Take me back to the basics and the simple life. Tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

It occurs to me that I don’t have a favorite book. Per se. Like, I have books I really love, and since I’ve got the actual worst appreciation for details I can read things over and over again without remembering most of the plot or the punchline. (Even mysteries…I’m blessed, I know.)

As such I’m not sure that I’d classify something I reread often as necessarily my favorite, you know?

What makes this whole thing even stranger is the fact that I have a favorite in a lot of other areas. TV? Probably Doctor Who (because River, okay). Movie? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid unless I’m sick and then it’s most definitely Miracle. Music? Needtobreathe, hands down. (Or EXO but it’s kind of embarrassing to admit my love for kpop in person.)

Most of the people who know me even a little know all of the above about my preferences, but I doubt if I asked them about my favorite book that they’d have an accurate answer. Of course, I might just be forgetting something glaringly obvious here, but I got a good amount of sleep last night so I’m pretty sure I really just don’t have one.

I asked a friend about this—actually, more like he doesn’t really have any strong feelings for Harry Potter and so I’m over here like, um do you like anything?!—and he told me his fave is a book he hasn’t read in a while but can really relate to. Naturally I racked my brain for any books I love to read and read again, wondering if any of them really spoke to me on that level. My conclusion? Not really.

The Horse and His Boy, for instance. I grew up listening to the Focus on the Family radio theater version of the Narnia series on repeat. Of the seven books The Horse and His Boy is easily the one I like the best, but it’s not like I often encounter talking horses who want to go with me as we run away to the north.

Other options that I’d classify under the fantasy/magic genre include The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley and the entirety of the Half Magic series but most particularly Half Magic itself. I like Howl’s Moving Castle, and all of Harry Potter of course, and when I’m home with my original collection I really, really like digging out The Goose Girl or Graceling.

In short, I like books that aren’t about the real world. In short—again—I’m on the cusp of entering the real world myself and appreciate the effortlessness with which I can lose myself in these stories. They aren’t about people who have to look for work prior to a big move—Seattle, in my case—or who have to write a 60-85 thesis or who don’t know how to pay taxes but certainly hope they’ll make enough next year to have to file. That same friend, the one who I’m still trying to convince to give HP a try, told me he reads nonfiction because they’re about real humans who gave life their best—or not—and can offer a little insight into how he and I, and everyone else struggling to leave their childhood behind without wilting completely under the weight of adulthood, might better survive.

What drags me deeper into the anxiety of graduating this May and still not entirely knowing what I want to do other than just write is precisely what makes him feel a little bit better about this whole adulting thing. Somehow we’re friends despite this and it’s kind of amazing because I really don’t get the appeal of reading about others’ very real successes and failures when I could be reading about something so completely imaginary that it pulls me far away from reality.

I wrote before about escapism, I think. Maybe…And here we have it in it’s finest form.

Strangely enough I’m not really bothered by this. It’s cool that my friend has what he likes to read and I do too; no one said we had to have the same opinions about books just because our Myers-Briggs letters are exactly the same. In fact, something that brought me and my best friend together is a book we both happened to randomly stumble across. It came up in conversation somehow like the first or second time we met and we’ve been friends since. (It helps that she likes Needtobreathe and once loved the Jonas Brothers as much as I do/did but whatevs, moot point.) She’s a goose feather of an ENFP to my very rigid ISTJ and some of our likes converge as much as they sometimes really differ.

I’m not sure what my point is in bringing this up, other than to maybe acknowledge that people are different and not everyone has to have a favorite book. And I’m not any less of an avid reader because of the fact that I don’t have one.

At the very least I’m not the kind of person to casually name drop Catcher in the Rye or Pride and Prejudice as my absolute fave at a cocktail party. Not that I go to cocktail parties…But the point remains: If you have a favorite, great! Tell people about it so they can understand you a little better since I truly believe that what you read reflects who you are, what you believe, and what your values are.

But if you don’t? That’s great too. I mean really, what better excuse to go out and read the world than that?

**Title: “EASE” by Troye Sivan**

Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for.

