Growing Up - A Creative Nonfiction Essay

In 2017 I won second place in a creative nonfiction essay competition and was published in my school's literary journal Calliope. I think it's pretty rad. During this time I was very lost, and having left my passion as an actor I felt untethered. This was before I realized my true calling as a writer and director. Although, after reading this many years later, I guess you could say writing was calling me before I was able to answer.

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The dichotomy between finding a sense of self and pursuing happiness is pretty much a

defining factor of being in your early twenties. Early adulthood smacks humans in the face,

and expects stability from creatures who, less than a year or two prior, had to ask to pee. I’m astounded that some people around me seem to have a vague sense of who they are, what

they want from their life, and how to get it. Did they come out of the womb with a calculator and a love for engineering? Or did they perform their own mother’s C-section, simultaneously getting a college recommendation from their doctor for medical school? Perhaps they casually slid out of their warm nine-month residence, with perfect hair and teeth, ready to sell mansions to millionaires. This baby would smile at his mother’s doctor and ask if he’s considered taking up a mortgage. Whoever these children are I’m sure their parents are proud of them. Lucrative from their first bottle sip, and emotionally independent from their first diaper change, they know what they want from life. These babies probably started saving for retirement at thirteen. Perhaps they never crawled around on all fours—it would’ve been too demeaning for them. They just waltzed out of the delivery room one day ready for life and not worried about their future. At one day old they had it figured out. I feel as those these hypothetical babies have the secret to life and just aren’t telling me. I hate them and want to be them all at once. Compared to these babies, I came out of my mother kicking and screaming. I knew that I wasn’t ready for people to talk to me about careers, ask me what I want from life, and have expectations for anything I do. I was probably gasping for air saying, “Doctor, please, it appears you’ve made a massive mistake. Put me back where you found me, and we both can forget this embarrassing situation ever happened. Agreed?” And then I

probably pooped everywhere, made a gigantic mess of everything, and cried some more.

Growing up aren’t we supposed to find things we are good at? I once had a friend who could fit an entire fist in her mouth. I’m not sure how she’s going to turn that talent into a lucrative career. Wait. I do have something in mind she could use it for, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t make her parents proud. On the other hand, some children become so good at things in youth they become prodigies. Look at the female Olympic gymnast team—they knew what they wanted and went for it. Lorde was only seventeen when ‘Royals’ played on every radio station practically nonstop. Some children pick up a violin and think to themselves, “Ah, yes. I’m a musical prodigy. I know what I want to do, and I’m good at it. My parents will be so proud.” This resonates a fundamental envy on a very deep and personal level. These childhood successes drive home the point that I’m a failure in comparison. No one has a reason to compare me to Taylor Swift, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to. I know other people feel similarly too. The sense of being so young but already being a failure. That doctor should’ve taken one look at me, realized I was not ready for human life, and shoved me right back in for another nine months. Maybe that’s what

I needed when I was a baby, because I am clearly not ready for anything adulthood is demanding of me.

Money. Making money. Having your own money. Ultimately that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? But what if as a grown up, anything I was good at wouldn’t make money? I did theatre, sang and spoke in front of audiences. I loved it. I won’t love being a waitress the rest of my life. I loved writing. Nothing made me happier than disappearing into a book for days. I’m not an expert on what writers make, so I went to my father and he said, “It’s not easy being a writer unless you’re born rich.” I’m not born rich so I guess I’m screwed. I love music. I wanted to pursue it. Then I met a handsome boy who was 24. He told me he had a BA in history and a minor in music. I asked him what he did for a living. He’s a barista at Starbucks, and really in debt.

I suppose I could squash my emotions deep down inside and become an accountant or lawyer. I could cry in my car as I study calculus or e-commerce. I could relinquish myself of my hopes and dreams. Say goodbye to any ambitions and make responsible decisions with my life. But then I think to myself, what if thirty years from now the only thing that makes me happy inside is seeing the bottom of a bottle. What if I find rum or vodka to be the only thing that can fill the void left by not pursuing anything I’m passionate about? There is probably an engineering graduate out there doing tons of cocaine, or an accountant who does heroin. There is similarly a barista who is an alcoholic, or a waitress who does meth. It appears in life you either set up a void by trying to make money, or by ignoring the fact that you don’t have money by doing drugs. I suppose anybody can have an existential crisis. It doesn’t matter what your tax bracket is.

I’m still waiting for something to make sense. I’m waiting for something to feel right.

When will I know what to do if I have no idea what I’m doing? I’d like to ask my parents what they were thinking bringing someone into this world. It’s chaotic, unpredictable, and really confusing. I didn’t ask for this. This never ending sense of dread and uncertainty when I think about my future. I wish to once again have my childhood innocence and youthful ignorance to everything. Instead every day that passes I become more unsure of where I stand and who I will be. All I can do in the meantime is try to be a good person, and maintain the hope that one day I’ll figure it out.