Sometimes, I worry about the person I will be in 10 years, like they are an entity on their own that already exists in my head. I suppose it’s almost the same way that I look back and worry about the person I was 5 years ago.
People say that age is just a number. But secretly we all put an emphasis on our age. We all let a number affect our lives. Maybe in a small way and maybe in a big way, maybe it’s appropriate and maybe it’s oppressive.
I’ve yet to experience any hard-hitting confrontations about my age – you see, I remain in an age of adapting to what my life currently is while still reaching for all that it can be. I suppose I am suspending in this time that is filled with trials and tribulations that only happen to a girl in her late teens, rapidly approaching her early 20s. It’s just moments we have to wade through that will hopefully make us better people. I am not the best person I could ever be – and maybe I’ll never be, but I believe that I am on point for who I need to be right now. To get me through this moment, to get to tomorrow, and maybe to get me to the next version of myself.
I’m selfish. Yeah, but here’s the thing: on a certain level I can be selfish. I have neither partner nor child who I have to pledge responsibility to. I hold myself to my relationships with friends and family, within my professional life. But, my luxury in life is that I can live for myself, for the girl I’ll never be, for the girl I almost am. And this way, I learn more about myself – who I am now, who I could be in the future.
At times, I want so desperately to see myself as others first encounter me. To compare and contrast their perception of me to what I understand of myself. Do I please them? I am funny, or I don’t think before I speak. I doubt myself. Is this evident? I doubt my perception of things, and my ability to communicate. To put is simply: I overthink.
It’s such an uncomfortable feeling for me – one I feel often. I can’t help but doubt myself; I debate and contradict myself relentlessly. I’m almost never serious, I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.
I don’t hate my age or the seemingly trivial consequences that come with it. I just have a difficult time understanding how much I have experienced, and how much I haven’t. And how neither of them can really be defined by age. But, instead, by character. By a strong willed, determined kind of person who refuses to let a moment pass them by. A person, I strive to be but may never reach.
So, I worry about who I will be in 10 years, more so than whom I was 10 years ago. I suppose worry isn’t even the word. Maybe it’s wonder.