On a Wednesday morning at around 5 a.m. this October, tiny footsteps padded around me as French Fry brushed his small, soft body against my bare legs, circling me for attention after a night of being alone. I was in awe at the amount of warmth such a tiny thing carried. In that moment, I knew without a doubt that my life was going to be forever changed.
My life has been filled with such moments. At times they split my life into a dramatic before and after–like the way it did when I boarded a plane to leave China–and at other times the differences are subtle. There’s my life before I put mustard on my hotdogs. There’s my life before I realized I hate flying. There’s my life before I dared dream of becoming a writer. And then there’s after.
For years I have detailed in these year-end entries about how glamorous those “after” versions of my life were. I was a better human. I was happier. I was free. But in 2023, I had no such feeling. In fact, I felt so burdened by the way this year unfolded that I almost did not write any of these words (but ultimately changed my mind because of a tarot card reading video on my fyp. Yes, you can laugh). Without a doubt, the year changed me. But instead of saying it was for the better, I’ll say that it’s for the best–you know, the type of thing you say to someone who is going through it.
I found myself stuck in the space between before and after this year. And after having spent so much of my life either reminiscing about the before or anticipating the after, I didn’t know how to live with myself in this vast expanse of in-between that did not seem to end. When will I get to the bottom of my mental strife? When will I sign my first book deal? When will I figure out how to get my ass to the gym consistently? When will I land my first spinning pole climb? When will I make my voice recordings into songs? When will I be satisfied with my life?
I could not answer any of those questions, so I fretted. I Googled. I joined Facebook groups. I talked circles in my head about what to do next. All the while, precious time slipped by me before I had a chance to even try and grasp the seconds. And here I am now, still without any answers and so much closer to 30.
But life doesn’t end at 30, does it? And the “after” version of my life that I am currently craving will continue to have questions I cannot answer. I first learned the phrase “the journey is more important than the destination” in grade school. Even at that age, I had disagreed with its sentiments for reasons I could not articulate. Now pushing 30, I know why.
It’s because the journey never ends. Everything that makes life what it is will continue on, ceaselessly, until the day I die. How dreadful. How tiresome. But I suppose if I put on my positivity hat and my best Master Oogway voice, it is also a gift. So many new chances for a redo if I want. By tomorrow I can have a whole new way of washing my dishes, if that’s what I care to do. By tomorrow I can have a new song written that can be my favourite–again. I can conceptualize a new book. I can eat the next new life-changing salad. Hell, I might even run into another stray cat.
I sent French Fry away to a foster group on a cold evening. I could not stop crying. Since then, my life has changed several times more. I figured out how to invert on a pole. I finished knitting my first garment. I got a Kobo reader. It feels like with every second, I’m stepping further away from the three days I had with that tiny creature that upended my life.
But I’ve been saddled with the feeling that he is still with me. He is not “before,” but right now. If that is the case, then perhaps all the “befores” I carried as unmanageable weights are all right nows. And that can only mean that the “after” I can’t seem to stop chasing is also right now. If that logic holds up (it’s very likely it doesn’t. I’m tired), then there’s really no use wondering when my “after” will finally come. Because it’s already here.
So that’s it, then. What a long-winded way for me to say “be present.” It’s a lesson I’ve been trying to learn for the past decade. Maybe 2024 is the year I finally learn it for good. But if the above logic holds true, then the version of me that has learned it already exists. I just have to let her out.