The Happy Medium
Pretty recently I took a road trip to walk through the campus where I spent my freshman year as a journalism major. I hadn’t been back since I left, and I felt like it was time to face that which I had desperately run from. To say that I felt like I had failed is only half of it. In some corner of my mind since those days at that school, I had unsurprisingly nursed a sentiment that maybe I could have made it if I just stuck it out or that leaving was cowardly - that my failure was a condemnation of my own character, my lone burden to bear. Truthfully, I made a conscious choice to move towards something else and pursue a different path for my future; walking through the deserted campus epiphanized this. As much as I like to think that my life follows some linear progression, with weightier decisions that in turn maximize utility and happiness as I grow, they look more like a serpentine pattern full of twists and turns and ups and downs. I’ve come to know this beast of duality well this year, but this seemingly fortified knowledge fails me even now as I realize how much I’m floundering anyway. So I’m starting this blog. I’ll write at least once a month and put it out into the world.
It is no secret that this past year was full of many dark days. Most days I feel small, with little to be proud of and I wonder if my life is meant to be painted in hues of blues and grays over vibrant yellows and reds. “This is just who you are,” my brain rationalizes and so I believe it with little opposition. It’s easy to believe that I am destined for sorrow or melancholy. It’s easy to say that making friends is scary and that I can’t be a good friend. It’s easy to say that whatever achievements I have accomplished were simply by luck, the support of other people or weren’t accomplished at all. The harder sentiment to swallow is that I have good friends and that they’re steadfast encouragers - that they love me well and that I can love them well in return. It’s hard to believe that I do have things to be proud of and that my life does have strokes of red, orange and yellow. Even more than this, it is supremely hard to believe that I can bring more than melancholy to my life and the lives of the people around me.
I was talking to my brother recently about feeling like I’ve spent too much time being stuck in the same deep dark hole and he warned me gingerly of becoming caustic in the face of unrelenting tightness and grief. It takes an immense amount of balance to protect my heart while still allowing myself to feel the full spectrum of human emotions. The good and the bad exist in tandem and I’m learning how to accept and embrace both without letting the gentler pieces of me fall by the wayside. On the other hand, as I inch toward the collegiate finish line, a whole new set of fears are uncovered. What am I meant to do with my life? Who do I want to be? Am I the sister, friend, partner or daughter I want to be? All of these questions poke relentlessly as if to keep alerting me to the inevitable leap of faith after that diploma is placed in my hands. There is some security in the present but I won’t pretend the anxiety of the future doesn’t consistently cloud my mind. All I can say is that I am learning to lean into joy and faith in myself, even in seasons where they seldom shine. As a self-admonishment: I don’t have to know everything right now. I simply have to keep chugging along, working toward things that I love and enjoy, holding the people dear to my heart as close as I possibly can.
That being said, for most of the creative individuals I know, self-doubt and the ever-present “Is this thing that I’m doing worth it?” is just part of the gig. I don’t know if self-assurance accumulates with time, but there really is no process when it comes to acknowledging creativity as part of your identity. No one bestows upon you a certificate, that grand title of Artist or Writer, though doing so would relieve us of a hefty amount of fear in our creative endeavors. I think you just have to happen upon it eventually or muster up enough self-assurance to accept it as part of who you are all by yourself. Most of my work is going to be shit; some days are going to feel incredibly dark. But that’s okay. It won’t always be shit and the world won’t always be gray. There are still twists and turns ahead, for me as an individual and for me, dare I say it, as a writer.
The most consistent advice that has been given again and again is to just practice. “Write,” they say, “and then write some more.” In writing and writing again and again, there is hope of growth.
So write I will.
