Things can only get better

As I near the end of my 29th year on this earth, I reflect on what the last almost three-decades have taught me and how I got to the position that I am in now. Ask me what I wanted to be when I was a kid? A grand judge, of course. Or, better yet, a criminal investigator. I watched that little bit too much Law & Order and became obsessed with the power of solving crimes. But I also wanted to be a singer in a pop band. Ask any of my older relatives about me as a child, and they’ll tell you a few things—I was shy, I was driven, I was a day dreamer. I used to escape from my reality as a means of aiming high and dreaming big; I had hopes and dreams—large and attainable ones. My family used to say that they could see me as a politician; hell, maybe even the Prime Minister of Australia. And I believed them.

Ask me what age I wanted to be married and I would’ve told you a casual 23. After all, that was around the same time that my mum married my dad and, to a 6-year-old, 23 seemed like light-years away. I wanted to be settled in my career, married, expecting children or—dare I say—“with child” (I hate that term), and a fully-functioning beacon of independence. That’s the thing about me as a kid—I aimed high. Always. I wanted it all. 

I remember sitting on the toilet or in my bedroom, having conversations with people that didn’t exist, pretending that I was being interviewed for some incredible achievement. I lost myself in those chats because, to me, I was living my truth before it even happened. I imagined myself winning awards, starring in music videos and going on book tours (something that I still imagine to this day). I was hungry for success in every facet of the word, in every avenue of my world. I wanted it all—I wanted perfection.

Fast forward a few years to high school—the angst, the oily hair, the dressing-like-a-boy-to-impress-the-boys phase—the tortured artist. I went to an all girls’ Catholic high school that expected us all to be carbon copies of one another. It was frowned upon to break the mould and be different or unique in your own right, unless you were exceptional at athletics, English or playing the violin. Feel like being in the school rock band? Sure, I got an opportunity to play Scar by Missy Higgins in front of the entire school to a drum beat that still haunts me to this day. But venture far into wanting to make the rock band a “thing” and your ambitions were turned down. Quick. 

Thank fuck for my art and media studies. See, at this school, it was just Art—no visual art, or fine art, or design, or just photography as a solo subject. No no, they were all amalgamated into the one beast. But I found comfort in these subjects; supported by two larger than life, down to Earth, had-a-crush-on-in-a-completely-innocent-teacher-student-way, male teachers who allowed my classmates and I to branch outside of the scope of normality. They allowed our imaginations to roam free, and supported my incessant desire to integrate music into literally every. single. piece. of. work. I. completed. They gave me hope and ideas, as well as self doubt—maybe I don’t want to be that lawyer anymore. Maybe I don’t want to be Prime Minister. Maybe I want to play the drums in a successful band and tour with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was growing into my own, developing my angst, my questioning, and my personality—I started to bloom, in one way or another. To my mum, I was a headache and the distant memory of a child that used to never leave her side, always clinging on—one hand on my bottle, one hand on her skirt. But despite all of my teenage “rebellion” and narcissism, I was always her girl—still am. 

High school came and went. There were plenty of questionable outfits, an overzealous obsession with boys and wanting to be lusted over, an horrific attitude to my body and its growing shape, jealousy that I wasn’t one of the “prettier ones”, and music. There has always been music. Then the first year of uni hit, and I crashed. My once anal-retentive personality became lazy; more fixated on going out and getting wasted than actually setting my mind and achieving. I began to question my own mortality—I think we all do at this point. What the fuck am I actually doing?

I’m not going to bore you with the in-between bits. To summarise: there’s been love, loss, bad decisions, sex, wins, losses, self-acceptance, horrible friendships and the best type too. Where there has been some below-average moments, I have also peaked in different moments of my life—moments which have made me realise why I was put on this earth, and the beauty in having my aura. I have been blessed with a personality that attracts many and, as such, have had quite the bustling social life since my very early days. A beautiful quality, I won’t deny it, but I’ve also struggled—feeling obliged to keep up with every single person and every single event. I’ve only come to realise now, as a 29-year-old, still living at home, single gypsy that would much rather spend thousands of dollars on the Summer music festival season than pay off her credit card debt in one lump sum, that you can’t win ‘em all. You can’t have everything. You can’t be in all of these places at once. You can’t be everything to everyone. You don’t need to be everyones friend.

As I sit and I reflect on my childhood until now, I am beyond grateful for the person that I have become. I am strong-willed, I am emotional. I am saying nowhen I feel right, and doing things that set my soul on fire rather than just wanting to set myself on fire. I am happy, and proud. I still have a very long way to go—I’m definitely not there yet. I want to work through my childhood trauma in order to assist with how I develop my relationship with males. I want to love and be loved. 

Then there’s my body. My beautiful, plump, striped vessel that I now call my home, but I once saw as only a broken household. I’m sorry that I’ve looked upon you in discomfort or distaste. I’m sorry that I compared you to others, and still do so to some degree. I’m sorry that I ignored your pain, opting for ignorance instead. I’m now in the process of learning my lessons, and accepting that we are two halves of a whole spirit. 

And then there’s my mind. My beautiful, fragile, wandering, curious mind that has lived in hope, ignorance, resentment, anger and bliss. You’ve taken a beating this year—you hurt, and so did your heart. You had never felt pain or anguish like that before, but you persevered because you’re strong. Because we’re strong. And although the future and its unknown may scare you, have faith that whatever is happening is right for that moment. Every day is a blessing. Every challenge is a lesson. Every bit of a hard work will have its reward.

As I come to the end of my 29th year, I approach my 30th one with grace, ease and delicacy. Every speed hump, every uncertainty, every moment of clarity will make me that little bit stronger. I may not be the lawyer or the high court judge or the Prime Minister, but I am a writer. I may not be married with kids, but I am single—independent and living as my own; learning the intricate details of who I am as a person more every day. I may not own my own house, but I have so many homes—what it is to be loved, accepted and welcomed by so many. I am mine.

And the thing is, baby—this life, it can only get better.