Dear reader, I think I have made it quite clear over the years that I am, for a myriad of reasons, simply not a sports person. I don’t typically watch or participate in many sports, nor do I have any particular inclination to change that. I have nothing against them, of course. Why should I advocate for depriving someone else of an activity that brings them joy?
Yet over the past few weeks I found myself, quite unexpectedly, drawn into the orbit of soccer—or football, as nearly everyone outside the United States insists on calling it. (I’m beginning to suspect America simply enjoys being contrarian.)
The World Cup had arrived, and suddenly it seemed to be everywhere. Friends hosted watch parties. Restaurants filled with cheering fans. Social media overflowed with celebrations, dramatic finishes, and clips of supporters singing in unison. Perhaps it was because the tournament was being played on home soil, but even people I had never known to care much about soccer suddenly had passionate opinions about offsides, penalty kicks, and championship predictions.
Watching all of this unfold, I experienced something surprisingly familiar.
The fear of missing out.
It wasn’t that I had suddenly developed a deep appreciation for the sport. I hadn’t. It was the feeling that everyone else was participating in a shared cultural moment while I stood quietly on the outside looking in.
Perhaps I should learn the rules.
Maybe I ought to watch a few matches.
Should I start reading about the teams so I can contribute to the conversation?
If you’ve ever felt that little tug, you know exactly what I’m talking about. FOMO has very little to do with the activity itself. More often, it stems from our deeply human desire to belong. We see everyone around us enjoying something together, and we begin to wonder whether we should be enjoying it too.
But somewhere along the way, I realized something.
I didn’t actually want to watch soccer.
What I wanted was the feeling of being included.
Those are not the same thing.
There is something wonderfully liberating about recognizing the difference.
In recent years people have begun talking about JOMO—the Joy of Missing Out. Rather than anxiously trying to participate in every trend, every event, every conversation, JOMO invites us to make peace with the opportunities we choose not to pursue.
Not everything has to become our hobby.
Not every cultural phenomenon needs our attention.
Not every invitation must be accepted.
Every “yes” we give something is also a “no” to something else. Our time and attention are finite, and spending them intentionally is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves.
For me, that meant happily scrolling past match highlights while smiling at the unmistakable enthusiasm of Dutch fans dancing in brilliant seas of orange. Their joy was contagious, even if their pastime wasn’t. I could appreciate their excitement without feeling compelled to make it my own.
Perhaps that is the real lesson.
We do not need to borrow someone else’s passions in order to live a meaningful life. We simply need to cultivate our own.
So the next time the entire world seems to be rushing toward the newest trend, the latest series, the biggest sporting event, or whatever everyone insists you simply must experience, remember this:
It is perfectly acceptable to let other people have their joy while you quietly pursue your own.
Sometimes the greatest peace comes not from doing more, but from realizing there was never any need to join the crowd in the first place.
Budget Bliss: Bucket List 