On Growing and Changing

Happy New Year everyone. At long last, another 365 days have come and gone and we are once again starting anew — metaphorically speaking only of course. A new year never truly means a blank slate. We carry the good and the bad with us as we bravely face the start of another revolution around the sun.

I suppose it’s quite a grim perspective to deny the idea of a “new year, new me.” But as someone who firmly believes that we are the culmination of all the experiences we’ve ever had, it seems plain and simple to me that on January 1st, we are all still the same as we were before the clock struck midnight and Auld Lang Syne started playing.

I am still the me who I was, you are still the you that you were, and we are still the same. The only difference is that somehow, the magic of New Year’s somehow emboldens us to adopt an optimistic pursuit of growth and change. And as someone who is admittedly terrified over change, as I’ve grown older, I’ve shied away from making resolutions to embark on such changes. Purely because I am a chicken, for lack of a better word.

I do not deal well with change but I yearn for growth. It’s quite the paradoxical issue. I know that things cant always be the same. I’m fully aware that change is inevitable and that it happens when it decides to happen. Like rain, it will pour regardless of if I’m ready or if I’m okay with it. I’m trying to sort myself out, trust me.

In the meantime, as a way of convincing my psyche that I should stop fearing change, I am trying to get in the habit of listing out the changes that I have undergone that I didn’t end up being averted to.

At this point, the list is slow going, and teemingly filled with small and seemingly inconsequential points. But I am choosing to pursue this further. I am choosing to gather up what little semblance of courage I have in my bones, little by little until I can stare unflinchingly in the face of the unknown.

As an avid reader growing up, I used to treat my books with the utmost dignity and respect. I visibly cringed every time a crack on a spine would surface, caused by the callous hands of others, and my lips would curl into a scowl when I’d see people write on or dog-ear the pages of their books. I lived by the idea that when you take a book, you leave it looking as it was — only altering your mind and soul, and never the actual pages.

As I’ve grown up, I have come to value the cracks and the folds. There is something so special about encountering books with visibly worn out pages and spines that reflect their ages. Don’t even get me started about how seeing inscriptions flood my insides with warmth. There is something so personal and intimate about a book that carries a story beyond what the print-house has manufactured thousands of times.

It’s hard to tell when I changed from one side to the other, but I know now that I like where I stand on this divide. Maybe the things I cling on to so tightly now will also be worth letting go.

Stay gold,

Kimberly