Earlier today I was looking high and low in my room for my flash drive. I intended to take care of some business, but couldn’t find it. What I did find, though, was much more wonderful than a flash drive with a document that I need to send to the CA DMV ASAP (not hard to be more wonderful than that). It was my journal from when I was 18 and starting college.
As I flipped through its pages, one thing was glaringly clear to me: I am not so different than I was then. I described wanting to get out in the world, to try new things, to make mistakes and learn from them. I’ve always loved the analogy of weight lifting. You lift weights and purposely tear your muscles and when they heal, they are bigger, stronger. In the past 10 years, I have pushed myself to get out of my comfort zone and with each step, instead of existing outside of my zone, I have extended its boundaries. This is simultaneously wonderful and infuriating. Imagine, always seeking something new and different and, as if your own worst enemy, you turn it into something comfortable. On the other hand, there is a little touch of comfort everywhere I go; can’t really complain about that. I still seek that discomfort, a little bit at a time.
I also have a tendency in journaling to write advice to myself and reading my advice to myself from then, I can’t help but feel that I know my tragic flaw. I laughed out loud as I read pearls of wisdom from myself at the brink of adulthood:
“Stop worrying about being worried.”
Still need that reminder from time to time. All the time.