Gentle Stories of Discovery:

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Asked just about every adult who first met me as a child. Depending on the day, my age, or which way the wind was blowing, my answers were consistent only in their resolution and finality.

“I want to be Little Red Riding Hood,” I announced one day. But mostly, my answer would be “a dancer”, “a maker of things”, “an artist”, or “a writer of stories.” This last one was a trick answer because of course, I was already a writer.

I made little notebooks from scraps of paper and decorated them with drawings of flowers, fairies, and elaborate swirls. I wrote with ease and never questioned my stories, nor did I need any validation. I didn’t care whether anyone liked them, because I wrote them for pure joy; I wrote them for myself. I fantasised that in the distant future, someone would find my scribblings and find them fascinating.

Over time, fiction merged with fact as the notebooks transformed into diaries filled with teenage angst, confusion and longing. At times, anger manifested itself as random choice words scrawled over the page in various directions and fonts. Neither flowers nor fairies accompanied them this time. Instead, oversized exclamation marks and seething swirls of rage may have screamed from my pen. Yet I loved it best when answers graced the pages.

Making poor decisions

When I grew up, I never added flowers to the rage and sadness of those random words. My dreams had somehow eluded me, and I pursued a life of mere survival, but with little resonance. When I was in my thirties, I felt like I’d missed the boat. I saw others climbing the career ladder and wondered why I never succeeded despite doing well academically. I imagined this was because I followed paths that were not mine to tread. I lived a life of doubting myself and was queen of imposter syndrome before the phrase was invented. I heard words from those who knew better:

'You can't be an artist, writer, actor, dancer ..., you have to be exceptional. Only the best make it.'

That was the lingering slimy earworm of my youth. So I worked in the Civil Service, studied business, and drained my professional life of any enthusiasm. I thought I wanted a slick glass office but actually, it was all a matter of aesthetics. I didn't have the gusto to get there in a business environment. Lack of self-confidence, expectations, fear of comparison, past rejection, and many other factors have played their part. However, I don’t look to the past for anyone or anything to blame; I look inside and take ownership of myself. No one assigned me my identity at birth, and it is up to me to develop it. An article on Erikson’s Stages of Psychosocial Development states:

… the developmental stages and formation of identity is an ever-evolving process, as opposed to a rigid concrete system

Gabriel A. Orenstein; Lindsay Lewis

Inclinations, dabbling, and identity

As my confidence lurked somewhere in the shadows, and life confirmed my mediocrity, I reached a point of pause. I could internalise the narrative that something was wrong with me, or I could change my story.

I picked up my pen — a Lamy, a pot of ink — blue-black of course, and a fine notebook of handmade paper. I began to write again. My fingers curled around my pen as my stories trickled from my head, through my arm, and down my pen; into the welcoming arms of open blank pages. And this was where my story began.

It started as a blog, then a newsletter, then musings on Instagram, then posting on Medium and Vocal platforms. Winning prizes in some competitions was like stepping onto a bullet train going full speed. It took a lot of writing to get there. The more I wrote the more I cleared a path to myself. The blogging has taken a backseat while I explore my love of poetry and fascination with flash fiction. I revisited my love of photography so now my stories have another dimension. I dabble.

I reckoned there must be others too, who feel as if they are living in a limbo of lost opportunities and little or no future. Today, I want to challenge such perceptions because our well-being depends on it.

My mantra now is to breathe in life and exhale stories, and to impress upon everyone who thinks it is too late to follow their curiosities, that it is never too late — no one should be left behind. Age often stands guard like an over-zealous bouncer, trying to prevent us from reaching our potential. However, rediscovering ourselves, and staying curious is within our means. I now realise that being further along on the adulthood path is not an end, but a fresh start. With age comes a carnival of knowledge, experience, and lessons learned.

Why I say thank you for the words

I know I am showing my age with this cultural reference, but I thank writing for teaching me valuable lessons. I have written out my anxieties, dilemmas, and mistakes in my journals. I have bled my self-esteem over more blank pages than you could wallpaper Buckingham Palace with. I have played with similes and mixed-up metaphors until my eyes glazed over and I forgot to eat. Sometimes, a story would weave its way into my head, and I would write it.

Whilst I wondered what I should do, ironically, I was already doing it, just not out loud and certainly not on purpose.

Writing brought me peace, solace, clarity, and joy. It was the only activity that I turned to because the page — or screen — was a judgement-free zone; a listening ear that never interrupted or invalidated me. Sometimes the journal pages curled at the corners with a self-congratulatory smile as glimmers of poetry or genuine insights emerged.

Writing has been my saviour ever since I could form words, but it wasn’t until I realised I could make it a more prominent part of my life that it saved my life. Whatever ignites that tiny flame that flickers inside you, acknowledge it, feel it, and grow it. This is not about a job or career; it is about sparking that inner joy that will enhance everything else you choose or must do. It will find its way. I am an introvert on the outside, but I didn’t need my inner person to be an introvert too. I had to unleash her so that I could have an identity, be someone. I was good at dreaming of pretty pictures and stories of magical perfection. And whilst I wondered what I should do, ironically, I was already doing it, just not ‘out loud’ and certainly not on purpose.

I urge you to consider that the everyday white noise could be your future; don’t ignore it as I did, don’t take it for granted. Dance to your own tune, not the noise that others are making. I am learning this later than I would have liked, but some insights are worth waiting for. The lesson is that it is never too late to learn, to prioritise your interests, and ultimately to change your life.