Plot Twist: We’re All Late Bloomers Now

*Note: This post was originally published on January 3, 2021 on an earlier version of this blog.

When I'm back at home, I always try and rediscover my journals, disrupting the accumulated dust they've gathered while crammed in between beach reads and high school yearbooks. Skimming through past versions of myself, I get to revisit my goals, worries, my favorite angsty song lyrics, crushes, and the occasional ticket stub until I close the cover, recognizing that things weren't that bad or, conversely, that I painted an accurate picture. Below are two of my favorite entries:

I wrote these as a freshman in high school when I was clearly going through it. Evidently, I was also beginning a phase where I thought swear words made me cool and edgy. Unfortunately, it would take some time for me to grow out of this (and, on certain days, my mom will tell you I still haven't). 

Block letter f-bombs aside, what stuck out as I traversed the landscape of blue, black, red, and purple ink was how, beginning at the ripe old age of 13 years old, I was trying to schedule my life. I would frequently encounter passages where I would declare the things I wanted to accomplish by the end of the year, before my birthday, or by some seemingly arbitrary date. And when I didn't meet these goals, which often happened, I would reprimand myself, insisting that I get my shit together.

Looking back now, I can laugh at most of these blurbs, especially the ones where I worry about my career or the state of my resume when my main concern should have been Algebra 2. Other times, though, I feel disheartened to read the same, imploring, chastising voice over and over. It's not just that the subtext of shame and frustration still rings true, but now so does the mental exhaustion and self-imposed pressure that I distinctly remember hovering over my teen years.

And I'll be the first to admit that I could have 1000% been more outgoing, but that's also not the point because even now, at 23, I still catch myself setting these deadlines, regardless of whether or not I write them down. And not to blame *society* , but with an influx of 30 under 30 lists, top people in power lists, and the inevitable 16 under 16 lists, the constant glamorization of "work hard, play hard" combined with the borderline manipulative mantras of manifesting your dream future...how can you not, at least a little? These factors were all certainly overwhelming me as a teen. Even with a constant slew of coming-of-age movies that preached how I didn't have to have it all figured out, I was still trying to figure it all out.

Until 2020 changed the equation. This year was like watching the infamous pivot scene from Friends on repeat: a struggling, intense 365 days attempting to overcome hurdle after hurdle. But eventually they got couch up the stairs…right? I haven't watched Friends in forever, so I really hope so.

Look, the point of this half-baked analogy is that 2020 made me an expert pivot-er because nothing about this year was stable, so what other choice did I have? Now, I can't find it in me to think more than 6 months ahead max, and the idea of where I'll go next, professionally or personally, fills me less with anxiety and more with curiosity. Yes, this past year taught me that things can always get worse, but it also instilled a resolve to hope for the better.

And it was sometime within these past few months that I also learned what I wish I had found among the pages of my journals: that you're on no one's timeline but your own. Everyone's grand plans - spoken or unspoken - have been deferred or maybe even discarded this year. In one way or another, 2020 has made us all late bloomers, so can we stop worrying about how fast we're growing, especially in comparison to each other?

In summary, and invoking the words of Nina Simone's "Feeling Good," when it comes to 2021, "It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life" …but on your own damn schedule.