I live in a mansion. That’s what I tell people, anyway. Technically, it’s the truth. I do live in a mansion, but it’s not actually my mansion. To be completely honest, I have a room in a mansion, and I share the place with something like 24 other people. The mansion itself is actually a historic house. It has its own name (which I won’t be sharing for privacy reasons) and everything. It’s proper posh (or at least it used to be), and the man who used to live here has his own Wikipedia entry, which is pretty cool by 2024 standards, if I do say so myself. It’s not the nicest place I’ve ever lived. (It’s also not the worst, either.) There’s occasionally problems, it’s not endemic: it’s not like I deal with these things on a day-to-day basis, but it’s enough for me to have some days where I just get ticked. Coming home from my family’s Christmas celebrations, I opened the door to see a mouse just hanging out in my room. Some people say they’re cute, but I’d rather they be cute somewhere else. Safe to say, I was frustrated. It’s easy to let these little things—these petty flaws or faults that make life less than perfect, like a car that only starts after a couple tries—get to you sometimes. The sort of things that are less like pains and more like aches; but I’ve discovered a sort of trick that helps to soothe it, which is why today I’d like to tell you a little bit about the difference that a right perspective can make.

I live in the city. When I first moved back here, I remember being amazed at the contrast I saw between the rich and poor. Walking down my street, I saw what is sometimes called a “tent city”, which is a kind of camping ground for the homeless. In the background, I could see all the tall, glossy buildings, made of glass and kept immaculately clean. I thought about the difference in the types of lives that were being led, not far apart but quite the contrary: right next to each other. As such, it’s ridiculously easy to make comparisons between the two, and though I’m not homeless, it’s easy for me to do the same. Anytime I spend time in a friend’s apartment (that is, a friend who is not a student), I feel the difference between the kind of place I live and the kind of place they live. Even something modest feels like the high life to me. My one room, for example, is not much smaller than the apartment shared by two of my good friends—and that’s not accounting for the fact that they have their own bathroom and kitchen—and yet, I felt somehow like I had so much less. I mean, it’s not hard for me to find people who go to nice restaurants all the time, who live in these high-rises, whose places are modern and clean and fresh-looking. Comparatively, it’s easy to feel somewhat discouraged by what I have.

However, this is simply not the case. I’m simply in a different place. So, when I feel frustrated by where I live, I try to focus on the positive. I suppose I told people that I lived in a mansion often enough that I actually started to believe it. I thought about how my younger self would react if I were to tell him about where I am now. I’ve always been obsessed with old houses and historic places. I used to think they were so freaking cool. (I still do, for the record.) And had that younger self of mine been given the chance to live in a place that could be described like that, he would’ve jumped at it. He’d have loved to walk in to see the large staircase and atrium that would greet him on the inside. He’d have loved seeing the pageantry of days gone by. In short, he’d have loved the aesthetic of it all. Maybe it’s superficial, but then, aren’t my thoughts just so as well? Thinking about it this way, my (to be frank) insecurities were no longer insecurities. My frustrations were no longer as frustrating. It became a kind of adventure, which is precisely what life is, if we were to describe its progression in any sort of way. To put it simply, I had found a different perspective that—while not offering everything I want in life—was, in some sense, powerful, and gave me permission to enjoy all that truly can be enjoyed: the present.

This is a small example. I am plainly aware that there are greater problems in the world right now than whatever misgivings I sometimes feel about living as a student in the city. I’ve even given you the perfect example of how it could be worse: a short 10-minute walk from me, it’s possible for me to see people who have it far worse than I do. So, I am most definitely fortunate. However, I think even then—perhaps more so than any other time—finding the right perspective is important. This is not an invitation to ignore one’s problems or remain stagnant. Rather, it is an invitation to appreciate the little things, even if that means appreciating them according to a different set of values. For me, that meant adopting a child-like sense of awe and adventure. For others, who knows what that would look like? You’ll have to discover that for yourselves.