I was the girl who played in creeks. I remember that now. I would skip along boulders and climbing over logs and make up stories in my head about people Id never fulfilled. Sometimes Id come with friends and sometimes Id go alone. But I loved the style it felt to leap frog across the rocks and not get my feet wet. I loved the smell of the woods.
I hadnt gone to a creek in years. Somewhere along the line, I learned that girls shouldnt play in the woods by themselves. It isnt safe. It isnt lady like. It isnt encouraged.
But when I ran camping last summer with my husband, we find a creek. I skipped along the rocks. I climbed over logs. I inhaled in the smell of the woods. And I remembered.
I was the girl who wrote tales. I remember that now. I sat for hours at my familys bulky desktop computer and wrote a narrative about a girl who could period travelling. I wrote 10 chapters and never thought to save it. I cried when our computer crashed, and I lost the file. But I loved the style my fingers could tell tales faster than my mouth. The route the words just seemed to flowing. The style the letters tumbled out in nice, straight lines on the page.
I stopped writing. Somewhere along the line, I supposed I didnt have enough talent. I gave up on writing because it wasnt practical. It wasnt interesting. It wasnt cool.
But when I started writing again a few years ago, I couldnt stop. I wrote chapters and essays and articles, and I built sure to save them. I exclaimed when my first piece got published. I bought a new lap top computer. And I remembered.
I was the girl who played football. I remember that now. I played all year round on multiple teams. I was the goal keeper. I loved the style it felt when I made an important save. I loved how my body could take over, the route it always knew what to do. The route I felt when I was part of something bigger than myself.
I stopped playing soccer. Somewhere along the line, I guessed I wasnt good enough. I gave up on soccer because it no longer stimulated “i m feeling” special. It wasnt flashy. It wasnt impressive.
But last year, I started playing again. I began moving my body and trusting my instincts. I ran and dove and kicked, and with every sore muscle, I smiled. I practised in the back yard. I was part of something bigger. And I remembered.
Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Perhaps it was the drinking. Maybe it was the sons. Perhaps it was my insatiable need to be liked by everyone I encountered. Or perhaps its only the innate difficulty of growing up.
Its not hard to lose yourself when youre young and impressionable and craving to be liked. You stop doing things that others disapprove of or dont understand. You begin more worthy pursuings in order to be popular. Youll compromise yourself if it means youll be accepted. Youd sacrifice your spirit simply to be invited to the party.
At 13, I didnt want to be the girl who played in creeks or wrote narratives or played soccer on the weekends. I wanted to be the popular girl, the pretty girl, the cool daughter. Why go to the timbers when you can go to the mall? Why write tales when you are able to flirt with sons on Instant Messenger? Abruptly, the things I loved didnt seem to matter. All I cared about was being liked and admired. All I wanted was to be seen.
At 26, the struggle remains. Its easy to think that its embarrassing and shameful to be the woman who hikes in the timbers. I trick myself into believing that Id rather be at the bar, surrounded by friends. I dont want to be a writer, I want to be a career woman with great benefits and a 401 -k. I dont want to play football, I want to decorate my house and post pictures of it on Pinterest.
Except I dont want those things , not really. I recollect now. I remember that its not fun to trade in who you really are for a shinier, more socially acceptable model. It doesnt feel good to play by other peoples rules. It is exhausting to constantly strive to become someone youre not because your real ego doesnt seem good enough. Its like exhaling with only one of your lungs- it cant sustain you.
Ive spent years trying to unbecome who the world told me I should be. Years spent trying to learn to love my body, even though I have love handles and thighs that jiggle when I stroll. Hours upon hours spent pursuing a passion that may not amount to anything career wise, but induces my heart feel alive. An ungodly quantity of period simply accepting that I dont like hanging out in bars or getting drunk or having a million friends. My heart feels most at home with a few select people, a good book, and a bubble bath. And ultimately, after all those years, Ive learned that this is okay. Its more than okay actually, its preferred.
Because becoming who the world wants us to be is not going to bring us happiness. The things that bring true exhilaration, the things that stimulate us feel alive, are the things that have been there all along. They are the things that cause our heart to skip a beat, our mind to pause, and our spirit to call
Things like playing in the creek and writing stories and playing soccer even when youre not very good. Those are the things that count. Those are your things. Those are who you really are.
Remember them. And then be brave enough to own them.
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