I remember being an extremely impassioned kid. When I loved something, the people around me knew it. I went through a High School Musical phase wherein my bright pink bedspread showcased the title in all caps. Can't forget my Camp Rock phase either. The soundtrack played on repeat in my room and I performed along with it, singing into my plastic microphone (that I definitely still own). I was infatuated with America's Next Top Model, which led me to writing my own Covergirl commercials and asking for my first pair of heels so I could walk down the living room in them as if I were on a runway. As a child, I was not afraid to get lost in my own fantastical world. I aspired to be a pop star, a real estate agent, a schoolteacher, and maybe even a stay-at-home mom. My dream jobs were endless really, because I was fascinated by all the possibilities. I am no longer fascinated by all the possibilities.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a huge fan of lists. Whether it's for groceries, my daily to-do's, or movies I want to see—I always have a list and it brings me comfort. My planner is one of my most important possessions and I would fall apart without it. All of the assignment dates from my syllabi go in there, and it's color coordinated for each course. I'm a very organized person and I thrive on being prepared. I fancied routine as a child, but I didn't latch onto it with all my might as I do now as an adult. I dreamed big and often as a child, but I don't anymore.
I actually feel rather detached from concepts like "dreams" and "goals." Over the years, my anxiety has cemented this voice in my head that says I'm not capable, strong, or deserving enough to have the big things. There is this constant underlying worry that exists in me every day, and it convinces me that I simply have to get through. That level of worry makes it very hard to experience and appreciate emotions like excitement, pride, risk, joy, or hope. I know this life I live has the potential to be big, wonderful, and surprising. Yet, I want to hurl when anyone asks me about plans post-graduation. I want to throw those stupid (I actually really like them) self-reflective journals against a wall when they tell me to describe where I see myself in ten years. There are two sides of me and they struggle to make sense of one another. There's the side that relies so heavily on planning ahead. If something unexpected upsets me along the way, I immediately look for a way to fix it, itching to rid myself of any undesired discomfort. However, there's also the side that firmly believes in taking things one day at a time, refusing to get too caught up in impending tomorrows. Sometimes it seems as though that's all I can handle.
I have this picture saved on my phone that advises young writers to write about what they're afraid of. So that's what I set out to do in this post—I'm only 21 years old and currently void of glorious dreams or grand plans. In recent years and for various reasons, I've been genuinely afraid to wish and want. I've grown accustomed to expecting the worst and being relatively satisfied when it doesn't turn out that way. The real world feels very overwhelming; how do I find my place in it? I'm not sure I trust in my ability to pursue happiness and success. I have come to realize that for the most part, I define happiness and success as getting through. If that's what my life is going to be about, I better strap myself in for a painfully predictable 50+ years.
It's human nature to care and to crave. I run away from dreaming and setting goals for myself, because I hate the idea that there will only be disappointment in the end. But aren't I disappointing myself anyway by remaining in this draining mindset that has my shitty self-esteem taking the reins? I have to believe that, even for me, there is more than just getting through. I mean, I have experienced it and I shouldn't be so hesitant to hope for it. Life isn't supposed to be all about protecting oneself with forethought. That kind of safety has gotten me far, but it hasn't left much room for pleasure. In fact, the best things to happen to me so far were not moments I planned for. They threw me into unfamiliar territory, and I somehow welcomed it.
So now I have to welcome 2019, a new year that I know will be a trying one for me, but that doesn't mean I should declare failure before the project's even been started. It just means I have a big task ahead of me; I need to love myself enough to work harder at taking steps in service of the changes I'd like to see. I will have to push myself toward my passions, especially when anxiety is shouting at me to retreat. I will most likely falter many times, and have to get back to the grind, forgiving myself & remembering that I am only human. I will have to remind myself that responsibilities really can wait, because fun is a necessity and there are memories to be made with people I will no longer have easy access to in a couple of months. I will have to make self-care a priority, because the only way I can embrace what's to come is by knowing I am grounded in self-compassion and understanding.
In 2019, I want to be OK with wanting things—be they big or small, as long as they matter to me. I want to let myself dream again, even if the visions seem stupid or far-fetched. I want to honor little Libby's eagerness and imagination by relearning what it's like to exist with that kind of spirit. I want to know that I am the creator of my path, and while that is wildly pressure-filled, it is also an obvious gift.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a huge fan of lists. Whether it's for groceries, my daily to-do's, or movies I want to see—I always have a list and it brings me comfort. My planner is one of my most important possessions and I would fall apart without it. All of the assignment dates from my syllabi go in there, and it's color coordinated for each course. I'm a very organized person and I thrive on being prepared. I fancied routine as a child, but I didn't latch onto it with all my might as I do now as an adult. I dreamed big and often as a child, but I don't anymore.
I actually feel rather detached from concepts like "dreams" and "goals." Over the years, my anxiety has cemented this voice in my head that says I'm not capable, strong, or deserving enough to have the big things. There is this constant underlying worry that exists in me every day, and it convinces me that I simply have to get through. That level of worry makes it very hard to experience and appreciate emotions like excitement, pride, risk, joy, or hope. I know this life I live has the potential to be big, wonderful, and surprising. Yet, I want to hurl when anyone asks me about plans post-graduation. I want to throw those stupid (I actually really like them) self-reflective journals against a wall when they tell me to describe where I see myself in ten years. There are two sides of me and they struggle to make sense of one another. There's the side that relies so heavily on planning ahead. If something unexpected upsets me along the way, I immediately look for a way to fix it, itching to rid myself of any undesired discomfort. However, there's also the side that firmly believes in taking things one day at a time, refusing to get too caught up in impending tomorrows. Sometimes it seems as though that's all I can handle.
I have this picture saved on my phone that advises young writers to write about what they're afraid of. So that's what I set out to do in this post—I'm only 21 years old and currently void of glorious dreams or grand plans. In recent years and for various reasons, I've been genuinely afraid to wish and want. I've grown accustomed to expecting the worst and being relatively satisfied when it doesn't turn out that way. The real world feels very overwhelming; how do I find my place in it? I'm not sure I trust in my ability to pursue happiness and success. I have come to realize that for the most part, I define happiness and success as getting through. If that's what my life is going to be about, I better strap myself in for a painfully predictable 50+ years.
It's human nature to care and to crave. I run away from dreaming and setting goals for myself, because I hate the idea that there will only be disappointment in the end. But aren't I disappointing myself anyway by remaining in this draining mindset that has my shitty self-esteem taking the reins? I have to believe that, even for me, there is more than just getting through. I mean, I have experienced it and I shouldn't be so hesitant to hope for it. Life isn't supposed to be all about protecting oneself with forethought. That kind of safety has gotten me far, but it hasn't left much room for pleasure. In fact, the best things to happen to me so far were not moments I planned for. They threw me into unfamiliar territory, and I somehow welcomed it.
In 2019, I want to be OK with wanting things—be they big or small, as long as they matter to me. I want to let myself dream again, even if the visions seem stupid or far-fetched. I want to honor little Libby's eagerness and imagination by relearning what it's like to exist with that kind of spirit. I want to know that I am the creator of my path, and while that is wildly pressure-filled, it is also an obvious gift.
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