I didn’t always want to leave St. Petersburg. In an eighth grade class project about my future goals, I wanted to study biology, attend the University of South Florida, and work at a zoo. Maybe I’d buy a house in Gulfport and enjoy the weekends near the beach. I’d write about it, and maybe that would get me a balance of what I wanted to be.
I didn’t know myself at age 14. I didn’t know who I wanted to be or where I wanted to go. The dreams of my past seem childish, as if implanted by a complete stranger.
The plan has changed over the years. In high school, I finally admitted to myself that scribbling words and forming them into stories was my real talent. I had a way of taking charming words and shaping them into something more compelling. I followed the passion my instructors fostered to USF St. Petersburg, to part-time jobs in writing, and into the lives of the most fascinating people I could imagine.
College changes people. But I think that a lot of that was in my own hands. Sure, branching out into independent living and working forced me to grow up. I’m taking care of myself and balancing aspects of my life that I had never done before. Making macaroni, rushing to my next shift, and shuffling through pages of my textbooks was more than I had bargained for.
But the bustle of these mandatory activities for survival didn’t hold me away from what shaped my personality. Like any college kid, there were some good relationships, some bad, and some mistakes. I dabbled in genres of music, art, and food. I realized I love punk music and can’t stand banal chords and lyrics in country. I prefer the DIY scene for the arts than the amphitheaters and museums (But I won’t say no to seeing the Picasso exhibit at the Salvador Dali Museum. Classic.).
Growing into an adult meant pushing myself out of my comfort zone. I’ve wandered into concerts solo and immersed myself into the music. I’ve spent evenings alone listening to records and skimming through books, without depending on the company of others. I’ve worked 40 hours or more a week, raking in a paycheck that builds the bank and my pride. Independence is everything, and I know it’s rooted in the strength I’ve bred.
I left the country for the first time this past summer. I spent a week cruising the Irish countryside, envisioning the inspired literary geniuses that came from this gentle, gorgeous land. I mourned the tragedies that once plagued this nation. I celebrated the blossoming future of a country that has reached peace. I was already planning my next adventures as I boarded the plane home.
I know I want to write. I thirst to see beyond the waters of Tampa Bay. I want to immerse myself in rich cultures that cultivate my passions for arts, community, and life. I know my happiness is tied to my actions, and not to others.
I finally know myself. I know what I want to be. To my younger self, who slowly stretched beyond the comforts of home, I say this: thanks for being brave.
