Multiverse theories are seductive. Somewhere out there, you’re richer. Smarter. You didn’t say that awkward thing at the party. You wrote the novel, didn’t procrastinate, didn’t miss your chance. It’s a comforting fantasy—until it isn’t.
Recently I read that some physicists think the multiverse might not exist at all. That all those other versions of you? Mathematical ghosts. Nothing more. And if that’s true, then this world—this life—is the only roll of the dice I ever get.
At first, it made me panic. One shot? One fragile, imperfect self? But the more I sat with it, the more freeing it felt. There’s no better “me” out there who got it all right. No cosmic competition. No second draft.
This is it. My one try at love, mistakes, joy, fear, creation. It makes small things feel enormous. It makes me want to be present—even when it’s messy.
And maybe that’s the real gift of this idea: not fear of missing out on another life, but the clarity to stop missing this one.