What’s the worst that could happen?

In 2001 I woke up in Vienna with a headache that only tequila shots and beer chasers could be responsible for. The consequences of this decision led me to a practice that I still maintain to this day when faced with massive uncertainty and fear of poor outcomes. I call it “playing the worst-case-scenario game.” 

It was my second day of a 3-week solo European backpack trip where I had sworn to myself as a single female traveler that I would not drink any alcohol on this trip so that I could “keep my wits about me.” I was 24 years old and had never left the United States. I had a British roommate in graduate school who encouraged me to get out and see the world, and so I sold myself in research studies for the last year of my Master’s degree program and upon graduating I took my stack of American Express travel checks and headed to Europe.

These were the days before cell phones and only a few people were using email. I created a hotmail account right before I left for my trip (that I still have to this day) so I could communicate with my family once in a while, if and when there was an internet cafe available along my journey. I remember my mother begging me to book a place to stay for at least the first night, but I was adamant that I would have no firm plan. I wanted to be outside of my comfort zone, be spontaneous and scrappy with nothing but my trusty “Lonely Planet Guide to Europe on a Shoestring” bible to assist me. I was also set on not doing the “typical” Europe trip but instead wanted to explore lesser-traveled areas including more eastern European countries. Go big or go home…which I almost did.

I arrived in Vienna, Austria as my first stop because it was the cheapest city to fly into from Boston. Also I had done a 5th grade oral report on Austria, fully dressed in typical garb (floofy dress, apron and bonnet) so it was a long-time dream of mine to see this country in person. Once I was dropped off in the city center I carefully folded the free map I’d taken from the airport so that it fit hidden in the palm of my hand and I could casually glance at it while trying to navigate my way down the German-named streets without anyone knowing that I was a perpetually lost and confused tourist. I’m sure the giant backpack that I carried on the front of me didn’t give me away, or the very stereotypical American footwear (sneakers, and not the cute trendy ones) for that matter… 

It took exactly one day before I longed for connection and to be able to speak English with another human. I was in a museum when I heard two young men speaking to each other in my native tongue. I immediately walked up to them and asked if they were from the States. It turned out they were medical students from Penn State, a college that everyone in my family had attended except for me, but I had been to the campus for football games nearly every year for decades, so we had an instant connection. We ended up touring the city together, attending a classical music concert, and ending the night at a waterfront bar where the tequila shots and beer chasers came into the story. 

The next morning my plan was to take the train to a small town a few hours outside of Vienna where I could really experience the local culture without the tourist traps of the big city. I was hurting from the activities the night before, but determined to stick to my plan this time. I dragged myself out of the dormitory where I had been staying, loaded my giant pack on my back, grabbed a 2-liter bottle of water to start the rehydration process and headed to the train station.

Fortunately English was widely spoken at the train station and I was able to procure my ticket and find my train easily. I settled into my seat, completely withered and exhausted and started to fall asleep right before we were to depart. In that moment I realized I had left my lifeblood, my giant bottle of water, at the ticket counter. There was no time to go back and retrieve it, so I resigned myself to passing out on the train with my cottonmouth and hot, dry skin as punishing reminders of my poor decisions the night before. 

I awoke with a start too many hours later. I had missed my stop. I couldn’t find any information on where we were at this point; the landscape outside was devoid of any signs, or houses, or buildings for that matter. Without today’s modern convenienxes of a cell phone or google maps I did what I thought seemed reasonable at the time–I got off at the next stop thinking I could just hop on another train going back the way I had come from. But as I departed the train at the next stop, I quickly realized that not every “station” was like the one in the capital city. In fact, the “station” I had disembarked to was a mere platform in the middle of nowhere. The only things surrounding me were fields and vineyards. I said the name of my desired destination, Durnstein, out loud to a random person on the platform. He pointed towards the direction the train had just come from and said “funf kilometers.” I at least knew how to count to ten in German, thanks to my dad, and unfortunately I had run enough 5K races to know that I to get to where I wanted to be I had a long 3-mile trek ahead of me with no food or water in the overstuffed 60-lb pack on my back. There were no amenities at the train platform, but there was a trail that headed towards the village of Durnstein, which was my goal. With my body running on agave fumes I set off to what I figured was my only option at this point. 

A key thing I learned in doing research for my trip was that throughout Europe there would be green signs with a circle around the little letter “i,” and that these should be considered the tourist’s holy grail for getting information, and potentially even someone who spoke English. I did not see any of these signs along the vacant trail as I hiked through the hillsides of rural Austria, but I did eventually come to a small village whose name I did not recognize. It was not where I had planned to stop, but I was overly exhausted by this point, and my mental state was failing quickly. I had no energy to problem-solve, I was doubting my ability to survive this trip alone and I was in the middle of nowhere without any connection or ability to communicate with anyone in my life. No one knew where I was, including me. 

