FOMO

Definition: Fear of Missing Out

Closely Related: POMO (Pain of Missing Out)

Until a few weeks ago, I had no clue what FOMO was. I didn’t really need to use the term. I had my quiet little life in South America with a busy but not harried pace. I knew I missed things like Thanksgiving dinners and relative’s birthday parties back home, but I was content.

Meet the MBA program at Stephen M. Ross School of Business. There are something like 70 clubs, 200 companies recruiting on-campus, and 20 institutes and centers. No one can do it all, not even when “it all” is narrowed down to a specific interest area like marketing, venture capital, or careers with impact. There’s always someone going to a corporate presentation or a club meeting or preparing a presentation for the next day. There’s so much happening that it’s hard to even know what one is missing.

The advice from MBA2s: relax. No one is behind at this point. Two weeks into the semester, an MBA1 can’t have missed the boat already and completely lost an opportunity. As a dual-degree student, I’m learning that it’s even truer for me. I can take a deep breath, evaluate my goals, and explore a little bit.

I might feel that I’m drinking from a fire hose, but the truth is the door of opportunity has been flung wide open. Along with about 900 other MBA students in the full time program, I get access to a wealth of resources that I’ve never had before. Sure, it can be overwhelming. At times, I will have to miss one thing to participate in another. But this atmosphere is exhilarating. Once I’m able to set aside my fear (or pain) of missing one opportunity because I choose another, I can marvel that I have even one of those opportunities in the first place. So forget the fear. I’ll choose to embrace the Joy of Participating.

Silence and Feeling Really Small

During my first week back as a student in the classroom, I realized that it was difficult for me to speak up in class. I second guessed whether to assert my voice. I wondered if I was worth being heard.

Where were those thoughts coming from? All throughout my academic life, I had been outspoken, unafraid of making mistakes. I knew I had something to contribute, and I had no shame in giving the wrong answer or mentioning something that might not be 100% relevant. Yet in the time I spent away from academia, something changed. My life experiences taught me to doubt myself. I received the subliminal message often enough that said, “Your voice doesn’t matter. Your concerns won’t be heard. You’re wasting your time if you speak up.” I guess I internalized it more than I expected, and it has been shaping my actions.

Digging deeper, I must ask myself about the source of that message. What were the circumstances that make me feel so powerless? The two times I’ve gone to the Financial Aid Office on campus, I’ve had physiological reactions—my heartrate increased, I wanted to run away, I struggled to express myself, and I anticipated being shrugged off. Thankfully, the people I spoke with both times were extremely gracious and helpful, but the question remains, “Why was my body reacting with fear when it faced an institution with power over my future opportunities?”

I think the answer reveals itself in a review of my interactions with institutions of power over the past five years. There was the time my parents and I were drugged and robbed in Quito. The police nearby did nothing. They were apathetic to my request for help to stop the thief who ran off with my backpack. Then there was the time I lost my passport on the way to the Ecuadorian immigration office. When I called the US embassy, they were too busy commemorating September 11 to help me. They basically said, “Figure it out from our website, and call us later.” Another time, I went to the embassy to drop off my overseas voter’s ballot. I was turned away. The guard refused me, a US citizen, entry to my country’s embassy for several hours. I thought that US citizens can never be refused access to a US consulate or embassy, but I must have been wrong. Maybe that only works for Jason Bourne.

Then there was the visa process and the ever-changing list of requirements. In five years, I had five different Ecuadorian visas. At one point, I almost had to travel to Peru and hope I could get a tourist visa. My sponsoring organization didn’t have its paperwork in the required format, and I was within days of my current visa expiring. For my most recent visa, I needed to be fingerprinted for a US police report. I went to the Ecuadorian criminal investigation service with the printed form so they could ink my prints onto the paper. However, the young detective insisted that I first be entered into the Ecuadorian system. He took my mug shot as if I was a criminal. Then he took extra time to digitally fingerprint me, making passes at me the whole time. Finally, he sent me over to his older coworker to fill out the form that had brought me there in the first place. I felt completely humiliated by the time I left.

I could go on. When I was hit by a car, people asked me if I wanted them to call an ambulance (wasn’t it a given?) The hospital refused me service until I presented proof of the ability to pay (what if I had been bleeding internally?) When I went to ensure the police filed their paperwork with the prosecutor’s office, I found out that they had written down the wrong license plate number. My case never went to court.

