The first time I ever heard the phrase FOMO (fear of missing out), it was in the form of an accusatory statement. It was dead week, and I honestly felt like I had been assigned to write the next great American novel with how many papers I had due and finals I had to study for. But despite the stress, I returned to my dorm with a free T-shirt and food from an event on campus. My roommate looked up from the episode of "Scandal" she was watching and provided a diagnosis for the inexplicable desire to everything: “Bro, your FOMO is too real for me.”
She was right. Looking back, it made sense why I constantly wanted social or extracurricular stimulation. Growing up in a giant family where every weekend held a social gathering made it uncomfortable for me to be alone. Then in middle school when I signed up for literally every possible extracurricular available, using it as a platform for socialization and slowly developing an addiction to resume building.
I was a terrible singer, but did every school play; I never went outdoors, but I joined the Envirothon team; I wasn’t allowed to go to prom, but I planned it anyway (Oh, and my FOMO mastermind found a way to go for a little bit).
In college, I recognized how thinly spread I was in high school and really did try to tone it down. I was more careful about the clubs I joined, and I took fewer naps, but the collegiate environment does not alleviate FOMO. I was constantly reminded that these would be the best four years of my life/how fleeting the opportunity is/there will be free food, and by sophomore year I found myself way too involved and feeling obligated to go to everything — again. Organic chemistry was killing me one benzene ring at a time, but the prospect of missing a comedian on campus always possessed to just stay up a little bit longer.
Eventually, the intervention came when I had to drop my first class in college: it turned out that taking 18 credits, being a chair on the programming board, leading a retreat, volunteering at the clinic, attempting a social life and trying to go to a million events on campus wasn’t good for my future, or even the present. It sounds ridiculous on paper, but I needed something as simple as doing poorly in a class to realize how unhealthy my FOMO was.
The first step was prioritization. I vaguely recall my ethics professor suggesting the Hedonistic Calculus method for tough decisions, but ultimately ended up taping the phrase “Pain is temporary, but GPA is forever” to my planner cover. I started keeping lists in order of importance and used events I absolutely did not want to miss as rewards.
Then came a new mantra. Yes, you only live once and living in the present is a great attitude, but not if it makes your future more difficult. All of those all-nighters probably resulted in partial brain damage and being able to dedicate my time and efforts to what is really important to me.
Most important step: stop giving a shit. The ability to sometimes walk past the posters and not read them or ignore everyone’s snap stories can be so freeing. Sometimes you really have to have the attitude that it’s just another event/party/club and it’s not worth your time right now.
All of this being said, my FOMO is much less intense than it used to be, but I’ll probably be 90 years old still attending every event at the nursing home. While my FOMO has brought me toward some great times in life, I can’t let it kill me anymore.
