I’ve been here before, but it still feels new. Slowly packing my boxes as I prepare to leave the place I call “home.” It’s the end of an era, I guess. Finishing college and making this move is a game changer.
I’ve been here before, of course I have. My mind immediately jumps to five years ago, when I took off for University. It’s a familiar story: By the end of high school, I had messily carved a suburban teenage “self” out of high school essays, basement parties, and bad attempts at French cuisine. The time had come to challenge that identity. So I moved to the City (mine was Ottawa; my friends scattered all over). I remember leaving my parents’ house in 2010, taking pictures off the walls as my younger brother prepared to take over the space. The process of packing up your old life, even if you’re truly ready for it, is necessarily emotional. It was emotional then, and it is emotional now.
It’s good emotional, for the most part: I’m excited, I’m ready. My family and career and soul will all be better for this. I sat down with a friend from first year yesterday and just vomited out all the cool stuff I want to do with my life: “I want to make this website! I want to make that app! I want to run this Twitter account! I want to make education better! I want a dog and a house and a panini press!”
Sidenote: The panini press has been secured. Thanks, Celine!
It’s time to challenge the identity again. That’s how I see these big moves. I’m attracted to the idea of putting myself in a new environment and seeing how my outlook and personality change…and how they stay the same. “Finding myself in college” wasn’t about “doing new stuff” (though that was cool, too). It was aboutfiguring out what parts of my identity were who I was, and which parts were just a product of where I was. Would I still like History when I left the guidance of my high school teachers? (Yes, it turned out, I fell even more desperately in love). Would I still adore my high school friends after a few years in a new place? (We had a wicked party last month, actually). Would I hold on to my lack of religious beliefs, my relationship, my bad habits? (No, no, and I’m sure I’ve traded them in for some more).
The move helped me. It didn’t save me, it wasn’t a one-size-fits-all “solution.” It just helped, for the same reason travelling or “trying something new” helps. It’s powerful to see that there is more out there. And it’s powerful to see how you respond to that. Embracing new space can show you what sticks when you shift the environmental factors—the social pressure, the family dynamics, all that. Whether you love the new place or hate it, the whole experience can give you a much more solid grasp on who you are and what you want.
And what I want now is to move forward with my life, which means leaving Ottawa. It means reclaiming a Southern Ontario “self” (this time as a job-seeking big kid) and shedding some of the capital city student life. Just some of it. I’ll still be me, of course. But with this move, I’m hoping I will get a better idea of what that means.
Part of the reason I started this blog was to chat about the twenty-something lifestyle–or at least, figure out what exactly that means. So many magazines/blogs are written for capital-T Teenagers, or maybe just overgrown Teenagers, who care about boys and boys and hair and boys. So many more magazines/blogs are written for capital-A Adults, with 2.5 kids, a golden retriever and a dishwasher.
I am neither of these things. I am a twenty-something woman–whatever that means. I like boys and hair just fine, and family is great, but I’m not really in a position to zoom into any of those niched-out worlds. In my world, I read cracked.com, watch College Humour, and try to understand your favourite webcomics (usually, I even get the obscure jokes…or pretend to). I try to care about the news. I scroll down to the comments after paragraph #1 bores me. I read almost anything put into a list, especially if it makes me laugh. I enjoy the odd Capital-A Adult blog, if it’s candid enough.
But what of this directly relates to me? Not much.
Fact is, I can’t seem to buy into any “chicklet” journalism. I also can’t fully skip into the world of those who seem to have their shit fully together, all tied up with a neat little mortgage and morning routine. I’m not there yet. At all.
And so I’m here, writing about what “getting there” means. I find myself constantly straddling the “I totally know what I’m doing,” and “Dude, I know NOTHING.” Maybe that’s just how life goes, but I’m feeling new at it. I am new at it.
And, like many people who are “getting there,” I’m definitely new at doing Christmas like this.
I’m new at doing Christmas like a lowercase-a adult who’s very much in between traditions. Last year, I hosted our immediate family Christmas at my apartment–which was good, but weird. This year, I came down to my parents’ place for Christmas. My parents live in the suburbs of a medium-sized city. The transit system is awful. The backyard is big. I lived here for eight years, or so they tell me.
This is weird, too. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is.
The family is different. We’re older. There used to be people here who aren’t here anymore. Some have passed away, or otherwise walked away, but some just grew up. Capital-T Teenage Shauna isn’t here anymore. Neither is the overzealous-about-family-crafts Mom. All four kids used to live at this house, but now only half of us do. The puppy is has clearly become a fully-grown dog in my absence.
