.Â
It’s important to me to understand that I can’t have every fig. Maybe the purpose isn’t to pick the perfect fig, but to reach for one before you are ready and trust that what unfolds will be sweet. Yes, I only have one chance at my life. It can feel consuming thinking about all the regrets I may feel in the future; trying my best to do everything at once. But I can’t forget, I am in the midst of experiencing my life. I always remind myself not to get stuck in regret and longing, but to enjoy where I am now. The secret to my happiness is enjoying where I am, not wishing to be somewhere else. Being a girl in your 20s is confusing, but I don’t need everything figured out this second. I will choose my figs; I refuse to stay under the fig tree forever, waiting for the right fig to appear.