Ahem ahem…
This blogging platform says “tell your story”. But like…which one? The one where I started a master’s program in a career field I secretly didn’t want to be in just because I was terrified, not ready to be a real human being and comfortable in my job/friend group in college? (Grad school is NOT a back up plan kids!) Or should I tell the story about how I waited until I was 23 years old and had finished my Bachelor’s degree to finally figure out what I wanted to do? Or the one where I accidentally forced my mom to eat ranch dressing at an Outback Steakhouse in 2014 because I thought it was the potato soup she ordered? More on this later.
I’m a little annoyed with myself, as you can tell. But since moving to New York, I’ve learned two major lessons:
- BE KIND TO YOURSELF. // The other day on the train, this kid was on the phone with someone letting them know they were on their way to Battery Park. I, too, was trying to go to said Battery Park. So I simply…you know…followed the kid instead of trying to figure out the train system myself. About 2 minutes into the train ride, the kid calls his friend and nonchalantly lets them know he’s on the wrong train. Which means, yes folks, SO IS GENESIS. But he looked so well put together — and so confident — that I assumed he SURELY knew where he was going. And you know, I don’t even blame him because the first time I saw a New York City subway map I thought it was abstract art. My point is: apparently I am not the only one that, at 23, doesn’t have their entire life figured out. Anecdotes aside, I am UBER hard on myself, especially and particularly right when I don’t need to be. Since moving here, I’ve tried my best to take a minute — at random times of the day — to appreciate where I am and how far I’ve come. And you know what…it works.
- CHANGE IS GOOD. // There’s this phrase I’ve heard as since I was a kid, enough to get it tattooed on my arm actually. “Pa’lante” — it means forward in Spanish. Every time I have a huge change in my life (more or less every two years now that I think about it), I always have a week or two where I struggle to adapt. I’m unfortunately very much a creature of habit, which in this case works against me. I very easily forget that the sun does tend to rise the next day. But moving here has forced me to break every bad habit I was confusing for my own nature at this point, and it’s been a little terrifying if I’m being honest. But…isn’t that the whole point? People say that when you feel like this — this creeping sense that you’re not who you used to be, that your world is looking a bit different and you’re actually okay with it — that it’s a good sign. And I’m not quitting before the miracle happens.
While I’m not exactly sure which story I’m supposed to be telling, I guess we’ll figure that out over time. This is just a place for me to be able to dump my feelings, while still feeling like I’m not just having a really long-winded and depressing conversation with the wall. Or with my poor work husband (I have one of those now?), who I’m pretty sure is the most patient and kind person I have ever met. It’s a creative outlet, most likely updated with things I do in the city and random feelings here and there. It’s “dear diary” without the diary part. Can’t wait.
In 2014, my mom and I were eating at an Outback Steakhouse in Miami. She ordered potato soup (or something similar) and I ordered loaded fries. They brought out the fries, and then ranch dressing in a rather large separate bowl. My mom started eating it and complaining that it tasted “a little acidic”, which I wrote off as her being picky as usual and told her to just eat. They brought out her actual soup when she was halfway through her ranch delicacy.