That was the title of this little book my kindergarten teacher gave each of the kids in my class. They were all personalized with our interests and even the names of our friends (I’m imagining she had to reach a bit when she made my book, considering I could count the number of friends I had on no fingers). They were all about how special and important and awesome we each were in our own ways.
Classic millennial entitlement, amiright?
There was a time when I was convinced I would be the next Taylor Swift and Victoria’s Secret model, all while simultaneously cranking out one New York Times bestseller after another, and then quietly semi-retiring into a fulfilling career as both a brain surgeon and a well-respected professor, all because I was that pretty and talented and smart.
I’m writing this as if I’m in the throes of a midlife crisis. I’m 24. I have practically my entire life still ahead of me. And yet, I still feel like I failed somehow. Like I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe if I studied harder, practiced harder, promoted myself more, wasn’t so afraid of everything — maybe things would be different. Maybe not. Maybe this is exactly where I was meant to be, here in the same town I grew up in, where I’ll probably freaking die one day. Maybe I need to accept that. Or maybe I need to work harder to get out.
Maybe I don’t even know anymore.
I wish I could go back to that youthful optimism. I wish I wasn’t constantly wishing for more. I wish I still liked me.
(I’m sorry this is a really depressing blog post. The next one will be happier I promise!)
JESSA JOYCE 