Pep Talk

I thought I would have more of my life figured out by now. Another birthday celebrated a few weeks ago gave me major pause, reflecting on all that was still unformed, unsettled, unrealized. That’s a lot of “un” for one person.

In my twenties, maybe in yours too, I didn’t worry about anything except making my car payment on time. I had jobs and a credit card and boyfriends and dreams of becoming a writer or a kind of professional with a cubicle and briefcase. I didn’t worry about my dreams. I assumed I would get to them eventually.

And then the detours rolled in.

I took every detour available. Jumped from job to job, from residence to residence, from boyfriend to boyfriend. Commitment laughed at me like I’d never be good enough for that club. I wasn’t patient with experiences either. I needed to have the experience, know the outcome, and establish a conclusion all in a day’s work. Letting things unfold naturally? Not interested. I needed the rush of new and fresh sensations almost constantly.

I was an experience junkie.

After three years of college, I told my dad I wanted to quit school and go out and get scars. He protested to the best of his ability, but my mind was made up. So that’s what I did. The one thing I committed to. A life of scars.

Scars came in the form of getting dumped, getting fired, getting lost, and a lot of stomach aches. Some scars evolved into lessons learned, others into regret. Some scars burrowed under the skin and became low hums of self-doubt and anxiety. I’ve got quite the collection of every type of scar by now.

That collection of scars made it harder for 30-something me to come up for air and get to the dreams 20-something me expected to eventually get to. So, in a panic, 30-something me made a mess of things for 40-something me to clean up.

That mess includes an unused master’s degree, debt from that master’s degree, divorce, career derailment, wasted time, and anxiety.

It’s easy to look back and see all the moments where I could have done X but did Y instead and now have Z in my pile of cleanup. It’s enticing to stare through that hindsight lens over and over with growing disdain for my younger self. You stupid girl, put down that bong and pick up the pen already.

Not to say there’s no value in the cleanup. This helps you grow and builds character and fortitude. You learn more about yourself as you sift through the mess and all the bits and pieces leftover from all the experiences you collected over the years.

Maybe you discover patterns that lead you to passions or connections that lead you to closure. You might realize missteps that can be done over or half-assed attempts that can be tried again. Or maybe you see more clearly what you were up against at the time and give yourself credit for making it here.

I collected many of the above moments and keep them on a bookshelf. Eleven journals of varying sizes and conditions, full of moments, ready and available for my review at any time. Proof that I was there, I did that.

My reviews show me talking myself out of pursuing my dreams and, instead, digging myself into holes, the kind of holes that provided reasonable excuses to stay in my comfort zone. I also saw how broken I was and how devastated and bruised and how I got back up and did what I had to do to keep myself alive. I saw resilience. I saw that I never quite let go of certain dreams even though I also never had the courage to get closer to them. That sucks but it’s not the end of my story.

Cleaning up the mess of my 30’s has given me some ideas of how to better navigate my 40’s. The fact that I’m writing this essay while my husband sits out on the porch in the home that I purchased for us proves to me that I can move forward from the mess and still make progress in this life. I still have some cleanup, still some “un” to get to, and that’s what gets me out of bed in the morning.