The luxury of JOMO
Ah, JOMO, or the Joy of Missing Out. To be clear, this is the opposite of the saying FOMO, meaning “Fear of Missing Out.” And from where I am standing, even with this bad knee, JOMO is an upgrade, dare I say a promotion, even.
Last Friday, I turned down a perfectly lovely invitation.
There was nothing wrong with it at all—the company was excellent; the food, I am assured, would have been worth the trouble of putting on shoes and lipstick; drinks enough to make stories much more interesting. But I saw myself, messaging the lovely host a message of regret, and at 6 p.m. on Friday night, I was planning which book I was going to get into, dessert we were all going to dive into, before going to bed at 10 p.m. This all would have been deeply concerning and healthily scoffed at by a 22-year-old me. That era when staying home on a Friday night felt like failure is well and truly over.
Then again, back in those days, every invitation was considered an opportunity, every dinner was networking, and all events were deemed unmissable. Every party might contain a future friend, future client, future romance, or at the very least, a story worth telling on Monday.
Missing out felt dangerous. But these days, missing out feels stunningly glorious.
Somewhere between adulthood, responsibility, and discovering the life-changing magic of a really good mattress and amazing towels, I developed a condition known as JOMO. Unexpectedly, I might add, and this condition arrived with surprising relief and not panic. This relief stemmed from not having to find a ride (why I usually commuted: much easier), wade through traffic, fight for parking (when friends would have their ride), and not having to be “on” all the time. Relief that nobody expects you to be interesting for three consecutive hours.
Most importantly, relief that “No, thank you” has finally become a complete sentence, and that, I've come to realize, is a priceless luxury.
When I was younger, I treated every invitation like a possibility and every opportunity like a door I had to walk through. I said yes to dinners, parties, projects, road trips, and more than a few things I wasn't entirely convinced I wanted to do, and some of these I have come to semi-regret. Doing all this was because of curiosity, opportunity, and partly ambition. And, of course, I was still trying to figure out who I was and wanted to be. Back then, every experience felt significant, and every room seemed as though it might hold the conversation, connection, or revelation that could change everything, and to be fair, there were a fair few of those that have helped me to get to where I am today. Clichéd but true, and for that, I will always be thankful to clichés.
There comes a point, though, that you have enough stories to tell and contribute to the flow in whatever meal or party you are not only invited to, but decide to go to. There have been experiences, and to get into new ones seems like the absolute last thing you want to do, as a cozy linen sheet set, perfect pillows and a nice shower or bath while watching your favorite show or reading a book seems more exciting than trying to prove you can hang out somewhere with someone, where music (however good) blares into your ear canal for two days’ worth of tinnitus. Besides, you’ve done this before, and over and over again, there’s nothing really that different except maybe the trends that are now taking over pop culture consciousness, and the recovery period that will take days rather than hours.
That era when staying home on a Friday night felt like failure is well and truly over.
Keeping your hearing and consciousness for the following days seems more like a luxury rather than being baduy. Before anyone comes after me, I’m not out to kill a good time, I’m just saying there comes a point for the majority of us that the good time feels like it is killing us.
The Joy of Missing Out is now more about discernment, picking and choosing when exactly we are willing to “live it up” again. What warrants our being on bed rest for a few days, or trumps finishing our book? As that famous self-help slogan goes, JOMO is picking your hard. Which hard are you willing to go through? Is one night or one day worth it? If it is, then by gum, go for it. Let me step back first and say, with all the love in the world, that FOMO is not inherently a bad thing. FOMO is what ambition is, clothed as an acronym. Ambition gets a bad rap because when used with bad intentions, it is construed as getting one over another to be better than them. Stepping over people so you can get ahead. But at its core, I believe ambition is trying to better oneself, and NOT necessarily over another.
I suppose that is why JOMO feels like such a luxury. Not because staying home is somehow superior to going out, and it’s certainly not because there is anything wrong with saying yes to a good invitation. Rather, it is the realization that there is more joy in where you already are than in where you are constantly being told you should be.
