Into the Multiverse

illustration by Grace McKean

One of the first serious times I considered the weight of my own existence was when I was six-years-old, lying in the grass at my elementary school during recess trying to shape animals out of clouds. Right before my eyes, blobs of white transformed into dancing giraffes and elephants and hearts. Yet, as I lied next to one of my fleeting childhood friends, one who I now observe via a screen grow and develop parasocial theories about the life she now leads, I felt my body sink into the damp dirt and dreaded the grass stains that would adorn my denim (as these viridescent stains were a staple to my closet at this point in my life). Floating among the clouds, I felt utterly and totally insignificant. Ignoring this, I got up from the grass, brushed my pants off, and ignored this sinking feeling while diving into the pages of the latest Magic Treehouse book alongside opalescent animals hung in the sky.  

The second time was in high school when I scratched the obscenely large surface of the world of metaphysics, specifically with the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics. As someone who, to this day, cannot figure out long division for the life of herself, I was acutely interested in the humanities implications of such a theory. It suggested the notion that everything in the past, every regret one may hold and every decision that never realized fruition, occur within an alternate universe, perhaps even implying the idea that multiple universes are simultaneously playing out these myriad of scenarios. Upon learning this, I promptly walked out of my high school’s library, walked down a flight of stairs, and laid down in the grass, searching for animals in a cerulean backdrop; I was unable to find elephants this time.

Of course, this metaphysical theory, which I do not pretend to understand in all of its glory and would appreciate the benefit of the doubt from accomplished physicists (my target reader audience, obviously), indicates several thousand versions of myself living out their separate lives. I will from this point on in the article refer to the many-worlds theory as “my mother’s worst nightmare.” Nonetheless, as is typically characteristic to me, my curiosity has gnawed away at my brain, leaving it a sort of soup desiring to sort out exactly what sort of versions of myself are pestering others in different multiverses right now.

The Izzy typing this article out in her dorm room in the early hours of the morning likes to melt into film scores and wander aimlessly around her college campus, always opting to take the “scenic route” in between classes. She likes to pour an absurd amount of effort into Spotify playlists that she overplays until they are reminiscent of a specific period of time or mood that will eventually make her sick to her stomach. She smiles to herself when she talks with her friends and bubbles alongside their contagious laughter and effortless batner with one another. She likes to watch the speed dial in her car creep higher and higher and she likes to pretend that this act would not terrify her father. She can make great snickerdoodles and she always overindulges in caffeinated beverages that leave her shaking for more. She likes to sink her feet into the sand until it feels like she’s disappearing into a vat of quicksand, but she hates the feeling of sand between her toes. She always looks at the film bouncing off the audience’s faces in a movie theater more than the movie itself. Of course, she loves to write. 

But perhaps there is also the Izzy that was not discouraged by the horrendous stick figures drawn haphazardly in the margins of her elementary school math homework. Maybe instead of carrying around a notebook and pen to write down silly stories that hold entire pieces of her heart, she would have carried around a sketchbook and pencil to translate the world around her into color and light. She would have loved to dip her fingers in watercolors and splash life onto a blank canvas. She would never have thought twice about the art being created at the will of her hands and would have calluses on the palm of her hand from sculpture. Instead of fashion worlds out of words, she would have illustrated planets out of pencils. 

Did I mention the car design phase she briefly had in elementary school? There was a period of time that I could only calm my nerves with Tinker Toys or Legos, ultimately graduating to making model cars. In this version of myself, I would be in the library crying over calculus instead of plot holes. She would have produced automotive designs and figured out how to get her pieces on the road. Within the plastic yellow Camaro, complete with black stripes, she would have found purpose within creating homes and transportation for others. 

But I did not. I didn’t stick with volleyball past freshman year because I couldn’t find passion within sticking up my absurdly long arms up against a net and found it difficult to find satisfaction in spiking. My tap dancing career was short lived past the age of 8, no matter how adorable my costumes were. I quit violin after four months because it would make my sisters’ ears bleed and I gave up on the pursuit to become a veterinarian because I was traumatized after watching Marley & Me. 

I find it hard to not hold regrets over certain aspects of my life because I think I have this tendency to never fully express the thoughts in my head to the extent I wish to. Conversely, occasionally I believe I am doing the exact opposite of the previous sentence, which is terrifying. Yet when I first read about this theory for the first time, once I was able to swallow the inevitable existential depressive episode bound to settle in my chest, I felt horrible: multiple versions of myself bouncing around the universe, wreaking havoc in more areas? I can barely handle myself! I now find comfort in this idea, however, at the end of the day, there are only 24 hours in the day and I have to sleep some of the time (at least!). But we are all limitless, free from the constraints of time and space and whatever other scientific term tries to trap us and shrink us. I like to think there’s a version of myself that lays on lawns for years at a time, pointing out sharks in the clouds to friends, both new and old, laying without a singular care in the world. Maybe there’s a version of myself that doesn’t ponder the layers of my own existence, but where’s the fun in that?