New beginnings.
I’ve always been one to fixate on my past mistakes. Always. Maybe it’s a British thing; we are painfully apologetic for simply existing; balls of nervousness, and self-depreciation. Maybe it’s the product of being the child of Asian culture; elders are significantly more important than the youths. Maybe it’s because of society’s inherent sexism; girls shouldn’t behave like that!
Anyways, as another year comes to a close, as each year whisks by. I realise that this perfect outlook, this woman I’m supposed to become is just some proverbial mile-stone that only occurs steadily through time. It’s nothing, if not some guideline to where we should be. And not something we necessarily must follow.
This year was eventful, to say the least. From an engagement to my then-three-year girlfriend (and the collapse of said relationship), my delayed graduation from university, and the good old peppering of SSRIs and depressive attacks to finish it all off. I have reached the conclusion that all adults eventually come to: fuck it.
Literally.
Fuck it all.
#yolo it the way out, like the millennials that we are. Anxiety, and uncertainty, whilst we will not be able to stop ourselves from feeling these dreaded emotions; we can alter how we respond to them.
So instead of sulking and moping about how I could already be attempting a career at writing working in a lab, about how I could have done this or that sooner. I’m going to adopt a different approach. I’m going to take life by two hands, and give my all to everything. No more haphazard lunging at goals. No more wishy-washy, but-my-parents-won’t-approve bullshit. No more tolerating toxicity in my life.
This is the year of change. My milestone of my own creation. This new year? With all the pitfalls and the achievements to come? I’m more than fucking ready.
Twenty-fucking-seventeen? Bring it on.
