Our entangled history began when I was twenty. Two dumb kids sharing burgers at his parents’ diner. Our relationship ended a few days before my thirty-first birthday.
20. 30.
And a year and a half later, I feel like a teenaged woman.
It is hard to stomach that my twenties are a wash. Years now perceived as ‘make believe.’ I was far too young to be playing house. Far too young to be cosplaying as a wifey. My memories disjointed in my mind. Faces beaming like California sun. Woven hands walking down Sunset. Arguments soundtracked by a football game flashing on the flatscreen. Both of us nestled in a million dollar home in the hills we had no business living in. Stainless steel appliances, and folded laundry and nightly bedtime routines. It is what I wanted. I was genuinely content. Never dreaming to be the girl chasing clout and male validation around West Hollywood. There was a pride in skipping that chapter. My twenties were responsible. I had no regrets. But can see now I was trying to prove something else-
Young women are often praised for their maturity. Why do so many of us rush and rush to grow up? While our male counterparts don’t appear to have the same impulse? There was always a longing in me to be taken seriously. Verify, I wasn’t making foolish little choices. I have always been the daydreamer, the romantic. But at night, I prayed people thought I was smart. That my existence held validity. Practical. Responsible. Ambitious. Linear. And yet, my soon-to-be-future, a decade spent building, dissolved in one night.
Now, I find myself crystalized within these two ages.
20. 30.
I am a teenaged woman.
My thirties ushered in an unexpected confidence that only arrived from losing my reality. It was the first time in my adult life where the only option was to stand on my own. I did not care how I was perceived as I navigated this time. My failures were reality tv for most people anyway. The gasps, the slack jaws, the eyes widening from this treacherous entertainment. I was a show. But despite the reactions, I was grounded in what I knew and what I wanted. I had never felt so free from the opinions of others. Nothing is permanent. What did I have to prove anymore?
Most of you know how the rest of the story unfolded. Me abandoning whatever was left in Los Angeles and stumbling into a life in New York City.
The first year living here, was painted with mistakes. A reckless teenage yearning to live and live and live because mortality once again squeezed its place into my chest. Like it did the first time when I was newly sixteen. My phone vibrating with a text during math class that my grandmother had passed away.
People are not permanent fixtures. You learn that in your teens. Things become precious in your twenties. And by your thirties, you let it all go again.
I was feral around the city. Nights blurred between sips of dirty martinis and sloppy kisses from faces I might never see again. Dark basement disco balls reflecting in my hazy blue eyes. Curiosity leading to conversations with the old man at the coffee shop, the college kids on the subway, the finance bro looking to buy me a beer.
One humid summer night, I found myself alone on the hushed streets of the Upper East. My heels stomping loudly, sticky pop blaring in my wired headphones. And suddenly, I couldn't stop laughing. I threw my head back, flashing my teeth to the stars and skyline. I was rabid. I tried so hard to control my life for so long. I saw how absurd it was now. My head craned back farther from the hilarity. The blue veins ran down my neck like a speeding highway. I imagined his hands around my collar, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. What did it get me? I stumbled into my shoebox. Tiny in comparison to my three bedroom, four bath, luxury townhouse I once called home. My apartment looked more like a dormitory. This made me cackle even more. How did I get here? I laid in bed eating gummy bears staring at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a face I didn't recognize. I giggled more, finding strange pleasure in this unfamiliarity. Who is she? Admiring whoever had replaced her. But she was me-
Despite the erratic behavior, it stems from a place of unnerving authenticity. Something foreign to most teenage minds but is a gift bestowed upon thirty-something women. And more and more no one could rattle me. I knew what I wanted. I learned more about my boundaries. I was not going to beg to be noticed or cherished. I savored to taking up space. Expect nothing, appreciate everything.
I am a teenaged woman.
I do fear for my future still. But I remind myself there is nothing I can control but the present. I still want to fall in love and get married and have a family. My story has not jaded me. I try to stay soft.
I meditate some mornings. A reoccurring vision often comes to mind. There is this young girl. She wears a black wool coat, with golden brown hair cascading down her back. We walk side by side on 85th street. I never can see her face. Weeks went by and I assumed she must be my daughter. That I can’t see her face, because her father doesn’t exist yet. But the more I trod through this dream, I realize. That girl is me.
so good, I can relate to the laughter and secret thrill of observing yourself in a state of unknown -
Beautiful