I’ll read something sometimes and think “Wow, I want to write like that.” Like each word is a choice. And not just any choice—like the one to rush across a street right as the light is changing because decisions like that tend to happen when you’re right in the middle of them. But a choice that is conscious and careful and just drips with meaning. When writers make choices like that people read their books 10 or 20 or 100 years later and say “The characters are despicable and the storyline is too, but the writing, oh the writing.” (That’s how I felt about The Great Gatsby, at least, when I was forced to read it in 11^th grade AP Lang.)

There’s something about writing that’s really powerful. I mean, obviously people who make films and people who make music and people who make other artistic things would probably agree and then argue that their medium is the most powerful. Maybe they’re right. But for me I think I’m only just beginning to realize the kind of affect that writing can have.

Personally. Collectively. Socially. Academically, even.

And when I start to think about writing’s impact I start to think about my impact, too. My best friend is really into movement and performance and she says that the weight of legacy is constantly on her mind. What does it mean to leave a legacy? Does it even matter? What kind of legacy does she want to leave behind? What kind do I? It’s questions like that which bring me in a gloriously full circle right back to writing again. Because I’ve been told more than once that I’m quite a good writer; that I’ve got a feel for comedic impact and that being able to write pretty well in any genre is basically a blessing.

But I’m not the kind of writer who cares about the minute impacts of my word choice. I write something and never look at it again even though I turn it in or post it or email it to an interested friend. There’s something about revision that hits a little too close to home for me. That’s not as strictly true for the papers I write in school—then it’s probably just laziness, especially since I historically get good grades on my writing even when I don’t bother to go back and edit anything—but it’s definitely true that I don’t read back over these posts. Once something is written on this blog, it’s essentially written in stone, and I’m only just beginning to think that maybe there’s a problem with that.

If I say I want to be a writer, then I need to be one with impact. One who does write like each word is a choice because each word is. One who leaves a legacy because she’s been given a gift and a platform for self-expression and simply because she can.

Simple because I can.

Recently when all of my student friends are complaining about being busy and being stressed and not having enough time to watch TV, I usually respond with something along the lines of “LOL. Me neither.” [Insert “laughing so hard there are legit tears” emoji face here.] And that’s not a lie. Four days a week I’m a graduate student and the other three days I’m an intern; I’ve got a master’s thesis looming over my head, two singing clubs each with rehearsals twice a week, family I want to be there for, classes I want and need to ace. Frankly, I don’t want TV because a lot of the time I’m just as busy and stressed as everyone else.

But if I’m being most honest to myself—and even when those other reasons are completely true and legitimate ones—I don’t have time for television recently because writing so much for school and my internship makes me want to read again. And not just read here or there so I can write an essay with one more source in the bibliography or so that I can take a quick break from work or studying. I’m talking reading like I get off from my internship at 3pm and then lie in bed for hours because I’m so enthralled in the book of the moment that I don’t even realize when it’s gotten dark outside. Of course there are times when I’m reading so voraciously because I’m procrastinating or because the story is really interesting, even if the writing itself makes me cringe. (Free books on Amazon, anyone? Or how about that new gender-swapped Twilight, huh?) But there are other times when I read for so many hours because I’m literally incapable of doing anything else.

Because I’m experiencing so many emotions, not just from the story but from the writing, too.

Because I really just love to read and when something I’m ready is particularly great then I’m loathe to stop before I’ve finished.

Because even when what I read is so sad that it makes me want to cry (Oh my goodness, guys. Have any of you read Never Let Me Go? SOB) I don’t because it’s also beautifully written and emotionally evocative and being able to read something like that just makes me so, well, happy.

I actually read this thing recently that was on Pinterest but actually came from a Tumblr called “The Little Yellow Diary” which, by the way, how cute of a name is that? I feel strangely peaceful just thinking about it, don’t you? Anyway, the thing is essentially a paragraph about all the things that make the writer happy to be alive and it’s really pretty sweet and heart-warming and all that good stuff. But the reason I brought it up is because reading it made me think about what makes me happy, right before I realized that reading something like that is what makes me happy. Does that make sense? I’m still figuring this all out for myself, but it’s been a while and I just thought I’d share.

Well, that, and writing something beautiful or thought-provoking or even just something that another person would want to read makes me happy too. And I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to think that maybe I really like being happy like this.

