Given that my very first blog post ever (recently discovered by archeologists and dated circa 2005) was a reflection on my 24th birthday, it seems somehow appropriate that I return to the blog briefly to record my thoughts about having survived yet another year.
Today I am 29, which sounds like a respectable, mature age in which one can really be taken seriously as a proper adult who has his act together. Alternatively, 29 could be considered as the age in which one truly feels that their youth is dying, and that they only have one final year of fun and excitement before the big “three-oh” arrives with its attendant expectation of maturity.
I don’t really feel either way. In fact somehow I don’t feel any different than I did when I wrote that ancient blog post about turning 24. I’m perhaps a little less confident and little more tired than back then, but I have the same idealism, the same neuroses, the same wry smile, and, with little variation, the same fundamental strengths and flaws. I suppose the idea that one day we are just “grown-up” and different than when we were young is an illusion, and I can easily see myself in thirty years looking with confusion at my aging body and thinking, “but I’m still the same person inside!”
Growing up is a process of constant becoming that is ongoing in every minute of life. It has no beginning or end. At ninety years old I’ll still be growing up, I’ll still be learning, I’ll still be dealing with the challenges of life as best as I can.
I’m not going to lie. The year since my last birthday has been easily the most difficult and challenging year of my life. It was the year my idealism, carefully nurtured within the protected bubble of academia, really came head to head with the sharpest of cold, hard realities. And unfortunately I dealt with this crisis in the way I so often have – by hiding from the world, by cowering in fear in my little room.
I wrote a play in grad school in which a young man gains the courage to leave his self-imposed isolation and take a brave step outside his room and into the unknown world. It’s a shame, looking back, that I had to end the play where I did, because the story does not end there. After all, the young man has to leave the room again the next day, and the day after that. And while stepping out into the uncertain and often unfriendly world does get easier, it never gets easy. A leap of faith is fantastic, but it is not a once-in-a-lifetime event. Every day is a leap of faith, and it’s scary every time.
I may still be young, but I have enough experience in life now to realize two things:
1 – The happiest times of my life are connected to the times in which I was unafraid to take risks, unsatisfied by the path of least resistance, willing to try and not afraid to fail.
And, paradoxically,
2 – The happiest times of my life were those in which I was least concerned with “success,” with “accomplishments,” with measuring myself by some kind of arbitrary standard or comparing myself to others. I knew that my sense of worth and value was unconnected with anything outside of myself, and that I was no better and no worse than anybody else.
In summary, what is needed is a sincere excitement to try new things, without being overly concerned about whether I’ll succeed or not. Too long I have hid my face from the world and let my passion for life lie dormant. There is too much to do and see to let myself slip away into the shadows.
Happy Birthday to me!
Today I am 29, which sounds like a respectable, mature age in which one can really be taken seriously as a proper adult who has his act together. Alternatively, 29 could be considered as the age in which one truly feels that their youth is dying, and that they only have one final year of fun and excitement before the big “three-oh” arrives with its attendant expectation of maturity.
I don’t really feel either way. In fact somehow I don’t feel any different than I did when I wrote that ancient blog post about turning 24. I’m perhaps a little less confident and little more tired than back then, but I have the same idealism, the same neuroses, the same wry smile, and, with little variation, the same fundamental strengths and flaws. I suppose the idea that one day we are just “grown-up” and different than when we were young is an illusion, and I can easily see myself in thirty years looking with confusion at my aging body and thinking, “but I’m still the same person inside!”
Growing up is a process of constant becoming that is ongoing in every minute of life. It has no beginning or end. At ninety years old I’ll still be growing up, I’ll still be learning, I’ll still be dealing with the challenges of life as best as I can.
I’m not going to lie. The year since my last birthday has been easily the most difficult and challenging year of my life. It was the year my idealism, carefully nurtured within the protected bubble of academia, really came head to head with the sharpest of cold, hard realities. And unfortunately I dealt with this crisis in the way I so often have – by hiding from the world, by cowering in fear in my little room.
I wrote a play in grad school in which a young man gains the courage to leave his self-imposed isolation and take a brave step outside his room and into the unknown world. It’s a shame, looking back, that I had to end the play where I did, because the story does not end there. After all, the young man has to leave the room again the next day, and the day after that. And while stepping out into the uncertain and often unfriendly world does get easier, it never gets easy. A leap of faith is fantastic, but it is not a once-in-a-lifetime event. Every day is a leap of faith, and it’s scary every time.
I may still be young, but I have enough experience in life now to realize two things:
1 – The happiest times of my life are connected to the times in which I was unafraid to take risks, unsatisfied by the path of least resistance, willing to try and not afraid to fail.
And, paradoxically,
2 – The happiest times of my life were those in which I was least concerned with “success,” with “accomplishments,” with measuring myself by some kind of arbitrary standard or comparing myself to others. I knew that my sense of worth and value was unconnected with anything outside of myself, and that I was no better and no worse than anybody else.
In summary, what is needed is a sincere excitement to try new things, without being overly concerned about whether I’ll succeed or not. Too long I have hid my face from the world and let my passion for life lie dormant. There is too much to do and see to let myself slip away into the shadows.
Happy Birthday to me!
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