17 years I spent hardly hearing her greet me a Happy Birthday. I hardly even heard her say she loved me. 10 wholesome years after that, I spent painstakingly fixing the damage. Of course I got it wrong a few times – trying to grow my own family, or label people so I could feel like I belonged to someone. Looking back, I now realize that in all of that ‘tending to my heart’, the purest reason for my longing wasn’t just because I was deprived of being loved, but rather – I had so much of my own love that I genuinely wanted to give.
So please, join me on my countdown to my tenth and final year of finding where I fit perfectly and where I am wholeheartedly wanted. I finally found it; in the arms of an amazing man, coupled with a sons’ unconditional acceptance, intertwined with a great network of friends – wrapped beautifully with the peace in my heart.
On about the third month since Carson had been born, a friend had said to me: “I’m just waiting for you to break. You’re going to realize that all of this cooking and bringing back the traditional Asian upbringing – it’s going to ware you out.” Well, if she’s held her breath for the last three and a half years, I hope this week might make her very happy, as this is the second meal I’ve baked a frozen good – Le Enchilada to the left. But no, that does not by any means, mean, that I have broken. What it does mean is that – a 2:45am call time, on a 9o’clock bed time, is not easy. To follow with a gym session, and a quick night class, is not easy either. Then, to conclude thy 17th hour with a dinner mess, an iPad episode, with a book entry, is indeed, again – not easy. So yes, I caved a little. But while I may have skimped on the gourmet meals, I haven’t lost my appetite to convene around the table. And while I may be opting for convenient, it’s really only because I don’t want to entirely give up. The clock ticks faster when you turn ambition into reality, dreams into productions, and bring visions to life. If that’s breaking, then fine. I broke this week. But this Friday, I’m going to bake a chicken.
I woke up today and thought – I am done. No more counting seconds until I’m completely passed out, no more fast food, and no more coming home to my filth. No more emotional traffic jolts, no more stock up on waterproof mascara – no more looking for me like I’m a missing person. I’m not lost, and I’m not broken. I am human. Sometimes, I won’t forgive. Sometimes, I can’t forget. And sometimes, I will deliberately, and confidently, not do either. What I also won’t do, is fall victim to my own choices. So today, I got up, and I got it together. I came in one with a few facts in life: not everyone actually loves you; not everyone actually cares how you’re doing; not everyone is actually sorry when you’re not feeling right; not every person in your life actually wants you to stay in theirs. But, that doesn’t mean you can’t still be a wholesome person, nor should any of those realities inhibit you from living a fruitful life. There will be times when the glass is half empty, and other times when it is half full – if you’re thirsty, drink it anyway. Your own life is what your own decisions make of it. If you feel like opportunity.is.nowhere – then do whatever you need to do to feel like opportunity.is.now.here.
You become a parent and you find that, it’s not about you anymore. It’s not about what you want, or even, what makes you happy.
You eventually realize that while you may find the missing piece to complete your world, that may also be the very piece that breaks apart someone else’s. And that someone else matters more than you.
You learn that, to be a good parent, means to be a selfless one.
… If I ever actually became a bona fide writer, I would talk about how my first actual piece was a blog about you, mi conquistador. Never in a million years did I once think of being a mother. Turns out, the heart really is a powerful organ. I know that right now you think I’m your best friend. We recite our vows to each other every night before we shut our eyes; we’re each other’s favorite, and we’re each other’s “person”. But the truth is, the day that you’ll replace me as number one woman, or as right hand wingman, will actually come sooner than either of us think. You should know that I had already covered these things in my piece about you, as you were only a being who liked to break dance in my belly. And with that, I’ll still love you as my favorite, and as my person.
I used to write because I wanted someone to hear me. I wanted someone to hear me during those moments that I’d cried my loudest. But then I eventually realized that by victimizing myself, even I wasn’t even paying attention.
I realized that what I actually needed was a reaction, and not pity.
So, I started writing in a fashion that no longer exploited me. I figured out that I needed to captivate people; intrigue them. Make them so curious, they’re compelled to hear me out.
I eventually learned that my writing could no longer be just a conglomerate of emotions; a boxful of memories I hadent the chance to truly sort through. I needed polishing – the kind where you’re constantly weeding through your own dirt. If I was going to write, about my life, I had to do it justice.
Aside from agreeing to take my son to his teacher tonight to help create a banner for her daughters’ graduation, not having to cook because of a gender reveal party we’re attending after that, and needing to be at the DMV tomorrow an hour earlier than the appointment slot I reserved – I’m not sure that there’s any more room for me to ponder what else I should be doing with my life. Or that I lack the passion to determine what it is truly that I want to do with the rest of it. I don’t really know, or believe, that there should be something else more definite, and more career orientated, that I’m supposed to be fixated on achieving.
After putting in an eight hour work day, non inclusive of the time it took me to get ready – plus the commute, but also inclusive of grocery shopping during my sixty minute lunch, my only ambition on top of that is to have the energy to play with my toddler, and make a meal that both Instragam and I can be proud of.
So, what do I want to do with my life? What do I really want to do with my life? Do we mean career wise? Does it even have to be in regards to a career? Because I’d like to think that championing five days, following the same exact routine I just outlined, is a pretty kick ass role. And while I don’t necessarily feel complacent, I do feel accomplished.
Whatever it is I want to do with my life, look forward to doing, or should be getting done – I’m doing just that, right now. That’s what I want to do with my life.