The Bravery of Beginning Again

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with beginnings.

I love the hope inherent in them. I hate the futility, the inherent knowing that “people don’t change” (and by “people”, I mean me). The lack of faith in the hope that I might. The consistency of my naivety and laziness and self-loathing.

Now I’m presented with this Next Big Adventure, this Next New Beginning.

I have a keen sense that this thing is bigger than me, that this is one of those fated and life altering events that could only be described as a rite of passage. It came as suddenly and dramatically as that red car that hit me from behind, 5 years ago. I have as little and as much power to stop this as I had when I moved down to Cape Town, or when I chose my field of study.

So I’ve paid the fees, my flights are booked, I’ve had my fingerprints taken at the police station. I’ve selected and bought my backpack.

I also made the decision to document this journey online. To somehow ring-fence it. Give it the importance it deserves. To be less passive in this process, even as it feels as if I’m on a giant conveyor belt to the Next Phase of my life.

Over the last couple of days, I’ve spent time creating new accounts on social media. To appropriately reflect the significance and the spirit of this journey, and to be true to who I am where I find myself today.

And then I realised: I have changed. I am already different.

I am not the person who first created those accounts. I am not the girl in those first profile pictures. I don’t want the world’s first impression of me to be a Fight Club quote anymore. I no longer only consist of the polarity between an 8 and an 11.

I have softened, and I have become whole-er. (Holier?). I am present in my body, even though it is not always pleasant and I don’t quite understand how to properly care for it yet. I have more empathy. For myself, and others. I have regrets. I recognise both my privilege and my guilt. I am blessed with great friendships. I have run not one, but two half-marathons. I have survived a freak accident, a couple of surgeries and my own career choices. I am richer for having read poems by Jack Gilbert and Anne Sexton, and books by Fredrik Backman and Lionel Shriver.

I am not that girl anymore. I am now this woman.

And I am ready for this next phase, whatever it may bring.