I almost missed my flight once because Ecuadorian immigration messed up my passport number on my previous entry into the country. I have yet to get through US immigration without a big X over my face, indicating that they think I’m suspicious.

Of all these events, can I point to one and say, “That’s the reason why I don’t speak up—why I shrink back from advocating for myself when I interact with large institutions?” No, it’s the cumulative effect of time and again feeling powerless. I spoke up at first. I challenged the US embassy on the way that guard treated me. Then the next elections came around and I experienced the same treatment. Should I shout louder? Should I rage against the injustices? It would just be noise. I’ve never seen anything happen because of my complaints.  I learned that it was easier to keep my head down and move forward, working harder and hoping that I could overcome the barriers in my way.

Now I’m living in the United States again. It’s not a system that rewards those who keep their heads down. I need to defend myself, and the people I speak to actually have some agency—they can challenge the system and make things happen. They make special exceptions for those who know how to advocate for themselves.

I’m trying to unlearn my silence. I’m trying to rebuild my confidence. My self-talk these days is, “Your voice matters. You won’t be punished for trying.” It’s hard, but I’m back in a society with a low power distance. I don’t sit at the bottom of a massive hierarchy in which everyone follows a prescribed process. I can approach those who make decisions, and it’s refreshing to have them listen to me. I know that I can’t instantaneously overcome my physiological reaction to certain situations, but I’m working on my mindset. Hopefully someday I will feel at ease once again in this country where I’m learning how to belong.

Returning and Belonging

From the moment when I publicly acknowledged that I would be moving from Ecuador to the United States, my sense of belonging shifted. The words "returning" and "coming back" suddenly entered my conversations with increased frequency. On the flip side, "leaving," "moving," and occasionally "abandoning us" also reached a new level of familiarity. Conversations with my family and friends in the United States received an injection of excitement and eager expectation. At the same time, my days filled up with an increasing number of goodbye parties and conversations about how great the past few years had been. My future was no longer in Ecuador, so even my continuing presence in the country was lived in an odd twilight zone of being but not belonging.

I always had known that my life in Ecuador was not permanent. However, that knowledge did not limit my assimilation over the course of five years. I was always the foreigner, but I became a foreigner who understood, who belonged, who added diversity to the conversations. I was applauded for learning the language, including the slang and Kichwa words randomly inserted in everyday conversation. I received the love and affection of my new friends who became like family. As I shared my life with them, I simultaneously absorbed a deep understanding of Ecuadorian culture. I needed to understand the country and the people to survive. I wanted to think like an Ecuadorian and view the world through their eyes to thrive. Did I achieve that? Not completely, but it was enough to build a life in which I belonged in Ecuador.

Now I have left. Or maybe I have returned. Regardless, I am no longer in Ecuador. Here no one cares if I know the bus times from Cruz Chicta. No one will as me "imanalla?" I no longer buy tree tomatoes, uvilla, and papaya at the market to make juice. I can't open a fresh cocoa pod with a machete and enjoy the juicy white baba that surrounds the beans. Darting between cars to cross a 6-lane road and wearing a backpack in front of me on a crowded bus are no longer useful skills. All that knowledge has no practical application for my new life.

I have to set aside all the ingrained tendencies, knowledge, and skills to make room for the news. I need to learn to yield to pedestrians even if they are not yet in the crosswalk. I need to get used to paying ten times more for produce at the store or farmer's market. I have to write well-organized essays instead of explaining business concepts in simple Spanish language. I need to speak up and advocate for myself instead of waiting my turn in line. These things would have been my norm if I had never left Michigan. July would have been a normal summer month instead of marking the end of my time in Ecuador and the beginning of my return to Michigan.

These are my experiences of returning. Some say that I am back where I belong, where I was raised. However, belonging implies a level of comfort and familiarity. I don't have that. The Michigan I left five years ago is not the one I encounter today. Just as I changed, Michigan has moved forward. 

Now I am trying to redefine myself. I am still in that twilight zone, but now it is in Michigan. I am present, but I don't yet belong. This is not the excitement of exploring a new country. It is the complexity and hard work of bringing back what I learned in a different country and combining it with the reality of a place I used to know. I have returned, but when will I belong?