Chris Anselmo's change of plans

"The tension between who I was and who I wanted to become was unbearable."

and

Oct 13, 2023

Your Five-Year Plan is a newsletter about embracing life’s profound uncertainty.

Maybe your own plans went up in flames; maybe you’re considering a big, scary leap. This is your trusty companion while you’re writing the next life chapter.

Welcome to the conversation—and to the adventure that unfolds when your plans go sideways. This is letter #26. ✨

🎤 Opening the floor to your stories of uncertainty

After facing three consecutive life transitions, I found that each brought distinct challenges—but their common thread was uncertainty.

That made it easy to learn from anyone else experiencing uncertainty. Whether they were retiring, beginning a new relationship, or facing a health problem, they had wisdom to impart.

Whether a life transition is defined by grief or joy, anxiety or thrilling anticipation, it offers universal lessons about other transitions, too. That’s why I’ll be incorporating some of your stories into this newsletter.

Have you ever felt a dream slipping out of reach?

Below,

Christopher Anselmo

Hello, Adversity

shares the story of a big goal that felt increasingly unattainable in the face of adversity—until he started asking himself if relinquishing this dream might be the real mistake.

Over to you, Chris!

In June 2008, I felt a strange burning in my legs while going for a run after work. I was living in Boston at the time and had just graduated from college one month prior. Running was never something I enjoyed, but since I lived near a beautiful park in the middle of the city, I started working it into my exercise routine.

I figured the burning was because I was out of shape. Ten minutes later, I ground to a halt, unable to take one more step.

It felt like someone was holding onto my ankles. I was still several hundred feet from where I usually stopped, but I didn’t think anything of it.

Three months later, just shy of my 22nd birthday, I could no longer run at all.

A neurologist would soon diagnose me with limb-girdle muscular dystrophy, an adult-onset muscle disease destined to get worse. In matter-of-fact terms, he told me that I should expect to be in a wheelchair in ten years.

It was a devastating diagnosis on many levels. My future—which once held endless promise—was now a dense fog of uncertainty.

Terrifying questions swirled in my head:

Will I stop walking sooner than ten years?

What if I fall and break my leg?

Will I be able to work? Own a home? Have a family?

Is this disease going to cut my life short?

I held out hope that the prognosis was wrong, but only time would tell. It was such a rare disease that it wasn’t (and still isn’t) well understood. Without any idea of what to expect, planning became impossible.

Over the next three years, I watched in horror as my muscle mass eroded. In 2011, I began falling without warning—crumpling onto sidewalks, staircases, and in one instance, in the middle of an intersection. I had to move out of an apartment with my best friends because I could no longer climb two flights of stairs.

I went from planning years into the future to hoping I could make it through the day in one piece. Every day became an exhausting fight for survival.

In 2013, I reached my breaking point.

By this time, I had moved to a studio apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I knew no one in the area. While I worried about whether I could make it through a day without falling, my friends had moved on in their lives, achieving all the milestones I had hoped to hit by 26. Several were getting married that summer. One bought a home.

Meanwhile, I didn’t know what I was going to do in five days, let alone five years. My daily plans were reduced to working, eating, sleeping, and staying upright. Unfortunately, I only succeeded at the first two.

I knew this couldn’t go on; the tension between who I was and who I wanted to become was unbearable.

Despite the setbacks and disappointments, I still had dreams. As depressing as it was to face each day, I knew I would never be at peace if I didn’t at least try to achieve some of my goals. But goals required a plan, and I hadn’t made one of those in months.

On a snowy Saturday in March, the stress boiled over.

Boston was getting pummeled by a blizzard, and since I had already fallen twice on the ice that winter, I knew that I had to stay inside all weekend.

I wanted to be anywhere but my cramped apartment. I could feel the tension build in my jaw muscles, which usually indicated a migraine was not far behind.

