Write scared

I believe this is the point in my life where everything is contingent on my decisions. This is the embrace of my future and how I will choose to walk. Life in its essence is indescribable. It would be futile trying to put into words how existence is shaped by circumstance, choice, chance, fate and/or destiny. The scariest part is knowing that to accept change means doing it wholeheartedly and not partially. I can’t live in such a way where fear determines my outcome for me. Fear cannot be the determining factor in how I express my passion, drive, love, faith or perspective.

When I was growing up, my family and I poured ourselves into books. Iron gates opening into medieval landscapes, synaptic probes digesting theology and philosophy, and internal compasses continuously readjusting its direction. I used to think that I could tell no one who I was on the inside. Hence, in third grade I began to write poetry and read a plethora of books spanning from the library to my house. In the process, I understood how privileged one must be to have access to all these ideas in the world. How amazing is it that there are the words of people halfway across the world who could touch you in such an impactful way. How amazing is it that as people we are allowed to change. We are allowed to become and define who we are by our own terms.

I believe that there are people who are reluctant to look outside of what they’ve known. Maybe not out of arrogance but more so because it is comfortable. It is comfortable looking around oneself and seeing people nod in your direction how you are doing the right thing. Yet, what happens when the internal habitat no longer welcomes your changes? Do you reject your experiences of understanding more because it is confusion or do you accept that the human existence evolves with time.

Within this week, I watched a Ted Talk how vulnerability is not the worse enemy. If anything the storyteller-researcher replied how the people who sustained self worth leaned into their vulnerabilities. I believe in many ways my life has been a collection of things I never did because it would rock the boat. I believe I was afraid for so long of doing the wrong thing that I did not do right by myself by the time I reached adulthood.

Here’s what I do know…

No one can tell my story except me. All of the descriptions of myself are images people have me. Some views are skewed because I only  given half of myself. Some have pieces of things that make me, but only at certain times.

My definition of myself succumbs to negativity often. I envision that I am behind,  childlike or naive. I am concerned that my softness will become excessive. However, I am swift in criticism that I had not done enough for someone or something. It’s a process dismantling the idea of perfection I inherited from childhood. It’s a challenge to realize I must accept that I cannot be for everyone, and nor should I try to be. 

I’ve boarded the train of being in your twenties. I’ve plastered my face to the window…worried that the things I’m passing are things I need. Yet, I know I can’t be everything or be good at everything. I believe this is the stage where I’m struggling with gratitude that the talents of other people do not label me as talentless. This is the part where I’m asking myself over and over again whether I’d like to be this honest if it causes people to pull away from me. This is the part where I realize that there are people who enjoy my imperfections because they still see me as a larger picture. 

Last night, I went stargazing with friends and I realized how important it is not to shut down emotionally every time. Sometimes pulling away was my convenience in saying no one was there for me, even when it wasn’t necessarily true. Last night with my chin tilted toward the sky and eyes engulfed with the many stars, I realized how much responsibility there is in becoming someone I actually like. 

Some days I hug my knees into my chest, and tell myself that every second I breathe I’m allowed to be more than digestible.


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