If you had no face to pair with my voice, you’d likely assume I was about to cruise into my late seventies. But here I am, not yet twenty-eight and already debating the aesthetic I want to achieve for my casket. In a broader sense, I guess that’s kind of relatable, right? We’re all conditioned to have a strong reaction when it comes to the constant passing of time. It’s the one thing that I suppose bonds every one of us together, and that’s kind of neat. Kind of sad, but kind of neat.
I don’t know, I’ve been having a hard time manifesting the future lately. Notice I didn’t say envisioning because that’s a different sensation than actually acting on my life goals. All it takes to picture some kind of appealing future is a quiet seat in a basic room, from which to close our eyes.
To take steps toward actualizing a future we find desirable takes a level of faith in ourselves that I’d say sounds awfully priceless.
And I’m just not there, yet.
When it has to do with my career, I’ve continuously vetoed my aspirations, in favor of what feels like a need for comfort. Meaning that I’ve gone for roles that might not require prolonged periods of vocal usage. Where anything past chatter as small as my self-esteem is merely optional. Where my stutter can bubble under the surface, lingering but never leaving fully palpable marks on my identity. It’s a sensation that itches but never burns by me having to put my stutter on bare display.
But now I’m forcing myself to confront the question; what comfort is there in suppressing my hopes and dreams? I’ll admit that choosing low-communication jobs makes some days run smoothly. But this kind of comfort, which you could say sounds a smidge like relief, is fleeting.
And lately, it comes alongside an even stronger sense that I’m letting my true self slip through the cracks.
See, I’ve fallen deep into the habit of letting other people write my narrative for me. Even when I, myself, know what I want to include in the coming chapters. Here I am, perhaps still glued to the prologue, being tied down by an ever-growing army of “what-ifs”. Letting a judgy look that has not yet occurred, or a snide comment never once uttered, warp my idea of what direction my story will go in.
I’ve been fearing the uncomfortable moments so much that a central truth about them has gone over and past my head.
Sometimes, life is going to feel uncomfortable. But that isn’t indicative of our right to take up space, especially in the rooms we want to see ourselves in (or classrooms, or studios, or insert creative space here dot dot dot).
I’ve talked a lot before about the importance of having faith in the empathetic capabilities of people. Taking them at face value, and not telling myself that their face is part of a three-headed, stutter-hating demon.
But maybe what’s more important at this point in my life, is having faith in my ability to prioritize myself. Furthermore, to prioritize the truest version of myself in every sense of the word. And being able to value myself as I am now so that I can build upon that person and not entertain some impostor.
All I want is to build a future that feels authentic to who I am.
Me, who stutters. Me, who dreams.