People make such a big deal out of “firsts.” A baby’s first word, a kid’s first day of school, a teenager’s first kiss. All throughout life, we’re experiencing “firsts,” some bigger than others. Today was my first time listening to Rina Sawayama’s new album, and no, this is not the first time I’ve mentioned her in this blog. It’s also not going to be the last.
But the song that’s on my mind as I write this particular post isn’t by Rina Sawayama. It’s not even by an artist that’s Rina Sawayama-adjacent. It’s not even by the usual suspects (Bon Jovi, natch). It’s a country song by singer-songwriter (and surprisingly badass guitarist) Brad Paisley.
The lyrics talk about how someday, we’ll do something mundane, like have biscuits and gravy at your mom’s house or hear “Purple Rain,” and you’ll have no idea that it’s the last time that thing will happen for you. Maybe the next day, your mom dies, or you die, or the ghost of Prince magically sets fire to every extent copy of his music. But whatever it is, it’ll never happen again, and you just don’t know when that last time will be.
I remember my first time going to Ypsilanti. It felt magical, like this bohemian wonderland full of artists and academics and people with weird colors in their hair who hang out at coffeeshops. I’d spent practically my entire life up until then in the Downriver area, where I didn’t really fit in at all. When I came to Ypsi, I felt like I finally belonged somewhere. And for most of my teens and 20s, that’s where I lived and experienced many, many important firsts.
Last night, I came to the chilling realization that it was the second to last time I’d sleep in Ypsilanti. It was most likely the last time drift off to the sound of the rain hitting Ford Lake at night. And although I’d been excited to move to the Royal Oak area and start anew, it hit me that I was going to have to say goodbye to my little lakeside apartment, the city I’d grown to love, and in a lot of ways, my youth.
You see, Ypsilanti came to symbolize a particular stage of life for me. It saw me grow from an shy, meek girl to a confident woman. It represented my carefree college days, a time when I was able to run wild, when I felt I had the world at my feet. But I began to realize how it also represented some less-than-pleasant things — the advent of my addictions, the worsening of my mental health issues, and more heartbreaks (romantic and otherwise) than I can count. I realized with the growing pains came a certain amount of new freedom and opportunity. As I leave Ypsi, I’m leaving the baggage of my younger days behind.
That’s the part they don’t tell you about growing up. At least in Western culture, getting older is something you don’t want to happen. Youth is something to be cherished and celebrated and held onto for as long as humanly possible. But there’s something freeing about coming to terms with change and the passing of time. As we grow older, we become wiser, and even when doors close, new ones open.
This is hopefully the last time we move into a new apartment. The next move we make, it’s going to be a house. Our house. And we’ll have our big fancy-schmancy wedding that we never actually got to have because we married hastily for insurance purposes. And then, we’ll look into having kids. We’ll start a family of our own.
With the changing of the season, I’m reminded how letting go of the past is necessary, beautiful even. If trees held onto their leaves forever, we’d never have the wonders of autumn.
I may never be 21 again, but that’s okay. There will still be beauty in the next stage of life, wherever it takes me.
JESSA JOYCE 