I was just reading this dude’s blog post and it posed the question:
What is true about you today that would make your 8-year-old self cry?
And I thought about it for a moment.
Then I remembered that was about the same time that I started writing poetry. I can so clearly recall how much it infuriated my mom to find folded up poems and letters stuffed into my pockets and backpack, especially when I hadn’t even done my homework.
The homework I avoided most, from as early as I can remember all the way through to the end, was math.
I loathed math.
I could never go back and tell my 8-year-old self that she would not end up writing poems or letters or stories, but that she would actually end up doing math (accounting) of all things, when she grew up…
This is enough to make my 30-year-old self cry. I still hate math. There is absolutely no joy in what I do for a living.
There is nothing inside me that would want to report back to my childhood self on the way I allowed these things to turn out. I would not want to break her little heart by telling her that she wouldn’t become a writer, or that her house wouldn’t be the sweet woodland cottage with the bright red door that she dreamed of, but a suburban apartment in the very same town she grew up in…
Oh God, what if I had known that? What if I had given up right then and never bothered to write again?
This is still the thing that lights me up.
I feel like I failed myself. I have to fix this.
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