Rewind: . . . Play

Can someone press rewind on the remote of her life–

watch the blue static-grained screen with the word “Rewind” in the corner

like she did when she spent hours watching VHS Disney movies–

and tell her that she doesn’t need to look forward to the day

when she has her “adult life?”

When she’s on her own

and she has it all together

and she is her own person

and everyone admires how brave and independent she is.

Can someone tell her that that won’t happen right away?

That it won’t happen right after high school like she thought it would.

That it won’t happen after college either.

That, instead, she will find herself stuck in this transitional void

between college and . . . and whatever is supposed to come after.

And she will finally realize she must claw her way out of the dark uncertainty.

Life won’t be given to her nor be as easily obtained like everything else was:

good childhood memories,

good grades,

good family,

good friends,

good natural ability to accomplish things,

good work ethic.

No . . .

. . . if she wants the life that she always envisioned,

then she must work for it.

Must use her determination and grit to claw the vision out of her mind and place it in her hands.

I only wish–

I only wish that that little girl watching VHS Disney movies knew that.

And didn’t fault herself so much one day when she’s finally grown and life wasn’t just handed to her in a basket.

2 thoughts on “Rewind: . . . Play

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  1. There will come a time when a future version of this little girl will write a piece extending grace to the young woman who feels “stuck in this transitional void.”

    She’ll write of wishing she could hold that young woman and tell her that she is OK where she is, that where she is and where she’s been—and the next unknown she’ll soon step into—was where she was supposed to be, that all of it was life itself, however much it felt like waiting, wishing, wanting.

    She’ll wish that troubled self had only been given the grace to see this and to be able to believe it, but future her will only be able to offer this because it seems like life is only understood in reverse.

    Much like no truly good story or essay or poem is understood until it’s written—“writing is an act of discovery,” I’ve said and forgotten ten thousand times—and writing’s hard.

    She’ll tell that young woman, “Trust the process.”

    Someone once wrote, “I don’t like writing; I like having written.”

    Keep “writing,” Kaylee.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Funnily enough, I was just thinking about how a year ago, I never would have pictured myself in the position I am now–and that, a year from now, I possibly cannot even imagine the position I will be in then. It gives me hope that even though the present–the void and uncertainty–is rough, it’s only a phase. A phase where I am unbecoming, unlearning. Unbecoming the person I was never meant to be but thought I needed to be for other people, and unlearning the things and habits I picked up along the way but now realize are no longer healthy nor essential to who I am or trying to become and the life I am trying to live. Using your writing analogy, this phase feels like a blank page–and God knows how blank pages inspire fear in my heart because there’s so much potential and there’s so many ideas but no idea of where to even begin. Writing that initial draft on that blank page is hard. It’s hard work, long nights, constant editing, persistent doubts of why I’m writing and what I’m writing, and crumpled-up pieces of paper. But the end result–the discovery I gain in that act of writing, both external and internal–are so worth it.
      And so it is with this blank page, blank phase in my life right now. So much potential, so many fears.
      But the promise that I will discover the purpose and beauty through the pain . . . if only I write. If only I discover.
      Thank you, once again, for taking precious time to respond on this platform, and for always inspiring me and challenging me to think. 🙂

      Like

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