Scarcity, Seasons & the Stories We Inherited

Today, I had a conversation with one of my students that lingered in my thoughts long after the Zoom call ended. She’s of Caribbean descent and married to a man with Dutch and Japanese roots. She shared how, in the early days of their relationship, he really struggled with her family’s way of being—what he perceived as a lack of structure, an ease with uncertainty, and a natural “go with the flow” attitude. In his world, planning was a sign of maturity. In hers, it wasn’t necessary unless it served the moment.

And I couldn’t help but wonder:

Why do some of us need to plan so obsessively?

Why does not planning make some people feel unsafe?

And what does all of this have to do with the broader systems that have shaped how we experience life?

Planning as Protection

In many Western cultures, planning is not just encouraged—it’s idolized. We’re taught that certainty is a virtue and control is wisdom. Schedules, calendars, five-year goals... these are framed as marks of intelligence and responsibility.

But beneath that glorification, I think there’s something more primal: fear.

Fear of scarcity. Fear of chaos. Fear of not surviving.

Much of the Western world evolved in harsh seasonal climates—winters that demanded preparation, storage, foresight. In that context, planning was life-saving. That mindset—rooted in survival—didn’t just shape habits, it shaped identities. The one who prepares is the one who lives.

But what happens when this survival logic becomes culture-wide dogma, even when the threat is long gone?

Climate, Culture & Control

In the Caribbean and many tropical regions, the natural world teaches a different lesson. Food grows year-round. The ocean provides. If a storm comes, it may tear things down—but life continues. Community steps in. The environment invites a kind of trust in the natural unfolding of things.

This doesn’t mean people don’t think ahead—it just means planning isn’t a prerequisite for safety.

But when cultures with different roots meet—like in my student’s marriage—those differences can feel jarring. One person’s ease feels like another person’s irresponsibility. One person’s security blanket feels like another’s prison.

And in so many cases, it’s the “planner” whose way is deemed superior.

Colonized Time, Colonized Mind

This is where the conversation gets uncomfortable, but necessary.

Western culture—shaped by scarcity, industrialization, and conquest—exported its values to the rest of the world through colonization. This didn’t just mean land and labor. It meant time. It meant redefining what’s considered “productive,” “efficient,” and “successful.”

Time was chopped into hours, sold for wages, measured in KPIs. Entire cultures were labeled “lazy” or “backward” for not adhering to this mechanized, forward-only mode of existence.

That colonization wasn’t just of land or language—it was of the mind.

We inherited the idea that a planned life is a better life.That controlling the future makes us more valuable.That presence is a luxury only afforded once the checklist is complete.

What If…

But what if none of that is true?

What if our obsession with planning is actually a trauma response—an echo of ancient winters and industrial schedules that no longer serve us?

What if letting go of the need to plan is not laziness, but trust?

What if being present is not passive, but powerful?

What if life is meant to be lived—not managed?

Unlearning the Timeline

More and more, I find myself drawn to spaciousness. To planning only what’s necessary. To letting life surprise me. And yes, it’s vulnerable. It brings up all my fears of failure, of not being “on track,” of being judged.

But it also brings freedom.

Freedom to respond to life instead of bracing against it.

Freedom to rest.

Freedom to be.

Maybe the real question isn’t “Why don’t you have a plan?”

Maybe the question is: “What would it feel like to be safe without one?”