The other day, as I was scrolling through my camera roll, through photos of high school me and memories long since past, I noticed the thin frame of my hips. I was skinnier back then; not that I’m much bigger now. Just fuller. Like I’ve finally filled a mold of myself, grown into adulthood. I’m not sure when that happened; rather, I’d always thought life would feel the same as it did before.
But nothing ever does, I’ve noticed.
Now, I’m nearing my twentieth birthday, and somehow the girl in the mirror isn’t the one I saw at seventeen, nor the one at eighteen. The girl back then was still a child, naive to the future ahead but wishing so desperately to get there. She had hopes and so many dreams, and she wanted everything. So, faced with the possibility of the world, she could not help but imagine her life as it would be now. She probably imagined something different.
Back then, independence always seemed so thrilling, filled with the promise of reinvention. It would be the start of a new life, like turning the chapter in my very own book. And for the most part, it has. I’ve met so many amazing individuals, experienced countless adventures and am chasing the dreams I never had the courage to before. Having my own independence has allowed me these opportunities.
Yet, I never realized that I’d also be saying goodbye to what I once knew, that growing into adolescence meant stepping out of childhood. In truth, it’s an obvious change. An inevitability I knew would come to pass. But the line blurs when days, then months, pass you by; seasons change, several quarters pass and somewhere in between, you grow up to become someone you don’t recognize. Time works weirdly in that way – it takes without you realizing, only for it to be gone when you do.
I don’t miss high school in the way I miss my family. I wouldn’t go back and do it all over, even if I were given the chance. But in the weight of all that has changed, I find myself longing for the years when life was easier, and I didn’t have to worry about the after. At the crossroads of twenty – the start of a brand new decade – it’s inescapable. I feel now as I did back then, anxiously waiting for adulthood. Just that this time, it’s the beginning of the rest of my life.
I told my boss the same thing recently. Her eyes were trained on mine, brows knit in distraught or maybe even pity. And then she said something I knew I needed to hear: “We only have the present. So, try to live in it.” I thought of those words long after our conversation. For me, satisfaction has never come easily, but in her age, she knew the detriment of yearning for what you may never have, as well as the pain that follows. I understood what she meant.
That same night, I stared at the sky. I saw as the clouds, dark and thunderous, showered the ground in rain. It smelled of the earth. And I wondered, what is the right way to live in the present? Is it by watching the rainfall, smelling the roses, chasing the sunset? By spending time with your loved ones, experiencing, while you can, all the wonders that the world has to offer?
I thought that it meant living with no regrets. To be true to yourself – in action and in word – even when it’s hard. So, I told my family I loved them. I opened my heart to new possibilities, let my dreams consume my waking thoughts, and I worked hard.
I worked hard to succeed, to be proud of who I am today and who I will become in the future – because, to me, that is what it means to live without regret, to live in the current now.
I don’t think there will ever be a universal answer to that question; I’m not even sure my own is completely right. Perhaps life will continue to pass by without my noticing, and perhaps one day, I’ll wish that I lived better than I do now. But while I still have the present, I’ll be proud – of who I am, of how I live and of what I’ll eventually come to be. I know I will never regain the past, nor will I ever catch up to the future; still, I think what I have is enough. Who I am now is enough.
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Featured Image Photographed by Siena Hunt/BruinLife