When you're younger, so much of life is driven by need. The need to prove yourself. The need to get ahead. The need to meet people, build connections, gather experiences, and figure out who exactly you are. There is a wonderful energy to that season of life, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. And eventually, if you're lucky, that need softens into want. You no longer go because you need, or have to. You go because you genuinely want to. And if you decide not to go, there is no anxiety attached to the decision. No lingering sense that life is happening somewhere else without you.
That, to me, is real luxury. Choice. Decision. Deliberate action.
It is knowing yourself well enough to decide what deserves your time, energy, and attention. It is being able to stay home without feeling guilty, AND go out without feeling obligated. It is understanding that the best place to be is not always somewhere new, but sometimes exactly where you already are. And perhaps that is the greatest surprise of all.
For years, we are taught to look outward. To chase the next opportunity, the next experience, the next destination. We are encouraged to build a life worth living. But nobody really talks about what happens when you actually do. See, when you actually do build that life, even just half of it, you tend to want to enjoy the fruits of your labor. What happens when the home is comfortable, the relationships are solid, the bookshelves are full, and the life you've spent years constructing becomes a place you genuinely enjoy inhabiting? See, when you actually do build that life, even just half of it, you tend to want to enjoy the fruits of your labor, and at some point, the world stops feeling like something you need to constantly chase. Not because you have lost your curiosity, but because you have finally built something worth being in and getting your hands all pruney. And that, I think, is why the true luxury of JOMO lies not in missing out, but in finally realizing that you are not missing out, after all.
At some point, the fear that life is happening somewhere else begins to fade because you realize that life—your life—is not a place you arrive at. It is not hidden inside a restaurant reservation, a boarding pass, an invitation, or a sold-out event. It is not waiting in another city, another country, another season of your life. It is right wherever you are. Perhaps the reward is not that we stop wanting more. It is that we finally become capable of appreciating what we already have. We stop chasing every shiny thing that passes by and start romanticizing the life sitting right in front of us, and soaking it all in instead. No, I don’t mean staging a cup of coffee beside a strategically placed book and a croissant for the perfect photograph. What do they call it, performative? Yeah, not that. I mean genuinely enjoying your coffee while it is still hot and reading the book instead of photographing it, and oh no! It actually never ends up on any socials.
When we are younger, we are collectors: We collect experiences, friendships, achievements, lessons, passport stamps, stories, and occasionally poor decisions that somehow become our funniest anecdotes 20 years later. We are gathering material for the people we are becoming.
Then something shifts. The older version of ourselves begins the much quieter task of enjoying the collection. Maybe that is why a Friday night at home no longer feels like failure and feels suspiciously like success. Not the loud kind of success, mind you. There are no trophies involved. No certificates. No corner office. No social media post announcing that I am "thrilled and humbled" to be attending yet another event.
Just the quiet satisfaction of realizing that the life you spent decades building is actually one you enjoy living.
That is a different kind of wealth that does not make headlines. It’s the wealth of coming home safe to a home or to people who are your home, that you genuinely like. That you are secure enough in your relationships that you don’t need to perform or prove anything and can say “no” to an invite without losing the relationship. The wealth of spending a Friday night exactly as you please and not feeling the need to justify it to anyone, yourself included.
Perhaps that is why I no longer see JOMO as the opposite of FOMO. I see it more as what comes after, the leveling up, and more of the next step. FOMO belongs to the years when we are building. Building careers, friendships, confidence, memories, and ourselves. JOMO belongs to the years when we finally sit down, look around, and realize we quite like what we have built.
Both are necessary. One gets you out into the world and the other teaches you how to enjoy coming home. And from where I am standing, with my books, my blanket, my excellent towels, a dessert waiting in the refrigerator, and a knee and lower back that now provide unsolicited feedback on all major life decisions, that sounds far less like missing out and much more like arriving.
