It’s been a while since I felt like this. I don’t remember when the last time was — perhaps a year ago, two years ago? I know that I was good at feeling like this when I was younger. Before I broke hearts and had my heart broken. Before I cared more about my GPA than my Friday night plans. Before I started writing fiction for publication instead of for myself. Back then, I just didn’t give a damn. I lived on my whims, chasing every possibility that fluttered my way. My greatest fear was missing out on an aspect of the human experience.
So yes, in short, I was young and stupid.
Although I have no desire to go back to young Rebecca, this feeling I used to have so frequently is something I’ve missed without knowing it. It’s the feeling I’d get every time I turned to the first page of a crisp new book. It’s the feeling I’d get every time I walked through security at the airport. It’s the feeling I’d get every time I woke up early and counted the dew drops on blades of grass, felt the frigid air piercing my skin. When it beckoned to me, I’d drop anything and follow it. I drove halfway to Mackinac Island once before Phineas convinced me to come back to Ann Arbor, where I had a midterm scheduled on Monday. I skipped my classes to go to Starbucks and write angry, angsty short stories about men who cheated on their wives. I made playlists filled with Leonard Cohen and Florence and the Machine, and listened to them on repeat.
How to describe it? It’s a thirst for life. Excitement for endless possibilities. Curiosity for the unknown. Naïveté of the innocent.
This feeling used to consume me, ridding my life of consistency, responsibility, accountability. It was a miracle I didn’t fail any of my courses, and I know that I was lucky. If you were my friend during this time, I sincerely apologize. I was a shitty friend, if you could even count on me to show up. To the men I hurt, je m’excuse. I used you to get the same high that life gave me. I loved you for loving me, for broadening my human experience, but you deserved to be loved for more than that.
Slowly, I relinquished the feeling. I stopped feeling as if, every day, there was something bigger out there calling my name. I didn’t feel the need to escape. I found comfort in doing exactly what was expected of me. I began to feel as though I’d experienced it all — short of marriage and motherhood, life had little else to offer me. You could say that I simply grew up, and that that’s okay. But you know what? That’s not okay with me. I’m 22 years old, and I’ve only experienced a fraction of the world. I’ve met so few people and seen so few sunrises. Everything is out there. Everything is possible. Everything awaits me.
This is a declaration. To never fail to be in awe of life. To know that, above all, what matters more than anything is to live. To taste every experience, to hoard them and devour them, to remember them. Children are so much better than we adults are at simply living, appreciating each moment for what it truly is. They see straight through the bullshit that society constructs — resumes, salaries, credentials. Though I’m going to keep showing up at work and tracking my budget, I don’t want these things to consume me. I don’t want law school to define me. I want to know that, at any moment, I could step away from my career, move to rural China, and be okay with that. I don’t want to become so attached to any city, job, or house that I couldn’t walk away. The only things I wish to hold tightly are the people, the memories, and the cat.
Do you think you’ve become jaded as you’ve grown older? What do you miss about your younger self?
À plus tard,