Chrysalis

I like to think of my childhood and teenage years as a different person altogether. Somewhere in a moment in time, I died. And I woke as the person I am now.

I look back at her critically and analyze everything she did or didn't do. But I also hold a jealous rage for the way she was, and the way I am not.

She was good at daydreaming. She was good at naively dreaming of the future and entirely believing it was hers. Her daydreams weren't polluted with the reality of being let down. She could dream of a lover, a career, a lifestyle, and a future that were completely possible because she wouldn't have to pursue them. I would.

There are so many opportunities she didn't seize. Times when she should have acted, became passionate, taken risks… but she didn't.

When she decided it was enough of the boring life and time to start the tantalizing new one, she died. And so I woke up. I walked out into the world and pursued the dreams, only to realize that this new me, built from her imagination, is not who we needed her to be. I am not the product of the daydreams which she curated so carefully. I am the product of her actions.

I am the product of her insecurity around boys. I am the product of her fear of getting fat. I am the product of her never applying herself too seriously for fear of failure. I am the product of her longing for attention, but always pretending she didn't need it.

I am still figuring out how to navigate this reality with the underqualified person I was given. I look back at the old me and scoff at her oversized dreams she forgot she would have to work for to achieve. Here I am now, trying to do it for her.