**Title: Quote by Ray Bradbury**

Well I’ll be the words on the pages, if you’ll be my sweet melody. And the tune can keep changing, cause I’ll keep arranging. I wanna spend my forever – forever like that.

My birthday is smack in the middle of June. That makes me a Gemini—barely. Not that I believe in any of that astrology stuff, but I did live in China for almost five years and I at least know which animal I am.

I’d tell you which one, but then I’d have to kill you. In self defense, of course, because revealing my birthday and birth year—even indirectly with flowery description and the Chinese zodiac—yeah, not the best idea. At the very least, if you’re dying of curiosity—and, again, you believe in this stuff—maybe do a reread of my blog posts and compare with zodiac descriptions to try and figure it out.

Will it be accurate? I’ve no clue.

But there was a point to all of this, believe it or not. Because I’m not just going to bring up a topic, say I don’t put any faith in said topic’s legitimacy, and then completely move on to something entirely unrelated. Well, I might. But not today.

Some people spend all their time checking their horoscopes. Recently, a lot of people also waste time checking the weather, complaining about it, and checking the weather again. My fellow students have been known to lose hours to NYU Secrets and Humans of New York. I, on the other hand, simply stick to Buzzfeed.

If you’re skeptical, know that it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. I mean, how could I not spend inordinate amounts of time perusing a website—or app, in my case—which uses Disney gifs to explain that “The Lion King Eerily Predicted the Great Dress Debate.”

Which, by the way, I hate. So. Much. The dress debate. Not The Lion King. But back to Buzzfeed.

This magical place can also tell me “Which Guy From Friends is Your Soulmate?” just by answering seven questions expressed with pictures. Golden, I tell you.

Buzzfeed is also great because its people dig through Reddit and Tumblr like pros so I can appreciate the cleverness of Tumblr users without descending into that all-consuming space of total internet darkness. Metaphorically speaking, of course. The Tumblr logo is dark blue—not black—anyway.

The point, of all of the above really, is this: “16 Times Tumblr Had This Astrology Thing on Lock.” This works for me because Buzzfeed likes its lists and I happen to like number 10 which exists for “when you need a little pick-me-up.”

I’ll reiterate that I don’t place any belief in horoscopes. That doesn’t mean I don’t find it often hilarious to read them anyway. Which is why I stumbled across this post on Buzzfeed. And why I made it all the way through to the 10^th one, even when 5-7 started getting really weird. To give credit where credit is due, I got this from Buzzfeed, which found it on Tumblr, where the original post was written by wildfairys.

I don’t know this person or their life, but I will say this: they have a way with words. And it’s beautiful.

I’ll also say this: I’m going to assume that this person is a female and will henceforth use “she” when describing her work.

All that to say that she writes well, specifically when about feelings you associate with your sign. Curious, I did a little more “research” (I creeped on her Tumblr), and it turns out she likes making lists almost as much as the people over at Buzzfeed. And these lists of hers, they really make you think—you know?

As I said, I’m a Gemini; according to this writer, that elicits “the scent that follows after you blow out a candle, how handwriting is like a voice, your first visit to a haunted house, a rigid spine, the sound of crunching leaves, church bells.” Did I not say this is beautiful?

This is where the skepticism surrounding astrology comes in thought, because I hate haunted houses so I don’t exactly know how I feel about being even somewhat associated with one. “How handwriting is like a voice” though? You’ve got to admit…That’s some powerful stuff. Also, of course there is a scent that follows after the death of a candle’s flame! Like, why wouldn’t there be? But actually thinking about it is kind of mind-blowing. Or comforting. Or maybe equal parts of both.

Obviously I had to read the other ones and some things stuck out to me. Like “boiling water” for an Aries or “city life at night…[and] a one-way ticket” for a Leo. Virgos get “pacing & the click clack of high heels.” For Libras it’s a lot of things, but also “outstretched palms in the wrong direction.” Like, what? I totally did not try to replicate this with my own palms because I don’t even have any idea what she’s saying here but still love the imagery.

I’m skipping some—clearly. Everything she writes here produces all the feels, but not all of them speak to me, you know?

