It’s going to be alright

For young love that’s not so young anymore.

And for my 26th birthday.

We used to write 7 poems a day about falling in love. Now we can hardly form the thought. Our words used to spill out of us flooded, overflowing. Now we have grown comfortable with silence and when we speak it comes with a sob or two. We used to revel in the loneliness of the empty space next to us. Now we can’t remember what it felt like to not know how it felt.

We really don’t know what we’re doing anymore. But did we ever? I think some of us did. Some us found what we wanted or what we thought we wanted and then settled down with it just like we were taught to do. But even those of us whose lives came together are still waiting for our lives to come together.

And so here we are in our late-twenties, late for everything, late for our own lives. Or at least late for the lives we planned for ourselves at 16. Because even if it looks just like we dreamed it would, it doesn’t feel that way. No, it feels raw. It feels too realistic. It feels terrifying and boring and too much and not enough.

We waited so long for what, we don’t know. We waited for anything at all, for anyone who would listen. We waited for the timing to be right. We waited for a sign. But the timing is never right. Not really. And signs are not for us. Signs are for those who believe in fate and we know better than that. So we pick up and move trusting our own feet to do the work for us.

We are so tired, but there is so much more to do on this earth. So look back, but just for a moment. Look at all those adventures, flip through the snapshots of pain, reflect on the goodbyes and the change they brought. And then look forward. Remember that your earth shattering heartbreak and your sweetest love have the same name. Trust in your heart. Trust in your hands.

We are not as young, but we are still young. We know less now than we did, but that makes us so much more open to learning from the world. We love more carefully than before, but that makes our love all the more precious. Our lives are built from a scattered collection of things we picked up along the way. But we have built lives that are worth living, and isn’t that it? Isn’t that so much more than enough? We are enough. Look at all the good we’ve done. Look at all we still can do.

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100

This is my 100th post. I’m trying to decide how I feel about that. It seems silly and narcissistic to say, “oh, look how far I’ve come.” Of course, that would be true, but who hasn’t changed in the last 4(ish) years? We’ve all come far whether it’s documented on a blog or not. But, I’m going to a ramble on about my feelings anyway, because somehow, after 100 blog posts, I still have a lot to say.

I don’t do a lot of internal retrospection (oh god, I’m clearly an English major). Mostly I think about how my surroundings have changed. Physical sensations are huge triggers for me. Smell can transport me anywhere in the world and so can sounds. 100 posts ago, I was sitting in my dorm room in Milledgeville, GA, probably alone, probably at 3 am, probably eating peanut butter. I was a nursing major who had decided to never get married. I was taking an English 1101 class with a cute, young, creative writing graduate student as a teacher, and that class would change my life forever (I hope the instrumental music that you are listening to swelled at that moment). “Take a leaf of paper, draw your mind.” It’s a line from a manchester orchestra song, and with that line in my head and a domain name all my own, I started writing.

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Lately I’ve been working on my personal statement for my grad school essays. In it, I talk about how I stumbled into being a writer. Like I said, I was a nursing major. And then I was an early childhood education major. And then I was an english secondary education major. And then I was almost a journalism major. And then (and only then, because I had so many english credits that I had to stay as some kind of english major) I changed my major to creative writing. And now apparently I’m like a writer or something. This is a hard fact to realize, because, firstly, I don’t feel nearly good enough, and secondly, I never thought I would want to be a writer. But here I am now, and I love it.

DSC_0319I’m 22 now, and that sounds adultish, but I feel so incredibly young. I think that the older I get, the more I realize that I have nothing figured out. When I decided on my major, or dated boys, or thought about my future as an 18 and 19 year old, I thought I knew what I was doing. I was so sure I knew what I wanted. I was an “adult,” after all. But I didn’t have a clue. And I still don’t have a clue, I’m just aware of it now. I don’t think this is a bad place to be. I’m young and I know it. I’m not sure what I want out of relationships or out of my education, and I certainly don’t know what to expect for the future. But I like being unsure, because it feels like anything could happen. It also leaves room for mistakes, and I need that.

So this is post 100. My location is not so different now than what it was. I’m still a student, and I still eat a lot of peanut butter. I know less about my future now then I did 100 posts ago, but I’m ok with that. I feel like my life and my heart are wide open, and I think that I owe some that to all this writing that I’ve done. It’s taught me to be vulnerable and empathetic and to not be judgemental. It’s opened me up to so much love. I’m so thankful to Jesus for bringing my heart to this place. I’m so thankful to writing for giving me a voice. And I’m thankful to all of you (there’s like more than 3 of you now!) for being the perfect readers. Happy 100th.

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