Obligatory cute dog picture.
It’s not that there isn’t enough love in the room. It’s just that it looks and feels different, even though the room is the same. Any expectations that I hold onto about good ol’ family Christmas are at risk. I have to get my head around that.
I know that different is okay.
Today, I started feeling kind of odd as I hung new decorations, coordinated with the new furniture, with my newly adult-ish family. I didn’t expect it to feel quite so “new.” I lived here for eight years, right? I know these people. It’s December. We got this.
…right?
It wasn’t wrong. The new stuff looks good. It’s alright that we waited so long to decorate, that we were only half there, and that we didn’t go all out. And it’s not a bad thing that we decided to grow up a bit–it has definitely done wonders for our conversation and cocktails. It’s okay that people and traditions change, or even that they sometimes leave altogether.
But it’s also okay if different doesn’t feel perfect right away.
People and traditions stay around so long as they’re good and healthy and make sense. And they leave when they’re done. This is the natural order of things. It’s change. It makes room for other things to come in, it makes you appreciate that which is stays around, it gives you a basis with which to develop your own traditions.
But the process of un-learning and re-learning what to expect (or how to stop expecting) can be unsettling. I felt that today. After hanging those new decorations for a few minutes, I decided to take a breather. The whole scene wasn’t really working for some reason. Commence attitude adjustment in my old bedroom (now dad’s office). I looked out the window, read a couple Psalms, considered a nap.
Suddenly my phone went off. It was a friend of mine from Ottawa:
Move safely and be lovely ❤
What? That was perfectly timed, and completely unexpected.
I responded: Haha what a random message! But thank you.
She texted back: I was just thinking of you. Moving off to washington. I look forward to creeping photo albums.
This friend is not a person I knew back when I lived here. I am not even a person I knew back when I lived here.
Would I trade my new life for some old decorations? Not a chance. That doesn’t mean I have to be completely comfortable with this updated version of Christmas. Not right away, at least. I just have to accept that it is the product of a lot of moving forward, and that moving forward is good. This friend, and all my Ottawa friends, are great. My upcoming opportunity in Washington is fantastic.
I went downstairs. I sat on a new chair, in front of a new computer, and pulled up a YouTube video I had just discovered. My brothers, now old enough to face profanity, laughed through it with me. I suggested that after decorating (whatever that means this year) all six of us gather in the living room and watch the Christmas episodes of Community. Unanimous agreement. And so, armed with gluten free snacks for our growing number of celiac family members, we sat in front of the television. Netflix streamed to us the meaning of Christmas according to NBC:
Maybe this Christmas is different. Maybe it’s going to be a little different each year. I’m not going to like all the changes that happen in life. I might even sob in the face of some of them. But tonight proved that–with a little flexibility, a little creativity, and a lot of love–I can laugh in the face of some of them, too.
Easter is always a major time of reflection for me.
…Okay. By “always,” what I really mean is “Well, uh, it’s been a thing for the last couple of years?” Being a young adult is sometimes like that, though. I’m quick to declare things part of my identity.
Easter weekend has played a major role in that identity, so it stays sacred.
I like the idea of rebirth. I like spring. The whole vibe that comes with things getting warmer/more colourful/livelier makes for a very positive, spiritual occasion. I do a lot of “resolution”-type thinking around Easter. What burdens do I need to emerge from, butterfly-style? Who do I want to become?
“Stop worrying about finding the right person. Start working on becoming the right person.”
I read that the other day, and it stuck. I agreed with the idea, but it made me wonder: what does the “right person” look like?
What kind of woman do I want to be?
I want to be the kind of woman who writes thank you cards. Who lets managers know when she gets good service. Who writes appreciative reviews for small businesses. Who lets artists know when they have touched her life, and lets politicians know when they have done the “right thing.” I want to be the kind of woman who wholeheartedly recognizes little miracles—and who approaches those miracles, if they have a face and a name.Who lives through gratitude, and means it. Who has a whiteboard on the wall, with a constantly revolving list of people to notify; ‘Hey, you. You’re alllllright.’
I want to be the kind of woman whose gratitude is a constantly distributed gift, an open bar; not an investment with an expected return. Accessible. Unconditional. Loving. I want to be the kind of woman who is thankful day by day, step by step. Whose thank yous aren’t loaded attempts to control the future, nor quiet warnings of her standards. She will never say ‘This is good. If I am grateful for this step, can the next step be just as good, please?’. No; I want to be the kind of woman who is grateful because it is just who she is. And when she says thank you, she simply means to say, That step was good. You helped make it good. Grazie, gracias, merci.