But one that does? “The first breath after a panic attack.” I’ve only had one of those. Ever. But I know what that state is like and I know the overwhelming relief of taking a breath right after one. Just like I try to get as much sleep as possible, but that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes understand the wistful appeal of “the dreamy state when you’re running on no sleep.” Capricorns get apparently get both of these, but I don’t believe in any of it, so I’m taking them for myself.

I said this isn’t her only list, and it’s not. How about one titled “numbers + you” and prompted by a challenge to “write sensory descriptions that come to mind when you focus on numbers from 1 through to 10”? Because, why not? Right?

Can we also stop for a moment to contemplate what one would even write in response to that? “Sorry, no, my senses are my own and I can’t seem to communicate them to my brain, let alone to other people. And in writing of all things.” Yep. Sounds about right.

I kid. Well, maybe just a little. If you think about this long enough, it’s really no different than Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things” in the Sound of Music. “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” sounds pretty similar to me. And “brown paper packages tied up with string”? I mean, come on! If that doesn’t tickle your soul, I feel like I’ll have to unleash Harry Potter on you. It’s poetry, I tell you.

Well now I’m starting to sound like my cousin. I love her and she’ll be my maid-of-honor when I get married, but she’s definitely a little more whimsical than me (read: a lot). So if you’re into author dedications and all that, I guess you could say that this post is for her. Speaking of which, go watch “How to Love Your Introvert” on YouTube. Wait until he says “baby” and then prepare to melt into a puddle of feelings. You can thank said cousin for that one.

Anyway, before getting too completely sidetracked, back to Ms. wildfairys. Each number has multiple sensory descriptions, but I think I’ll challenge myself and only pick one. Besides, if you’re reading this, you have the internet. If you have the internet, you can go read the whole thing for yourself. I’ll even make it easier for you and hyperlink it. Just for you.

Here goes nothing.

One: “Trying to lose your shadow.” (Guys, it’s just the first one and I’m already crying because I want to include everything.)

Two: “The burn in the back of your throat.” (Also, “goose bumps on your thighs.” Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.)

Three: “Biting your nails all the way down.”

Four: “Missed chances, rotted wood.” (I know there’s a comma there, but for some reason these two go together for me.)

Five: “Screaming from excitement instead of fear.”

(It occurs to me half way through that some of these aren’t sensory in the least. But I’m not sure I care. Can you really blame me?)

Six: “The moment your stomach drops when you’re on a roller coaster.”

Seven: “Feeling stuck in slow motion.”

Eight: “Learning a new language.”

Nine: “Too close but not close enough.” (This. Oh my goodness, this.)

Ten: “Rush of adrenaline, chattering teeth.”

First of all, why does she know my life?! Second, I’m not quite sure how the numbers fit in here, other than the obvious. Third, does there even have to be a third? I feel like you all can bask in this without me explaining my reasoning for each in detail—or at all.

Finally, this: someone recently asked me two questions about my happiest memory and what excites me. Okay, seems pretty mundane in terms of searching for meaning, right? She then asked if I’ve ever taken any of those flash memories and thought “I could do this forever.” And you know what? I’m not sure I have.

But it occurs to me that if this is my most content—if these memories are ones I choose to live and relive because they bring me joy—why would I not want to be like this forever?

That’s the sentiment I get while visualizing the feelings and sensations associated with my silly horoscope and numbers that don’t really seem to mean anything.

Like rolling around in freshly washed sheets on a freshly made bed because you were up reading way later than you should be and you couldn’t contain your excitement at the main characters finally getting together.

Or someone giving you a nickname. Pausing at the last second of the last episode of your favorite show because you aren’t ready for it to be over—not yet. Catching a scent in an unrelated place which pulls you deep into a memory. Rubbing your lips together after applying chap stick. Finishing a candy cane. Coughing while laying down. Falling asleep while watching a movie. Hearing a song you used to love but couldn’t listen to for a while. The fact that numinous and sonder aren’t actual words in the English language and yet The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is a book which contains them.

Reading something out of context—like “Charlie, there is a sandwich in the break room”—and loving it but not really understanding why. Writing a blog.

These are moments of contentment. My moments.

