Vulnerability is a joy
Ana on guilt & being carefree
September tenth marks my calendar. I blinked and half a year has passed. I blinked again and September is almost halfway through. I’m scared to blink a third time. Fearing the light will change to a gray haze and find myself in a knitted sweater ringing in the New Year. I want to soak up as much sun as possible while it’s still warming up my skin, keeping my hopes kindled.
I’ve come to realization, that I’m embarrassed by time. Shamed by it. I watch the minutes pass and contemplate the unfinished task at hand. I watch the sun set and rise another day, while observing people in new positions, people “achieving”. I watch the months flip page by page and feel guilt that I haven’t accomplished much this year.
I want to shout from the rooftop “where are all the child overachievers!?” The kids who got anxiety from not completing homework on time, the kids that tried and tried and tried their best at every academic feat. Whose value is deeply rooted in achievements. Whether they liked the assignment or not.
As a child overachiever, in the body of a soon to-be 29 year old, I can’t seem to fathom what I must “achieve” now. There isn’t a parent or teacher with any authority pressuring me to complete anything, to shoot for the stars. I’m an adult - so why would anyone else need to feed my purpose in achievements?
I’m the authority now. It should come from my own fruition. But without external pressure, I’ve come to realize the child overachiever, never wanted that pressure in the first place. Never wanted the anxiety, the late nighters, the memorizing, the researching, any of it. The child achiever just wanted to be a child. And for being a child to be - enough.
Enough of a validation to anyone. To parents, to teachers, to myself.
I’m an adult who is now vehemently seeking to feel like a child. To feel the carelessness of staying up late for the joy of star gazing, to plant my nose deep inside the silk petals of a flower, to swim naked in the ocean feeling like a mermaid as I dive deep underwater to watch the sun beams gleam from above. I want to paint on walls, get my clothes dirty and lie on the floor drawing dreams I once buried.
September is halfway through. The sun is setting sooner. The morning breeze is too cool. Summer is ending against my will. How I wish to bottle summer up, its warmth, its glow, its carefree ambition. Let it float out to sea with me inside it.
But the reality is that as the seasons come and go, as time keeps passing, I feel still in it all. Not moving forwards, not moving backwards. My feet are planted in the past of a girl who was taught to always have a plan A and B. To think 5 steps ahead.
It’s 12:34pm. My calendar marks September 10. It’s a Tuesday. I’m writing this letter with a cup of coffee next to me. Classical music strumming in my ears. Agarwood incense floating stream by stream in the air.
I am carefree. And it is terrifying. I don’t have a plan. And it is terrifying. Like the first letter I wrote to you at the beginning of the summer, I still don’t know what’s next - that hasn’t changed.
Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity and change.
- Brené Brown
What has changed is my recognition that being carefree is an act of rebellion. An act of vulnerability for a child that was always constrained to plan A’s and B’s, to always thinking ahead, goal after goal, task after task.
I’ve come to recognize this summer that time is my time, the days are all mine. That what I wish to do with my life is for my own validation and no one else’s. That to cure my shame I must be vulnerable. I must let go of control, paint on walls, color on the floor and star gaze upon star gaze to unlock another part of me. That there is joy in vulnerability. There is courage in admitting I am scared of the unknown. Clarity in understanding that my life is not meant to be painted on a singular canvas, but is a collection of prints and essays, clay sculptures, murals, piles of journals, etchings of the corners of books and unfinished sketches. The shame I feel from time is the antithesis for pushing me to be vulnerable. I now feel that my shame towards time is just a mere epilogue for the story that is to be played out next. A story I can rewrite as many times as I need.
Time is truly the essence of unlocking the woman I will to be.
Until the fall leaves turn,
Ana
Reading, Watching, Listening
📚 Reading - El Cielo de la Selva by Elaine Vilar Madruga. The dedication alone sold me.
📺 Watching - Griselda with Sofía Vergara (only 1 episode down, but looks really good)
🎧 Listening - some fresh new finds Rubel, Goofy Geese, and T Truman