This is Your Life

Right now, in this fleeting second, as you read this blog and drink your morning coffee and wish for the weekend to return, you’re living. You’re breathing and thinking, worrying and wishing, dreaming and desiring, imagining and realizing — all at the same time, without trying, without considering. Your thoughts are spiraling and vivid, wild and without condition — and here, in this short time that it’s taken you to click this link and read this paragraph, you have existed.

This is your life.

On Saturday night when you put on that tight blue dress that hugs in places you want to be hugged, with a scarf to hide your tan lines and with the summery-smooth taste of a Blue Moon to hide your hesitations, you danced. You let yourself be awkward and offbeat, you shook and you smiled at the man in the checkered shirt with just a little bit of chest hair peeking at the top. You let him kiss you and maybe — well, definitely — you kissed him back. You felt the music float you through the night, the sweet words of lyrics dated fifty years ago that you still believe in, carry your hopes high again. You twirled with your friends as you did when you were a little girl, and even though you’re not as carefree and naive as you used to be, for those few hours that poured past midnight, you enjoyed yourself. You didn’t worry about being called the next day or being interested enough past a few free drinks or a dip in the middle of a crowded bar in the West Village. Instead, you just went with it. You accepted that…

This is your life.

Last week when you watched the 200+ emails pile in your inbox over the weekend, you carefully pined through them all, giving responses when needed, happily deleting the rest. You felt the rush and the push of news, relishing that you get paid to pen, paid to delegate, paid to express your creativity every single hour of every single day. You thought of those pages behind you, those stories you wrote and you published, including the ones you cared about and ones you can’t remember enough about to Google. You looked at your byline and considered your business card, the one you worked so hard to achieve (and figure out how to order) and though you might not know what’s next — or really what you even want to be next — you took pride that this 9-6er that’s never actually 9-6, is your reality. It’s the means of your existence and that thing you needed so badly to seek. This, this career that’s every bit as intriguing as it’s demanding…

This is your life.

The past few months as you’ve watched your friends pair up and shack up, lose and find new loves, question everything and value it all — you’ve wondered what you’re doing wrong. You’ve felt the anxiety that only comes from possibility, of something unplanned and scary, and yet, so exhilarating. You’ve seen — and felt — the ups and the downs, and tried desperately to not be desperate, but more importantly, jealous of the happy, smiling, coupled faces on Facebook. Or the new addresses that come with two names instead of one. You’ve tried to not resent the apartment that keeps you safe that’s often covered in the dust of the past and the dog fur of the present, even if you dream of a little place of your own that your little wallet can’t currently sustain. Instead of closing your eyes to paint what the next three or five or ten years will be, you’ve tried to open — and full-heartedly embrace that…

This is your life.

This body, that skin, those eyes, those runner’s legs and that big ol’ booty – they all belong to you. They’re parts of your whole and part of what makes you beautiful, though what exudes from inside will always attract more than anything else. This body, that’s full of flaws and scars, curves and freckles, it’s imperfectly perfect in a way that was designed just for you, just in a way that makes you radiate. You might not have the whitest teeth, the flattest stomach or stand the tallest in the crowd, but you’re proud. You work hard to keep your head held high and your weight at a comfortable rate that’s fit for you. That’s good for you. You take care of this body — mostly, anyway — that one day will do way more than turn heads or get you from uptown to downtown on a hot, humid summer day. This body will make and deliver babies, it’ll stretch and it’ll grow wider than smaller, it’ll sag and it’ll wrinkle, but it’ll always be yours. It’ll be part of how the world sees you, it’s bare reminders of what you’ve been through so that you remember that…

This is your life.

This, right this very moment, is your life. And you’re wasting it. You’re wasting these moments worrying and fretting, drowning and  holding on way too tight. Beating yourself up over the ways you don’t fit in or you’re not on the right track. How you’re single and don’t want to be, when you’re texting your ex and you’re trying so hard to lose five pounds that you’re missing everything. You’re not seeing any of it. You’re not experiencing any of it.

In all of it’s beauty, to the depths of it’s spirit and the harshness of the bad and the confusing. This life that’s everything and nothing like you expected and will continue to move and to change, to bloom and to crumble all around you, all the time, every single day, for so many years to come. So many memories that you haven’t made yet, so many people you’ve yet to meet. Or fall in love with. Or have to let go of. This is your life and it’s worth more than anything you face or all the scary parts you’ll have to overcome. Especially the ones when you’re having to get over yourself. Because before you can have all of those things that are undeniably yours, all of the things that you want so badly you can squeeze your eyes so tight and barely see them, you have to accept that this.

This is your life. And it’s just getting started.

6 thoughts on “This is Your Life

  1. I love your writing style- you’re very talented. (Though I’m sure you know that!) Keep up the hard work. This is your life! Love it, own it, make it all you want it to be!

  2. Pingback: This is Your Life | Jem's blog

  3. Pingback: The Good Stuff | Confessions of a Love Addict

  4. Pingback: 26 Things I’ve Learned From Writing This Blog for Four Years (!) |

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