Moments like when I’m riding the Maglev from the Pudong airport on a hot and humid—and definitely polluted—summer day in Shanghai. I know I’ll be arriving at a station where it’s practically impossible to catch a taxi. And yes, I feel a little bad that no one had the time to pick me up—even though I realize it’s impractical to pay for a round trip ticket when I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own. And of course I realize the pollution is constantly shaving at least ten years off my life and the humidity will make me—and everyone else, unfortunately—sweat like we’re crying.

But in that moment, as I sit in the train and watch China pass me by at 300 km an hour, there is nowhere else I would rather be. There is nothing else I would rather be doing. And it is the knowing which makes me content. Because I often think that God is infinite and the world is enormous and there has to be more than this. But in that moment, I simply know.

There’s a lovely scene in an episode of Doctor Who (aside from the fact that it’s completely and totally appropriate here, I had to) where Amelia Pond uses a password to enter a safe room and escape the villain. That password is “Crimson. Eleven. Delight. Petrichor.” (If you watch it: ignore the song. Or don’t. I suppose it’s up to you.) It’s sensory, and it works—not for the words she speaks—but for the images those words conjure up in her head.

Crimson is that colored fabric fluttering in the breeze. Eleven: that number of lit candles on a birthday cake. Delight: Amy, at her wedding, laughing in complete and utter happiness.

And petrichor. Droplets of water falling on the dirt; the smell of dust after rain.

These images are shown in flashes as Amy tries to get the security code to work. Eventually, it does, but that’s not this scene’s purpose here. It’s instead in the way the sensory images are presented; the way I imagine expressing my moments to someone. The way I imagined wildfairys expressing hers.

Because that’s what life is, isn’t it? Lots of little moments? People who say they can’t make it through the day miss that, I think. Nothing is the end of the world. Except, of course, the actual end. And maybe, if people take the time to notice their moments, the times at which they are their most content, why would they not what to live like that forever?

Forget horoscopes. Or numbers. Or the obvious fact that you are not me and the things which speak to me might put you off completely. Forget Buzzfeed and Tumblr. Forget Doctor Who.

And remember. Remember your moments. Write them down if you have to—it’s what I do.

The same friend who questioned my forever also said this: that “we were meant to ache.” That’s beautiful too, isn’t it? Moments like these aren’t always pleasant, and I’m not sure they have to be. There is this thing called bittersweet, and I think it strikes a nice balance.

**Title: “Forever Like That” by Ben Rector**

I fear I have nothing to give. I have so much to lose. I have nothing to give; we have so much to lose.

I meant my most recent post as a platform for self expression and didn’t really demand or expect the response it received. But then multiple people told me how relatable the premise is—especially to college students or basically anyone without any idea of their own future.

And suddenly, this thinking about what I want has made me realize that my desires are meaningless if I am unequipped for the actual pursuit of the goals said desires (hopefully) help me set. Some of the things I want in life are pretty obviously impossible for me to achieve (i.e. Rain that is only ever warm).

But consistency, travel, self-protection, self-expression, willpower, making an impact in more lives than just my own? These I can do. Well, maybe. So here follows a list of exactly that: what I can do—what I’m innately good at; what life abroad has taught me; what university has prepared me for; anything really.

Expect a list as long, extensive, varied, and possibly mundane as the previous one. Don’t expect fact or concrete ability. “Can” doesn’t just mean something I am able to do today; it also implies future pursuits and (hopefully) successful endeavors.

I can bake. Probably better than I can cook, but I’d like to call myself a quick study so who really knows?

I can swim quite well actually. My father tells me I’m a natural which means I can choose to swim more often than I do and I’ll probably enjoy it more than I might think.

I can explain the different approaches to social science. Or what people thought about astronomy before Newton’s Laws of Planetary motion revolutionized the field. Or how to become a citizen in the U.S. and/or Italy.

I can call myself multilingual since I am fluent in English, conversationally proficient in Mandarin and Italian, and am currently learning Spanish. I guess you’d say this is something I’m good at; I claim it, at least.

I can treat my sisters better. We live in three different places or two different countries; take your pick. I am the oldest, supposedly the most responsible—though that might just be an age thing—definitely the most introverted, and probably the bossiest. Actually, if you asked the two of them, they might call the last characteristic practically factual. Anyway, we bicker a lot because my temper is quickly extinguished but also easily sparked; and so I can be better for them so that wanting their lives to be easier no longer seems quite as far fetched a desire.