I want to be the kind of woman with an open-door policy. Who knows her neighbours by name, aim, and favourite food…if they let her. I want to be that obnoxiously sweet lady-two-doors-down, the one who makes lots of casseroles. Funeral? Casserole. Moving day? Casserole. I could be that woman, I think. That would be a good woman to be.
(Unless the neighbours aren’t into casseroles. I am also open to making cookies.
…Dream big, right?)
I want to be the kind of woman with lots and lots of stories. I never, ever want to be boring. I don’t suppose anyone does want to be boring, but…if I’m aiming to be casserole-lady, I would prefer to be fun-casserole-lady. I want to be the kind of woman who was there for that thing. Who has the scars, tattoos, pictures, friendships, and memories to prove it. I want to be the kind of woman with guitar-bred finger calluses, with laugh lines and dimples, with sun-kissed shoulders and tired, blistered feet.
I want to be the kind of woman who has mastered the art of witty retorts. Who laughs a lot, and who swears every now and then–because honestly, cursing sometimes makes the punchline better. Sometimes. Not always. And not in mixed company, I guess. Hopefully, though, I can be the kind of woman who mostly keeps company which can handle crazy stories and cursing.
I want to be the kind of woman who exercises. I’m TOTALLY NOT that woman right now, but I would like to be. Or at least, I want to be the kind of woman who goes for walks, and can throw a ball around with her friends/family. I won’t aspire to be good at sports, or to be anything other than clumsy and awkward when I play outside…but I do want to be the kind of woman who plays outside.
(Besides, I hear it’s “good for you.”)
I want to be the kind of woman who dresses up for Halloween. And who puts up Christmas lights. Who plays pranks on April Fool’s Day–and sometimes on other days, too (’cause she’s funny, remember?). I want to be the kind of woman who has mastered the art of appetizers, conversation and corny holidays. Who knows how to make a good martini. Who has a solid supply of not-so-secret recipes and crowd-pleasing playlists.
(I know, I know, all of this costs money. And I know that money may not always be there. Hopefully, I can be the kind of woman that is okay with that, too.)
I would like very much to say “I want to be a woman of faith,” but I don’t know if that’s fair. I don’t know that someone should aspire to believe anything, least of all anything supernatural. I would like very much to be a woman of faith–because I currently am, and it serves me well. But again, not a fair goal. I would much rather be a woman who constantly uses the brain God gave her–even if that means that her idea of “God” has to change as she learns things.
What I do want to be is a woman of grace–you know, that thing that happens when personal values meet interpersonal compassion. I want to be the kind of woman who can hold herself to a code of loyalty, honesty, and kindness, but who uses those things to Love better–not to be condescending or proud.
Right now, I describe that as being “Christian”. I can’t imagine grace is confined to “WWJD”, though.
So, grace. Lots of grace. I want to be the kind of woman who is radically patient with people and with herself. Who has the courage to love the world, even when it seems particularly cruel. I want to be the kind of woman who can (gracefully, gracefully) step in and help someone who is hurting, and understands that “help” and “hurting” have many different faces.
I want to be the kind of woman who is continually educated and insatiably curious. Who speaks a couple languages, who knows her geography, and who travels lots and lots. I want to be the kind of woman who knows enough to be aware of the fact that she knows nothing. Who has about 10 questions for every answer. No, I don’t want to be the kind of woman who puts her job and education before family–family should always, always come first. But I do want to be the kind of woman who brings the family (and the edgy jokes, and the free spirit) along for the ride–and makes sure the ride involves lots and lots of learning. I want to be the kind of woman who lights up when she talks and hears about the world, and whose curiosity is infectious.
Yes; That’s the kind of woman I want to be.
What about you?
(Happy Easter/Joyeuses Pâques, everyone!)
– – –
A Semi-Informed Guide to Surviving (or maybe even enjoying) Young AdulthoodHey Christmas, Did you lose weight? You look different this year.Jealousy has a stage name. It’s called Inspiration.
Part of the reason I started this blog was to chat about the twenty-something lifestyle–or at least, figure out what exactly that means. So many magazines/blogs are written for capital-T Teenagers, or maybe just overgrown Teenagers, who care about boys and boys and hair and boys. So many more magazines/blogs are written for capital-A Adults, with 2.5 kids, a golden retriever and a dishwasher.
