*Tiny thoughts will be a segment of Do You Love Me? consisting of short essays regarding big ideas. Today’s topic is Change.
In August of 2009, at approximately 7am, my parents drove me, my brother and a large amount of my belongings the two hours to Harrisonburg, Virginia. The trip was made to drop me off at college, a traditionally momentous occasion for any young adult, and particularly for the first-borns. After several hours of setting up my dormitory, lunch, and Target runs, my family and I made our way out to the parking lot behind Hoffman Hall, savoring the last few minutes of our unavoidable goodbye.
“Always listen to your heart,” my dad said, giving me a hug with such compassion I can recall the sensual memory to this day. My mom (whom I call Mish) cried in the passenger seat while my sweet little brother patted her shoulder and I waved, any sadness I felt quelled by the excitement to run off with my suitemates and into the next chapter of my life. (Picture of my excited, young self below.)
A few years later, Mish and I were discussing this memory, and she spoke more on her tears that day. “In that moment,” she said, “I knew I was saying goodbye to the girl I knew, and that the next time I saw you, you would be a different person.”
Her words stuck with me for a long time, particularly because I had never looked at the situation from that perspective. In my head, I was the same girl, the same person. But it’s true: there are certain moments in life that propel us into the next versions of ourselves, or inspire our next form of evolution. These occasions can be organized (like attending college or moving to a new city) or totally unexpected (a breakup, death, or meeting a stranger in a dark wine bar). College was the first big change of mine where my mother wouldn’t be able to witness the side effects. Rather than watching my growth occur steadily, the way one observes a houseplant, she was about to see it in spurts.
I think many of us have a love/hate relationship with change. The other day, I was driving and noticing how different my little Silverlake neighborhood had become; the bustling foodie scene has paused, there are murals and billboards telling people to stay home, juice bars have transformed into grocery stores, and the necessary onset of masks makes it impossible to distinguish whether a person carries a smile or a frown.
While I enjoy these drives, any sort of venture into public nowadays stirs up a sense of melancholic grief. Though of course the situations are different, the feeling reminds me of what my mother might have experienced that summer day nearly 11 years ago: that change beyond control was occurring. In this case, I am saying goodbye to the world as I once knew it, and the next time I get to see it in full-swing, it will be a different place.
Our Complicated Relationship with Change
It’s comforting and intimidating to remember that change is inevitable. I remind myself of this in both the good times and the bad: nothing is permanent, nothing gold can stay, this too shall pass. I’m particularly fascinated at how change plays a role in relationships, especially when two people find a way to make it work despite the amount of growth or evolution they might uniquely experience throughout the course of their union. I’m not married, but for this reason it seems so important to me to partner with someone who tolerates (heck, even welcomes) change: I will not be the same person in 10 years, and neither will you.
That said, I like to believe that there is some core of us—a personality, the essence, the soul, whatever you want to call it—that stays there forever. It’s nice to imagine that elements of my 9-year-old self still exist today, or that Mish saw familiar parts of me when I returned for homecoming two months after being at school.
But there have also been areas of my self that have grown up, blossomed, and shifted due to the choices I’ve made. Past relationships have made me a better partner, various jobs have made me better at media management, traveling solo has made me more resilient, etc. And with change happening on such a global scale right now, I can’t help but wonder how all of our landscapes are shifting.
Many articles have covered this topic—ones talking about how we can’t go back to normal, how coronavirus has impacted the earth, how our careers will be affected, etc. And while those are all very worthy subjects, I’m here to posit how we as individuals are changing. What versions of ourselves will exist when all of this is over? What have we gained? What have we let go of?
I like to think that I’ll be better for it (don’t we all), but I’m sure that it’s more complicated than that. I can see myself becoming more introspective and sensitive (as if that were possible, lol), but also more appreciative and patient. Slowing down to this snail’s pace of living has put me in direct contact with my thoughts and my emotions, my brain and my heart. I am developing awareness over the way thoughts travel, how a trigger grows into negativity, how a laugh is truly contagious. I think this is called mindfulness. :)
I’ll go back to the houseplant metaphor: we tend to the various living tendrils in our lives, noting when they need water or sunlight or space. We admire how they’ve grown from tiny sprouts into beautiful masses of vegetation. We marvel at the flowers that have bloomed. But rarely do we do this with ourselves: How have the circumstances of our lives impacted us? How have we grown? If there’s ever a time for going inward, this seems like as good as any.
And so I’m ending this newsletter inviting you to find that same space for introspection: How will this change you? What are you learning about yourself?
(Also, I want to dedicate this issue to my mother and all mothers. I talked to Mish on the phone earlier this morning, and she told me that today wasn’t just about celebrating her, but about celebrating the connection we shared. No matter how much we change, Mish, that connection will always shine.)
I love you, all versions of you.
xo,
Amanda