I had already given up on the day around 11am this morning.

“That’s a wrap,” I said to my best friend on the phone, “Today’s done, I’ll try again tomorrow.”

I woke up semi-late and frantically started looking up videos of the inauguration. I felt bad that I hadn’t watched every singer, every speech, every swearing in live — like somehow I was tardy and my attendance at the event was imperative. Nonetheless, I youtubed every speech, every singer, every swearing in and cried.

It set me off.

One moment I was tearing up at a beautiful young woman’s eloquent, impactful, incredibly poignant poem and the next sobbing about God knows what.

I started thinking about my dad. And my worry. I thought about my friends. And my sadness. And myself. And my disappointment.

I sobbed and I sobbed thinking “its fine. I have therapy at 4’oclock. just make it until then, you can make it until then.”

I kid you not, it’s the first day my therapist has ever cancelled on me.

“Yup, thats about right,” I said aloud, as I plopped my last raspberry into my mouth. Right on cue.

If there’s anything about the Universe, its that they have comedic timing. down. pat. Wicked sense of humor, that one.

The clock had struck 12:45. I was alone and desperate for a plan. Was this really how today would go? Me, not leaving bed. Me, wallowing in self-pity. Me watching Despicable Me trying to stab myself with childhood nostalgia and joy like an addict injects the needle for a twinge of some sort of high, to get their fix.

A few minutes pass.

I must have a matcha latte. The only fleeting thought I could manage to retain in my brain. I must have one. A small one, because well, caffeine. But I’m already incredibly anxious for the first time in months, unbearably scarily anxious.

So it looks like the perfect day for experimentation!

I used to think pajamas were synonymous with lazy. I allowed myself maybe one or two days a year for pajamas all day. One was New Years and the other a randomly selected day for whence I would spare my special golden pajama ticket when the time seemed appropriate. The issue is: pajamas are subjective. For some, pajamas are shorts and a tshirt. For others, a perfectly curated set of flannels with a matching pair of fuzzy socks. Many sleep in the nude.

For me, pajamas are whatever I’ve managed to throw together the night before. Whether thats a t shirt and shorts, or sweatpants, or spandex, or a nightgown for goodness sake, it is not something I can stay in all day.

Because then I am unproductive.

This is a harmful narrative I was urged to break this past year.

I managed to spend many days in isolation doing projects from bed. Homework and articles and internship work all done from bed. Some of those many days in my pajamas.

I must have a matcha latte, I repeated.

And I would like to finish cleaning my room.

Thoughts began to whirl about a clean space being a happy space. That our surroundings often reflect how we are feeling. Cluttered, messy, and overwhelmed.

Although at this point in the day I have tried hard to ease the harmful thoughts surrounding the pajamas and the bed laying and the cruel thoughts that if I don’t move I’m weak and backsliding, I decide I genuinely would like to get out of bed.

So I do.

And I look in the mirror and I have one of my most important thoughts to date.

My hair is wild and curly.

And immediately I flash back to a picture taken when I was probably two years old. One of my all time favorites. One that supports heavily if not proves a very important, rather long-winded theory I am going to attempt to now explain.

For several months now I have been ruminating on a very thought-provoking theory of human nature. It’s the idea that we are born with very clear ideas of who we are. From birth to young school age, we start to show this built in tendency toward our personality. Some kids are more reserved, others more bossy. Some like doing art and reading, others playing sports and building tall block towers. Lots of kids wear clothes their parents picked out, neat and tidy, others insist on being apart of the process. Bright colors, no underwear. Socks must be very specific with no lines on the toes otherwise it will be uncomfortable and I will cry.

And no brushing of the hair. Let it be free.

So those last few descriptors were not every child, but they were more specifically, me.

I was a wild child. When it came to fashion, I liked color and pattern and being an active participant in my dressing process.

I liked to finger paint and be messy and didn’t mind a few scabs and bruises. The outfit must support those endeavors. Plus, clothes are just an outward expression of our inner life. And mine was bright.