As I sat on my bed and fixated on the wintry scene outside, my inner thoughts bubbled to the surface. One thought kept recurring: business school. It was a goal I had wanted to achieve ever since one of my undergrad finance professors gushed about his experience. If I wanted a business career, I figured I needed an MBA.

There has to be a way to make this work, I thought, despite my uncertain future. I imagined being back on a college campus. The thought filled me with excitement as I contemplated a fate other than wasting away in a tiny room.

But my optimism was short-lived, soon overrun by self-doubt.

What if I find out halfway through that I can’t do it?

What if all my fears about my mobility come true?

What if I run out of energy, get hurt, or go bankrupt in the process?

This was a familiar train of thought, one that always ended with it’s too hard.

On this day, however, a new thought surfaced: What if it was more irresponsible not to go?

I grabbed a yellow legal pad off my desk and wrote the word “business school” on the top of the page.

Make this work.

It’s not like I would be the first person with a degenerative disease who accomplished life goals. My current neurologist (who was more of an optimist than the first guy) told me stories about patients with my disease who had spouses, children, and successful careers.

Somehow they figured out how to live full lives. Why couldn’t I?

I stared at the two words on the page. Stumped, I flipped the problem around. I would start at the end goal—graduation—and work backwards up to the present day.

Unblocked, the page filled up in a flurry of blue ink. I analyzed logistics, what help I would need, the state of my finances, and my health. I scribbled words and arrows and various marginalia until I was left with a reverse flow chart that identified the catalyst that would start the chain reaction: sign up for the GMAT exam.

For the first time in months, I had the semblance of a plan.

Then I panicked. The doubts came flooding back.

This plan is going to fall apart.

You aren’t up for the challenge.

You are going to want to quit. You know it.

I looked back over the plan. Something would inevitably go wrong and the list of considerations was incomplete. I hadn’t yet made any contingency plans. This was true.

But the process had stoked a fire within me that made these uncertainties manageable: It was now or never. I wasn’t getting any stronger and I was tired of saying “no” every year.

I knew from my college days that I could plan with the best of them, and this would be the ultimate test of my skills. It was a challenge I wanted to accept. One I needed to accept.

Even if it didn’t work out, I had to at least try. For the first time in ages, I was motivated to better my life.

The best decision I ever made was following through on this two-year plan. It wasn’t the easiest experience—I graduated significantly weaker than when I started—but it was a tremendous confidence boost.

I followed through on my plan scoped out that fateful Saturday. I took the GMAT, applied to schools, and stayed in the Boston area where I had a built-in support system. I took out loans, told classmates about my condition, and received the support I needed from the administration. I made close friends, did well in class, and on a breezy Monday in May 2016, was handed a diploma with my name on it.

It turns out, what I needed all along was a more compassionate, flexible plan. One that was clear-eyed about uncertainty and how it could be managed, rather than feared.

For example, spending my summer in New York City was not part of my original plan, but when I got a coveted internship, I pivoted to make it work. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Business school showed me that when I fuse meticulous planning with graceful surrender of what is out of my control, I can do (almost) anything.

Just because life had upended my five-year plan, it didn’t exempt me from making any plans.

Here are six takeaways from my experience.

✅ Accept that your plans will always have elements that are out of your control. (Sometimes, this is a good thing.)

✅ Plan contingencies. Many times, Plan A doesn’t work out, but Plan B gets you where you want to go. Just to be safe, also have a Plan C.

✅ If you don’t know what plans to make, think about a general direction. What are your dreams? What would you like to do someday?

✅ Invert! Some plans are hard to figure out looking forward. Instead, start from the end and work backwards.

✅ Be open to a different timeline. Although I graduated in two years, I could have taken longer if necessary. I almost needed to, as I wore down towards the end.

✅ Be open to surprises that might be better than your original plan. I never intended to spend a summer in New York but the opportunity was a risk I had to take.

💬 What do you think?

I’m curious to hear from you. Which of Chris’s lessons about uncertainty might apply in your own life?