I can solve a Rubik’s cube in under a minute. Probably (it’s been a while since I timed myself). My personality is vaguely obsessive and I spent my entire winter break basically doing two things: watching Korean dramas and attempting to solve the cube. And I did. Eventually. But now it bores me, so that’s something else I can do…

I can pace myself so that the fascination I have with those things which interest me doesn’t fade once they’ve been conquered or completed or just abandoned altogether.

I can write, or I’d like to think I can. When I was younger I wrote poetry which didn’t rhyme but was indeed generically formatted. I also wrote song lyrics with excellent grammar but poor depth and, alas, without music either. And now I’m in college so I can write essays for grades and e-mails for communication and Facebook statuses for affirmation of my cleverness (I’m still waiting for someone to comment “Oh, the cleverness of you.” Peter Pan anyone?) and blog posts for expression of my non-academic thought (though months apart, they do exist; I promise!).

I can eat double stuffed Oreos, drink Dr. Pepper Diet, sleep all day, and binge watch Netflix with the best of them. It’s a problem. But, I can also perceive that these behaviors are probably not the healthiest for me, which means I can be responsible enough to do my homework when assigned, attend class always, eat well usually, and exercise on occasion.

I can people watch for days. Human beings are unbearably interesting and I do so enjoy making illogical leaps from what I see to what I imagine their lives to be like.

I can write a cover letter and revise my resume until the cows come home, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything will come of it.

And I can dream to my heart’s content and plan ahead as far as I’d like, but that doesn’t mean I’m being practical or realistic. Or that I won’t be disappointed if things don’t work out like I’d hoped.

I can be mean. I’d like to say it’s merely wit with an edge, but I know my words can be painful to others and so I can work on that too.

I can resign myself to the fact that finding a job right out of college with a B.A. in Politics (essentially) and an M.A. in Social and Cultural Analysis (but really just American Studies) is probably going to be really frustrating and difficult. And I can tell myself that this is okay because at least I got to spend five years in an amazing city studying something I love. And I can pretend my rationalization is enough, even when life experiences tell me it isn’t.

I can try my hardest to be inspirational or funny or smart, and usually I’ll just end up looking silly. Either that or it’ll seem like I’m trying to hard. But, I can also be myself in all situations and hope for the best—surprisingly enough, this has usually worked in my favor. Sure, you say, but you’re still only 21. So what? I reply, age is just a number and mine is definitely high enough to be occasionally panic inducing.

I can quote from memory the entire first chapter to almost every book in the Chronicles of Narnia. “This is a story that happened in Narnia and Calormen and the land between, in the Golden Age…”

I can read and reread and read again with no clear memory of plot details since my hunger is so great that I consume books too quickly to remember anything at all.

I can draw and ink and call myself an artist. Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself. And artist doesn’t just apply to the visual, because I can sing too. So can my sisters actually. Shameless plug, I know, but go listen anyway.

I can become a woman instead of a girl. I can refine myself into an independent person who is confident enough to want a man but also confident enough to know she doesn’t need one. Confidence I have, but I’m working on that last bit.

I can argue like a lawyer without the education because I am an ISTJ and logic and reason are my best friends. But so are two ENFPs, which means I can and should learn to empathize.

I can apply logic to fear and know that I shouldn’t be scared of the dark. And I shouldn’t be afraid that my ascending airplane will never stop and will eventually take me to space. And I shouldn’t worry that I’m not going to find a job after graduation. And yet, I can be introspective enough to admit that sometimes I am still afraid.

But then I can also recall Doctor Who (as I do) and remember that “It doesn’t matter if there is nothing under the bed or in the dark, so long as you know it’s okay to be afraid of it…You’re always going to be afraid, even if you learn to hide it…But that’s okay, because if you’re very wise and very strong, fear doesn’t have to make you cruel or cowardly.”

Clara says that “Fear can make you kind.” The Doctor says that “Fear can be a great motivator.”

And I say this: I’m afraid that I can’t do enough to make what I want a reality. I’m afraid that my degree(s) will get me nowhere in a world where practical knowledge and ability get you further than theoretical suppositions. And I’m afraid that exactly 12 is too high a number when the sad days seem to overwhelm the happy ones.

