How did I get here? I’m almost sixteen, I almost have my license, and I’m in high school. When did I get here? I have a clearer memory of when I was younger, picturing myself where I am now, than I do of last week. Maybe that’s because it all felt so much more important back then. I used to think that being where I am now was larger than life, something of paramount importance to look forward to through rose-tinted glasses. The glamour that came with high-school drama, and the glowing shine from that sense of independence held such a charm.
Is that romanticization of high-school life that allured me so still here? It sparkles every once in a while with childlike captivation but quickly diminishes with a snap from reality. Is it the thunderous deluge of homework, the tenuous studying, or the ominous descent into adulthood that pillages my old optimist haze? Or are those just excuses to ignore that small pang of guilt buried deep inside my stomach? I feel like I failed her, my childhood self, by not becoming someone of great importance or having my life figured out.
I know it’s unfair to have such fantastical expectations. But maybe if I reached a little higher or worked a little harder, I’d be further than where I am now. Maybe if I stretched myself a little higher, I really would have touched the stars. Sure, my fate’s not etched in stone, but why does it feel like it is? If I’m not a success by now, then how can I be?
If I were to live to a hundred, that means I’m only 16% through my life. I guess that’s an encouraging thought if you think about it. My brain hasn’t even fully developed yet. So why am I being told I have to have my whole life figured out? To be fair, no one has directly told me that. Maybe they don’t even mean to, but I feel it in their eyes. How do I know what college to go to without knowing the path of my life? No one told my younger self about the stress that would come with her movie snapshot optimism.
I guess she wasn’t completely lied to, my younger self; maybe I just couldn’t grasp the whole concept so young. Or maybe I just viewed high school to be what movies told me it would be. There was some truth in those fascinating fantasies. My high school is full of friends I’ve grown to know better over all these years and glittering images of independent adventures. I guess when looking at the checklist my younger self had accidentally written, my high school experience wasn’t too far off. I’ve experienced the romanticized high school experience, but I’ve also experienced dull realities. Maybe those realities would have made her checklist had my younger self been aware of such things as anxiety, homework, and late-night studying.
Sure, they wouldn’t have made the top of my sequin-covered list, but they’d be necessary to make it real. To make it relatable and laughable when looking back, to make me have reasons to say “I’m proud I overcame that.” I didn’t fail my younger self with a half-completed checklist, the checklist failed me with a half-completed experience.