I opened the Lonely Planet guide and found a phrase I could use to ask if anyone had a room available for the night. I started knocking on doors up and down the street, “haben sie nacht frie zimmer?” Not a soul I encountered spoke a word of English and I can still see the shaking of each of their heads in the doorways as I made my way through the village with no luck. In the journal I kept from that trip I likened the responses to this endeavor to that of Mary and Joseph trying to get a room the night Jesus was born. I wondered if there were any mangers available. I finally asked a new question, where I could find one of the “i” information centers. The answer was to keep walking the trail to Durnstein, my original destination. I pressed on.

I finally completed the worst 5K of my life. I wish I could have had the presence to enjoy the scenery at least, but there was no capacity in my brain for seeing the bright side of this situation; fear and survival took priority. I saw the oasis of the large green “i” sign and dragged my disheveled body inside the building. Sweaty, probably pretty ripe-smelling, dying to get the giant pack off my back, parched and cursing my life choices over the last 24 hours, I staggered in and found a young woman behind a counter full of tourist pamphlets.  I squeaked out, “Sprechen sie English?” with my bone-dry vocal cords and fortunately heard “music to my ears” that rivaled the live symphony I’d heard in Vienna the day before–she responded “Yes, how can I help?” I asked her if there were any rooms available in the area and she told me most were already fully booked but there was a farmhouse nearby that sometimes had a room available. She made a phone call in German and told me I would be picked up in a few minutes. In the meantime I saw a cooler case full of the juice of life that I had left back in Vienna (along with a chunk of my liver).

Sidenote: One of the key annoyances I dealt with in Europe was the wide use of sparkling water, which I abhorred back then. It was also not the easiest type of fluid to rehydrate with as I found the bubbles impeded my ability to slug it down at a rate that matched my need for reincarnating the cells of my mucous membranes. As I searched the German labels on the bottles to try and decipher which ones were “gas” vs “no gas,” the young woman sent a lifeline across the room, “Squeeze the bottle. If you can’t squeeze it, it has gas.” Mind blown. To this day I count this gem among some of the best advice I’ve ever learned during my world travels. 

Armed with multiple bottles of “no gas” water and feeling a bit more energized knowing I had a place to stay for the night, I waited for my ride with a stranger. The old man arrived and it was very clear there would be no more of my native language spoken from this point forward. But he was sweet and helped me put my pack in his car. Of course I had my doubts about getting into a strange car, still in the middle of nowhere, Austria, but I was too tired to really care at this point. I had to trust that the young woman in the “i” building knew what she was doing in handing me over to him. We had only driven about a mile away from the information center when we arrived at a large white farmhouse. A woman in an apron who I presumed to be his wife greeted us at the door. She was wearing a floofy dress and an apron. Fifth-grade fantasy achieved! The farmer’s wife escorted me to my room which contained a small twin bed and a chair, even smaller than the dorm room I’d stayed in the previous night, but I really couldn’t care less. It wasn’t even 6pm but all I wanted was to go to sleep. She drew numbers on the door with her finger to show me how much the room would cost and I nodded that it was fine and handed her the appropriate amount of schillings (these were also pre-EURO days). She then mimed something that was clearly about having dinner, to which I just shook my head and laid my hands palm to palm against my cheek to demonstrate that I just wanted to sleep. She looked a bit like a worried mom at that point but she left me alone and I entered the room and locked the door. 

I slugged a bunch of water and ate a bar of chocolate I had purchased at the ‘i” building. I then started to plan my escape from Europe.

It had been a rough day. I had lost my confidence and was worried that it was only day 2 and I had completely lost my way and taken far too many risks for my comfort level. No one knew where I was, I had no way to communicate and my entire plan had revolved around spending as little time as possible in the big cities because I really wanted to explore the smaller villages and lesser-known areas of Europe. Now I wasn’t sure that I had the fortitude to follow through on that plan. I was daunted by the idea of going rogue. My plan to go to places like Krakow and Prague and more eastern Europe no longer sounded adventurous but terrifying as I read in my Lonely Planet book about the potential dangers of overnight trains, including being “gassed and robbed” in your sleep compartment. Maybe I wasn’t as ready for this trek as I thought I was. Maybe my mom was right, that I should have had an actual plan with hotel reservations and destinations that included touristy souvenir shops and way too many Americans.

I took out my travel journal and started to talk to myself through writing. I wrote out my fears and concerns and what my options were. I started with what I called the “worst case scenario,” which was that I could retrace my steps back to the Vienna airport the next day and fly back home to the US, abandoning my trip altogether. Once I had that option written down in front of me, I saw that there was a very reasonable exit strategy and immediately felt better. But I also felt something else–I didn’t want to choose that option. Just knowing that I  could get out of this situation was enough for me to reset my mind. I kept writing. The next option that appeared before me would be to skip all of the “road less traveled” destinations I had planned out and just head straight to England, which I had intentionally reserved as my last stop on this trip because I had friends there, everyone spoke the same language as me, and I knew it would be the most safe and comfortable place for me to travel. My logic had been, if my goal was to push myself out of my comfort zone on this trip, I should not go to England first because I might never leave and would miss out on some of the more unique experiences in Europe. However, in this game I was playing of how to navigate my way out of the challenging situation I’d been in over the last 24 hours, and my fear that the rest of my trip might hold similar undesirable fates, I listed flying straight to England as my next “worst case scenario” option after I had dismissed heading back to the US straightaway. And once again, after I had seen the plan on paper, and realized I did have options, I also put the England option aside, “for now,” I told myself, and decided to see how I felt after a shower, refueling and a good night’s sleep. 

