Do you ever wonder if your little self would be proud of what you’ve done? Wonder if the tiny, energetic ball of light would be excited to listen to grown-up you tell stories of your life?
I thought about and still think about that all the time. Would little me be disappointed with how I turned out? Now, you have to understand where I’m coming from. I was the girl who wanted to be Peter Pan when I grew up. Yes. Peter Pan. The boy who never grows up. So you see?
If I couldn’t become the boy who had endless adventures I would have to do something that wouldn’t completely pale in comparison.
I can’t say that there have been many times in my life where I’ve looked around, sighed and simply smiled. But I had one of those moments just the other day.
I was in my room, which is a chaotic whirl of color that most normal people would find overwhelming but to me, with my monkeys-escaped-from-the-zoo-brain the never matching tapestries, pictures and pillows are somehow soothing. I’ve changed quite a few things, but the back of my door has remained untouched by time and growing up. Now, my parents are endlessly cool people – that coolness extended to letting me, in all my creative glory, draw all over the back of my door, which resulted in a work of art consisting of random drawings, scattered paintings, book titles written in bold permanent marker with a dash of left over pink hair dye I thought would be cool to spray over it all as a finishing touch. It’s colorful, random, and yet, somehow, cohesive. It’s me, my brain and my dreamer heart portrayed on the back of a door.
I was looking at this when it hit me. I’m completely happy with my life.
I’ve finished school, read amazing stories, found beautiful friends, published a book and traveled the world (with more yet to go). I have had adventures. I’ve done all of the things I dreamed about doing when I was a little girl.
It’s a rare thing, to look around at what you’ve been blessed with, and what you’ve built and realize, hey, maybe I’m not doing so badly after all.
At the very least, little me wouldn’t be bored listening to grown-up me tell stories of my life.
Not yet, anyway.