I don’t know how to love things at a chill level and I have no interest in learning. Give me enthusiasm or give me death.
– Rosianna Rojos
One morning I sat on a crowded subway car next to a man who was sweating profusely. He looked around nervously and kept touching the handles of the bag between his feet.
I’ve lived in urban areas long enough not to panic, but to simply observe. I silently pondered whether this was something or nothing, and with it, the consequences of it being something or nothing.
If this is it, I thought, if this is the moment of truth, what would it mean to leave this all behind?
At 34, by all accounts, I am well-lived.
I have a loving family, a centered relationship, good friends.
I have traveled to far-off places. I have studied big ideas. I live in what many would call the greatest city, in the greatest country, in the world.
I am privileged beyond words.
If this were the end, no one could doubt I had a full life.
At 34, though, I feel undone, still unfinished in the ways that matter to me.
If this were the end, I would doubt I had led an effective life.
The train came to a stop. The man got off. The question remained.
At 34, I am trying to come to terms with those contradictions. To have ticked the boxes of our collective standards, but to feel so unaccomplished by my own.
I have no aspirations for fame or immortality. I only desire to approach the world with curiosity and reckless enthusiasm; to be firm in my resolve, and just in my action.
At 34, I am delirious with gratitude.
I eat peaches with abandon.
I am finally learning the capitals of all 195 countries.
I see movies that fill me with deep joy and read books that make me uncomfortable.
I marvel and groan at the way my aging body shape-shifts under me.
I cuddle babies and breathe in their pretty smells.
At 34, I constantly observe other people in the middle of their lives, and I find that I love them so much I think my heart will burst.
At 34, I find am still filled with self-doubt and anxious insecurities.
At 34, I still wear my heart on my sleeve. An unkind word is seared into my memory, sharp and unforgiving forever.
At 34, I am painfully shedding expectations—and people and plans—and holding the things left behind all the tighter.
At 34, I acknowledge the courageousness it took to make the choices—tough, sometimes unconventional choices—that led me here.
At 34, I fall more in love with my partner, with the perfect crinkles around his eyes, and the way he makes himself laugh.
At 34, I mourn the things lost by living so far away from the people I love—the Sunday dinners, the unplanned coffee, the catfish fries. I celebrate the independence and self-reliance it has given me instead.
At 34, I wake up and remind myself to try something new today—with curiosity and reckless enthusiasm.