I am neither of these things. I am a twenty-something woman–whatever that means. I like boys and hair just fine, and family is great, but I’m not really in a position to zoom into any of those niched-out worlds. In my world, I read cracked.com, watch College Humour, and try to understand your favourite webcomics (usually, I even get the obscure jokes…or pretend to). I try to care about the news. I scroll down to the comments after paragraph #1 bores me. I read almost anything put into a list, especially if it makes me laugh. I enjoy the odd Capital-A Adult blog, if it’s candid enough.
But what of this directly relates to me? Not much.
Fact is, I can’t seem to buy into any “chicklet” journalism. I also can’t fully skip into the world of those who seem to have their shit fully together, all tied up with a neat little mortgage and morning routine. I’m not there yet. At all.
And so I’m here, writing about what “getting there” means. I find myself constantly straddling the “I totally know what I’m doing,” and “Dude, I know NOTHING.” Maybe that’s just how life goes, but I’m feeling new at it. I am new at it.
And, like many people who are “getting there,” I’m definitely new at doing Christmas like this.
I’m new at doing Christmas like a lowercase-a adult who’s very much in between traditions. Last year, I hosted our immediate family Christmas at my apartment–which was good, but weird. This year, I came down to my parents’ place for Christmas. My parents live in the suburbs of a medium-sized city. The transit system is awful. The backyard is big. I lived here for eight years, or so they tell me.
This is weird, too. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but it is.
The family is different. We’re older. There used to be people here who aren’t here anymore. Some have passed away, or otherwise walked away, but some just grew up. Capital-T Teenage Shauna isn’t here anymore. Neither is the overzealous-about-family-crafts Mom. All four kids used to live at this house, but now only half of us do. The puppy is has clearly become a fully-grown dog in my absence.
Obligatory cute dog picture.
It’s not that there isn’t enough love in the room. It’s just that it looks and feels different, even though the room is the same. Any expectations that I hold onto about good ol’ family Christmas are at risk. I have to get my head around that.
I know that different is okay.
Today, I started feeling kind of odd as I hung new decorations, coordinated with the new furniture, with my newly adult-ish family. I didn’t expect it to feel quite so “new.” I lived here for eight years, right? I know these people. It’s December. We got this.
…right?
It wasn’t wrong. The new stuff looks good. It’s alright that we waited so long to decorate, that we were only half there, and that we didn’t go all out. And it’s not a bad thing that we decided to grow up a bit–it has definitely done wonders for our conversation and cocktails. It’s okay that people and traditions change, or even that they sometimes leave altogether.
But it’s also okay if different doesn’t feel perfect right away.
People and traditions stay around so long as they’re good and healthy and make sense. And they leave when they’re done. This is the natural order of things. It’s change. It makes room for other things to come in, it makes you appreciate that which is stays around, it gives you a basis with which to develop your own traditions.
But the process of un-learning and re-learning what to expect (or how to stop expecting) can be unsettling. I felt that today. After hanging those new decorations for a few minutes, I decided to take a breather. The whole scene wasn’t really working for some reason. Commence attitude adjustment in my old bedroom (now dad’s office). I looked out the window, read a couple Psalms, considered a nap.
Suddenly my phone went off. It was a friend of mine from Ottawa:
Move safely and be lovely ❤
What? That was perfectly timed, and completely unexpected.
I responded: Haha what a random message! But thank you.
She texted back: I was just thinking of you. Moving off to washington. I look forward to creeping photo albums.
This friend is not a person I knew back when I lived here. I am not even a person I knew back when I lived here.
Would I trade my new life for some old decorations? Not a chance. That doesn’t mean I have to be completely comfortable with this updated version of Christmas. Not right away, at least. I just have to accept that it is the product of a lot of moving forward, and that moving forward is good. This friend, and all my Ottawa friends, are great. My upcoming opportunity in Washington is fantastic.
I went downstairs. I sat on a new chair, in front of a new computer, and pulled up a YouTube video I had just discovered. My brothers, now old enough to face profanity, laughed through it with me. I suggested that after decorating (whatever that means this year) all six of us gather in the living room and watch the Christmas episodes of Community. Unanimous agreement. And so, armed with gluten free snacks for our growing number of celiac family members, we sat in front of the television. Netflix streamed to us the meaning of Christmas according to NBC:
Maybe this Christmas is different. Maybe it’s going to be a little different each year. I’m not going to like all the changes that happen in life. I might even sob in the face of some of them. But tonight proved that–with a little flexibility, a little creativity, and a lot of love–I can laugh in the face of some of them, too.
Shaunanagins 