In the last couple years, I’ve struggled to write. No, that’s not completely true. I’ve journaled extensively. But I’ve struggled to write anything that’s not an incoherent stream of consciousness. Anything that isn’t fuelled by frustrations and confusion.
I wouldn’t say I’ve been unhappy for all this time. I’ve had some great days, and made major life changes. Gotten married, moved countries. But in all of these happenings, I lost touch with some part of myself. The part that’s not ruled by external validation, by what happens on the daily, by societal expectations. See, I used to have a world inside me and I used to like living there. When I started trying to live on the same plane as the one that I thought (misguidedly, naively) the happiest people lived on, I locked myself out of my own world. I wanted (maybe still want?) so badly to be normal, to be a version of a woman in her mid twenties who could be defined in simple words, summed up neatly, as doing what she should be.
The people I judged to be happy seemed to all be growing in a singular fashion, upwards and onwards, building careers, homes, and in my eyes, identities. The LinkedIn notifications got to me, I won’t lie. Why did everyone else know what they were supposed to be when they grow up? How did I miss the memo? Why hadn’t I wanted the same things as them, from an earlier age? I felt late, I felt I was about ten years behind where I should be, with no confidence that in another ten years it’ll be any better.
Here’s the thing: I’ve seen the same inspirational/motivational posts you have. Growth isn’t linear, everyone is on their own timeline, follow your own path, I’ve heard all of them, and I’ve shared the less cliche ones with friends. They didn’t stop me from feeling less than, all the time. The man I was marrying (and am now married to) was experiencing his own exponential growth at the same time, and while I only feel happy and grateful and proud for his achievements, it didn’t help how I saw myself. Both on the alternate reality that is social media, and in my regular life, I felt surrounded by people who had themselves figured out.
I blamed my interests and choices. I wished that I had been a child who developed traditional interests, or better yet, a child who wasn’t called “mature” for her age, who didn’t spend all her time reading. I wished I hadn’t been an academically overachieving adolescent, which later instilled a fear of failure in me that I am not sure how to overcome. I wished I hadn’t spent my early twenties struggling with anxiety rather than starting on the path that some others seemed to so naturally step on. I wished that instead of starting a blog that I sporadically posted on, and a few other people occasionally read, I had built hard skills that bulked up my resume.
So why, after all of this regret and self loathing, am I suddenly being able to put words down again and write from a place of timid hope? A few days ago, I returned to my new home after some weeks spent, not where I grew up, but somewhere close. It was my wedding week(s) and I was lucky enough to have most of my loved ones in one place. Most things leading up to my wedding had been anxiety stricken and difficult, but when my old friends showed up, I could breathe. I could laugh and I could feel and I could cry, all at once and intermittently. I could be, in ways you can only be with people who’ve known you most of your life and loved you through all the stages you regret.
And for a while, just being, just laughing, just existing in their presence, was enough. I felt that if this is all my life would have, it was worth it. I felt lucky. I felt rejuvenated in ways that no self help book/talk/massage has so far been able to inspire. If I were a very spiritual person, I would say my chakras were unblocked.
I know that this happened because it was an extraordinary circumstance, it was a reunion after years, it wasn’t our real everyday lives. I know that all my problems haven’t been solved, that my fears and insecurities are here even as I write this. But for however long this state lasts, I can feel hope. I can accept myself a bit more, I don’t have to regret the things that make me, me. I am able to look at the past and feel content with the choices that led me here. To me, writing has always been about reflection, and searching till I find a reason to believe in this little life. Trying to build a future while reflecting less – in an aim to be practical – didn’t work for me.
If you’ve lasted this long through my rambling, I hope today you find your reason too. I hope you can hold on to your reason for as long as possible, and I hope that when that reason gets lost again (as it inevitably does), there is someone there to help you find it.
Photo by Daniel Jensen on Unsplash
Musings by Mubashshira 