But in this, Clara, the Doctor, and I all agree—fear is okay because it’s driving me to be better, to work harder, to stop laying around lamenting my situations and to start actively improving them. It doesn’t matter that I want impossible things because I can be afraid. And that’s okay.

**Title: “Fear” by Sarah McLachlan**

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Stand a little taller. Thanks to you I got a new thing started; thanks to you I’m finally thinking about me. You know in the end the day I left was just my beginning.

So it turns out that being a real adult is a lot more difficult than it seems. Who knew, right? As children we tend to miss what’s right in front of us. Case in point: lewd jokes in children’s movies and TV shows (http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/adults-jokes-in-cartoons-you-didnt-understand-as-a-kid). Kids can be super perceptive about some things, but I for one know that I spent most of my childhood blissfully unaware of the hardships of the real world. This is how childhood should be…ideally. Unfortunately, 21st century earth is not Utopia, Thomas More’s or otherwise, and child soldiers, child abuse, and high infant mortality are very real and pressing current issues. Despite these global troubles, my parents did an award-winning job of shielding my sisters and me from the negative aspects of adulthood.

Not that I thought being grown up was a “piece of cake” (I never understood this idiom), but I didn’t expect the heavy weight of responsibility which so often accompanies living on one’s own. I also believed my future adult relationships would be spontaneous, long-lasting, romantic, and straight out of a fairy tale. I recently started watching Once Upon a Time and have come to realize something interesting. My parents are, and have always been, hopelessly in love with each other and are, therefore, basically Snow White and Prince Charming. Because of their relationship, I believe in true love and even soul mates; but actually though.

I recognize that the likelihood of meeting my one true love at 20 is not very high. But a girl can dream. And since “a dream is a wish your heart makes,” it’s bound to happen eventually. Disney taught me that. Amy and Rory did too.

And that’s what being an adult is about I think. Learning from personal mistakes and experiences–of course–but also finding life lessons in the most unexpected places. Like a cult British television show. Like a young person giving up their bus seat for an elderly person. Like the stomach ache you get from eating too much chocolate  (which you can do now, as an adult, but probably still shouldn’t).

So what brought this on? My life has been so blessed and I’m very lucky to have parents who are still supporting me through college, even financially. Because they want me to fully appreciate Europe while I’m here, they’ve agreed to pay for travel costs during Fall Break. Starting this Thursday evening I will be going from Florence to Barcelona (affectionately referred to as “Barca”); Sunday Ty and I are off to Madrid; then Wednesday I leave Spain for Prague, where I’ll be until Saturday afternoon when I return home to Florence. It’s a lot; I know.

Which is my point. My family and I have travelled a lot over the years but I haven’t really had to coordinate plans for any of those trips. I merely packed a suitcase when instructed and enjoyed the fruit of my parents’ labor. Now that I’ve had to plan for myself, I’m beginning to understand why going on holiday might seem more like work than relaxation, at least at first.

And going to the doctor! That’s another thing. I’m not agoraphobic by any means, but interacting with people I don’t know is hardly my favorite pastime. Honestly I’d rather stay home and read a book than hang out with other human beings. Escapism: we’ve discussed this; it’s a problem. Normally this behavior is fine, if a little lonely. When it comes to my health, however, I probably should be much more proactive.

I’ve had chronic ear problems since, well, ever. This means that I’ll occasionally get an ear infection which won’t go away unless it gets treated. The last time I had one, I neglected to visit the doctor and temporarily lost hearing in my left ear for almost a month. I brought it on myself but it was still pretty awful. So this time I dutifully called the doctor and made an appointment as soon as I felt ear pain. A few days after my visit, I felt much better and was mentally patting myself on the back for actually being responsible this time.

I still visit home when I’ve got time off and a ticket to China, so I have a tendency to lapse back into irresponsibility and revel in the time I spend with my parents because it not only means I get to see my family, but also that I’ll be taken care of again. I’m sure my mom and Papa would drop everything and come to me if I absolutely needed them to, but for now I’ll settle for a balance between being a self-reliant adult and being an overgrown, completely dependent child.

**Title: “What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger)” by Kelly Clarkson**