When I was twenty I was a size eight with blonde hair down to my ass and nothing at all to do in this world beyond walk. My mom had just died and I wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. That one book about Reese Witherspoon hiking the Pacific Crest Trail after her own mother’s death had not come out yet, so that idea was still unique.
I went, I walked a bit, I had a mental health crisis, I came back. Not “home.” My home was gone. But I came back, and I failed, and then I failed over and over again for the next decade or so.
There is not a scenario where I would’ve done differently.
My life-changing tip is that you are going to fail. You are going to find beautiful versions of yourself very ugly in the moment, and you are going to fuck up. There is nothing you can do to stop any of this.
The only thing you can stop is — eventually — doing any of this at all. No advice in the world will stop you from doing the first bit, though, if you’re gonna do it.
For me, it was drugs and booze. It was never completing a single thing. It was looking outside myself to save the impenetrable inside that nothing would ever, ever be able to reach.
From here it is obvious that I was always, always going to do that. Otherwise, the me that exists now would not exist.
Today I am a size 18. My hair doesn’t grow as long as it once did, and children have twisted that too, painted it brown now. I have lost teeth on this life. I have lost time.
So what.
Lamenting the prettiness and potential of a past version of yourself is the biggest time suck in this universe. I did the best that I could with what I had; I truly believe that. Lets make the best I can do now better, yeah?
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