A big part of getting older is getting back to that childhood self, to the most authentic parts of ourselves that we might have lost along the way. That we left on the playground doing the activities we loved most. Being the people we are ultimately meant to be. Just older, and taller, and more aware.

Adults are just big kids. And quite frankly, I am pretty sure as I start to become one, none of them actually know what they are doing.

As we phase out of elementary and into middle school, I think we get lost. Looking toward the future, inventing who we want to be. And in high school, it becomes who does everyone else want you to be?

And how do I fit in? How do I retain some sense of self, but dull it a little. To blend in. Fit the mold. So we wear the same sweatshirt, jeans, and Ugg boots thinking if we can just make it through another day unscathed, then we have done our job.

It’s college age that we start confronting who we really are. And we take that earlier life dream version and start melding it into a figure of who we might actually be. And we struggle a bit, poking and prodding at different facets of our personality. Seeing who will stick. And what parts will abandon us like the plague.

Which brings us to the adulthood stage, where acceptance will *hopefully set in.

It’s the realization that you no more or less have been the same person your entire existence, you’ve simply been shifting forms. To put it in Pokémon terms, evolving, into a more sophisticated creature. It’s where we solidify the traits that make us, us. Happy and fulfilled, searching for contentment that will carry us through the hum drum nature of our souls *optimistically long existence in this life.

I write about this today because I have been desperate for a while now to find some way to let that little girl back in. I have anguished through therapy sessions discussing dreams where my younger self appeared behind the wheel of a car, smuggled by strangers, while my older iterations watched helpless and afraid. I’ve had countless conversations with friends where I explained that despite going through an aesthetically rough patch in middle school boys still liked me because of my personality. Making excuses that did not need to be made. I’ve fought myself internally, tooth and nail, to be more like other girls — the one’s who are prim and proper and neat and tidy.

and who always seem to brush their hair.

It was finally time to go get the matcha latte. I put on some very old leggings, I’m talking maybe middle school age leggings, and vans, and my favorite leopard coat and got in the car. I drove to Starbucks and listened to “This Love” by the Commodores and the barista was very sweet and when he asked if I wanted a straw I said yes and said straw appeared out of thin air from his hand, like a magic trick, like he knew I was going to say yes. And I got my tall matcha latte.

So delicious.

On the drive home I noticed a girl, maybe 14 at most, running alongside the road. She was moving, arms flailing. Face red. Looked in pain, but I admired that she kept going. She approached a hill and did not hesitate to keep running up it and I thought to myself wow I would’ve stopped by now, that some humans are miraculous, some way stronger than me and then halfway through the hill the girl stopped.

And she threw her arms in the air and onto her knees and gasped for air, head bobbing up and down through the air. And then she put her hands on her hips.

And she kept walking. Slowly but surely until she disappeared over the top of the hill and I smiled.

None of us are alone in this world. Some have more stamina to run longer than others. Perhaps at a slower or a faster pace. But we’re all gonna reach a hill in this life. Probably more than just one, and they’ll definitely be of varying degrees. And it’s up to us how we get over it. Are we gonna run it or walk? Do we have to stop and throw our arms up and gasp for air? How many times?

And the end of the day, I guess it doesn’t really matter.

Because rest assured, we’re all gonna make it over. One way or another.

I owe so much to the little blonde girl who didn’t want to brush her hair. She has informed so much of my personal evolution into the lady I continue to become. In many ways, she was so much more wise than me. And I think about her every day. As I strive to incorporate her whimsy, and style, and kindness, and self-assuredness into her successor.

In high school I thought it was weird when people didn’t brush their hair.

“Couldn’t be me. I have to” I would say.

Another stepping stone towards today.

In less than two weeks, I will be 23. And while, like most birthday’s, I am sure I will still struggle to celebrate me, I’m gonna try my best to honor all the me’s who came before me. Who made way for today’s me to look in the mirror and be more than okay with the person she sees. Messy hair and all.