I’ve spent the majority of my life running from myself. The funny part is that I didn’t realize I was running until I stopped long enough to catch my breath. I had been chasing an unattainable finish line.
Moving to a new city presented the opportunity to slow down and decide how I hope to establish myself as an individual through the connections that I made.
When meeting new people, one of my favorite things to learn about is their first memory of doing what they love. For some, that’s the first time they picked up a basketball, or the time they baked their first batch of cookies.
For me, that “one thing” has always been writing, and my first memories surrounding writing took place in my childhood bedroom in a tiny red journal, where I wrote about dogs, fairies, witches, etc. (all the things that I loved without explanation). Of course, like any other five year old, I sat my family down and forced them to listen as I read my great 5-paged novels aloud. Thank you, family.
As I grew even older, I barely passed elementary and middle school English classes. While I loved stories, I resented the new-found mechanics behind them. I felt as though they limited me. I spent much of my early education days being tossed around like a rag doll, allowing others to decide what I was destined for and how my life would unfold.
But when my 7th grade English teacher noticed my desperate desire to tell stories, she encouraged me to enter a writing contest. I poured all of myself into a short essay with hopes to win a donation to the Wounded Warrior project, a non-profit organization that provides resources for wounded veterans.
I won. And I was quickly introduced to the double-edged sword of external validation. In that moment as a 13-year-old girl, something clicked. I realized that I could actually be good at this, and that Knowing was separate from my love for writing stories on the floor of my childhood bedroom. What was once a passion that I had no care for being “good” at, quickly became my strongest bond to the human need of approval.
Long before then, I have always been hyper aware of the people around me and how our life experiences differ. From an early age, I learned to seek beauty in stories outside of myself. I learned early on what I loved about the world, what I believed made up a good person, and what I longed to experience in the time that I had.
With each year of my life, I was exposed to more of the world and grew connected to more and more people. In turn, I developed an attachment to the happiness of others, even if the cost was me. Sometimes, especially if the cost was me.
I learned how good it felt to make other people happy, to mold myself to what those around me thought was best for me. While it was all in good intention, the excessive concern for the world around me led to a loss of any true identity separate from other people and places, which are temporary.
In building an identity, I dismissed myself: All the way from the most basic parts of me, like my favorite color, to my passions, grievances, and opinions. For someone that wants a lot out of my life, I sure can be dismissive.
The child-like yearning to do what I love was replaced by the worldly desire to be loved and accepted. I looked around and took note of what it took to be loved: I would look a certain way, show up for others, and tend to their needs before my own. I knew that I could be good at that.
Over time, I stopped showing up for myself. My time became disposable, and I lost touch with my needs. I found myself frustrated and stuck, unsure of what it would even mean to change my ways. And while it’s hard to admit, there was nobody to blame but myself if I wanted this to change.
I willingly lost pieces of myself in years of people-pleasing, but I don't see that as lost time, because it taught me how wildly unsatisfying it is to live for others. Choosing to return to myself in my 20s has proven to me that our value is independent of external approval.
I know that I am moving in the right direction because I find myself feeling angry and resentful, which, while out of character, I know that these feelings are necessary.
Anger is a part of me waking up, begging me to finally show up for myself first.
Committing to writing again is just one piece of reintroducing myself to… myself. It’s funny how much of that is revisiting who I was as a kid, before I was told what I was “good” at or what I should like. I’m even learning what makes me happy and what makes me mad without feeling guilty about it, which is something that I truly struggled with for years. I’m taking time to decide what my new favorite color is as I would ask someone else’s. I’m learning that it’s never too late to choose you again.
As I continue to navigate my 20s, I grapple with feeling the oldest and youngest I’ve ever felt in my entire life at the same time. I feel old because from my 22-year-old perspective, I’ve already passed major milestones that I had always anticipated. I’ve already told the world who I am.
But more than that, there’s a relief in knowing I haven’t even begun discovering myself yet. When I return to all of the things that I loved as a kid, I feel young again. After years of insecurity, I know that this is my chance to live simply again. I feel ready to run towards to myself, which is always the closest destination.
I hope that you do, too. As hard as it may be in the beginning, I have a feeling that the world is missing out on you.
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