The next morning I decided to go ahead with the travels I had planned in rural Austria, and then give myself latitude to make my next decision when I was at the next fork in the road.

I finished out my tour of the small villages of Austria, with a few more bumps (like waiting for a bus to take me to another village, only to find out that the buses didn’t run on Saturdays so I found myself in yet another old Austrian man’s car trusting the kindness of strangers…) but I completed my full 3 weeks in Europe with some modifications along the way to abate my discomfort in certain circumstances while still challenging myself to be outside of my comfort zone. 

This experience was transformational in my life and to this day I think about being lost alone in the middle of the Austrian countryside and how I worked my way out of the situation without giving up on my goal, and I took away the valuable lesson that there is almost always a way out, even if it’s not “ideal.”

For most of our lives we’ve been taught that we are either optimists or pessimists, based on what we see in front of us. The analogy most often used is the glass filled with water to the mid-point of its capacity. We are asked how we “see” this glass; is it half-full? Or half-empty? If we see it as half-full, we are considered optimists, which is lauded in our society. If we see it is half-empty, we are labeled pessimists, which carries a negative connotation and paints a picture of a curmudgeon who is always “waiting for the other shoe to drop” or dismally talking about the 10 minutes of rain expected based on the weather forecast, even though the majority of the day looks sunny and warm.

Although I consider myself an optimist for the most part, I find a real benefit to playing out the “worst-case scenario” when faced with a challenging situation. I’d rather be prepared for an undesirable outcome, or at least as much as I can be prepared, so that I can move forward knowing that if those undesirable outcomes come to fruition, I am not caught completely off-guard. This is a contrasting approach to the “toxic positivity” that has become popular in our culture. I love a “good vibes only” t-shirt as much as the next optimist, but there are times when it does not serve me to dismiss potential negative consequences. I would rather try and find a balance between preparedness while still maintaining hope.

The stoic philosophy has always resonated with me and this passage from Seneca really exemplifies how we can balance preparedness with staying in the present moment: 

“It is likely that some troubles will befall us; but it is not a present fact. How often has the unexpected happened! How often has the expected never come to pass! And even though it is ordained to be, what does it avail to run out to meet your suffering? You will suffer soon enough, when it arrives; so look forward meanwhile to better things. What shall you gain by doing this? Time.”

The “worst case scenario game” can be a tool to alleviate fear and uncertainty. When I know what the worst possible outcome is in my mind, and I realize that even that worst possible outcome is survivable, then I can move on and make decisions knowing that I’ll be ok no matter what. There is no need to “run out to meet” any potential “suffering,” but taking a few moments to consider the full gamut of possible outcomes brings me peace of mind. Not everyone will agree with this approach, but it’s worth a shot if you’ve never tried it before.

Even the stoics felt we should be prepared for events that could require us to change course quickly for survival. Ryan Holliday, a stoic scholar and author, says “the stoics want us to be prepared for rain, but you don’t have to get wet in advance. You can enjoy the sunshine today, while still bringing in your furniture just in case.”

It isn’t pessimistic to be prepared and to think through possible outcomes. In the scientific world we generate hypotheses on how we think an experiment will play out, but we also pre-plan what conclusions we will draw depending on the outcomes. There is no “positive” or “negative” associated with either outcome; it just either is or isn’t what we thought it would be. This links back to last week’s discussion of choosing the “middle way,” or having a neutral reaction to things outside of our control versus labeling them as “good” or “bad.”

Now, it’s not to say that there aren’t some really, REALLY tough outcomes to deal with–loss of a loved one comes to top of mind–but to dwell on that possibility robs us of our time in the present with those very same loved ones.

The next time you’re worried about something, try playing out the worst case scenario. If you’re honest with yourself, you will see that just about any outcome still leaves us with a possibility to be ok, no matter what. And if you need more inspiration to believe that, seek out people who’ve really been through some of the true worst case scenarios in life, including unimaginable tragedies or circumstances, and observe how they have somehow found a way to continue getting out of bed every day, determined to use their pain and sorrow to make a difference in the world. Do not do this to diminish any of your own pain or suffering, as we all have the right to feel sad, angry or afraid, but rather do this as a reminder that human resiliency runs deeper than we often give ourselves credit for. All around us there are heroic models of our capacity to endure even the worst case scenario. If we just choose to see these examples we can start to believe that we also are capable of surviving those conditions, should they come to pass. In the meantime, we can move forward with our goals knowing that whatever the outcome, we will be okay.