‘Muddling through’.

There’s something reassuring about this little phrase, isn’t there? A sort of quiet confidence that neither tempts fate nor abandons hope.

I’ve noticed it appearing in almost all my conversations of late and whilst I’m not sure why that is, I think there’s a touch of magic to saying those two words.

There’s no pressure to be anything if you’re simply ‘muddling through’.

I feel it’s an expression that’s inherently self-deprecating, one which isn’t a slight on imagination, expectation, or ambition.

Rather it simply says, ‘There’s space for all that, but there’s space for acceptance too.’

It’s often said that the omnipresent demand to always be ‘the best version of yourself’ is a distinctly modern phenomenon, but I would argue its roots lie in history.

Whilst the form this duress takes is almost certainly unique to our time, for generations societies across the world have emphasised the validity of a flawless public persona.

I never imagined that living life would involve leaping through an infinite cascade of hoops.

Perhaps this explains my fondness for muddling through and all the expression encapsulates. And although many would say this makes me naïve and credulous, there’s merit in letting life be.

Something a friend said about my recent move led me to consider all this.

She sympathised with me about how stressful it is and I agreed, before I realised that in fact I wasn’t stressed at all. It was hard work, yes, but my only real worry was that that seven strangers I was moving in with wouldn’t like me.

Those seven strangers have now, at least in my mind and hopefully in theirs too, become my friends.

We muddle through each day together, silently noting each other’s habits, laughing at each other’s quirks and indulging in each other’s stories.

If there’s something inherently warm about muddling through, then there’s something inherently convivial about sharing drunken tales with new acquaintances. It’s essentially talking about muddling through whilst also muddling through, which ironically puts everyone at ease.

I often think the same of people talking about their dreams.

I’ve never understood those who say they’re bored upon hearing about the peculiarities of another’s subconscious. Dreams possess the singular talent of unwittingly bringing people closer together. They’re also inevitably entertaining, with your brain itself muddling through the madness of all the elements of your life you’ve barely paid attention to.

I’m as complicit as the next person in liking so many things to be tidied and ordered. I have a routine, I make plans and I barely function without a to-do list.

But each sunrise holds a host of unexpected happenings.

There are days when this frustrates me beyond belief, hours where I ponder how doing your damndest can still strangely end with you holding a handful of jagged, misfitting shards.

There are also days when I let all this wash over me; when I look at the shards, see the beauty within and create a mosaic in lieu of endeavouring to master the puzzle.

Savouring unpredictability may at first taste a little sour. It’s taken me more than a few attempts to train my palate and I can’t say I truly love the tang yet.

But with a touch of zest and some modest muddling, I’ve come to relish it as something sweeter.

As the old saying goes, when life gives you lemons, tell someone about that time you regretted helping yourself to a bottle of tequila.

Trust me. You’ll feel better.