Tag Archive - childhood stories

10. never worry about the number of followers you have. [twenty truths]

July 17, 2012 in 20-something troubles, creative fiction, lessons learned, my story, stories with 1 Comment

Twenty-Something Truths For Twenty-Somethings 

truth number [10] today from the blog series hosted by myself and my dear friend Kristin! please join the conversation as we continue to unpack our twenties, and the truths we have found thus far. what have you learned? <3 <3 <3

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Last post, we talked about not worrying how cool your life looks to your followers.

Similarly, never ever ever worry about the number of followers you have.

 

I’ve heard it said that our credibility nowadays is based largely on the size of our following. So people are buying Twitter followers and “likes” on Facebook, and we are all incredibly concerned about our credibility, our image, our appearance.

But isn’t it all just a facade?

It feels never-ending. Who is ever completely satisfied, if we are always just trying to gain more people following, more people liking, more people watching? We are constantly looking outward instead of inward. We are finding identity and purpose in the number of people who are curious about our identity and purpose.

It should never matter how many people want to see what you’re writing or thinking or hash-tagging. You should be less concerned with how many people want to follow your every move, and more concerned that they are finding their true selves and learning how to fit into their space in the universe. The loneliest place to be sometimes is belly-up under 4,000 followers because you realize you are still completely alone.

And loneliness is almost always indicative of something else, and it constantly manifests itself in toxic behaviors. So we must stop looking outward, and start first with our insides. Address the issues of your heart first, with the people you have a tactile relationship with. The kind of relationship where you can make eye contact and tell one another that there’s broccoli in your teeth. Enjoy moments, deepen relationships, eat cold ice cream on a hot June day with a friend you haven’t talked to since awkward bangs and boy bands. Spend the money to fly across the country to feel ‘at home again’, and don’t worry about tweeting about it. It doesn’t matter how many people find you interesting; if you don’t find you interesting then there is still a lot of work to do.

8. just because your life isn’t cool on Instagram, doesn’t mean it isn’t cool. [twenty truths]

July 15, 2012 in 20-something troubles, creative fiction, lessons learned, my story, stories with 5 Comments

Twenty-Something Truths For Twenty-Somethings 

truth number [8] today from the blog series hosted by myself and my dear friend Kristin! please join the conversation as we continue to unpack our twenties, and the truths we have found thus far. what have you learned? <3 <3 <3

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Just because your life isn’t cool on Instagram or Twitter, it does not mean that it isn’t cool.

There is a huge difference between living a full and adventurous life, and telling everyone about your full and adventurous life. Our twenty-something culture has given us some very creative mediums to tell everyone about our full and adventurous lives. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve never claimed to be a ‘photog.’ I would never put it in my bio, I won’t ever offer to give someone high quality portraits, because that just isn’t my gift. But Instagram has this ability to make me feel like I am meeting the world’s deep need to see everything about my life.

Now, some people have an eye for photography and enough time in their day to take #nofilter pictures of their every move. They get tons of followers and double taps, and it makes their life seem so incredibly awesome because everyone can see how incredibly awesome it is. They make my portfolio look like a disposable camera’s product. In the perfect black & white picture, they have conquered my confidence in the visual portrayal of my own life. And I proceed to believe my life isn’t cool, because I didn’t use that filter on my martini picture, or get enough likes on the candid one of my puppy.

Or, the Twitter cool kids with their six-figure-amount-of-followers, who give the most hilarious synopsis of their day in 140 characters. I need to beat them, I need to be wittier than them, I need to hashtag like them. Or I need as many people to care about my thoughts as they have caring about theirs. I need everyone in the world to know my hilarious or thought-provoking or life-changing sentences. And when I don’t beat them, I proceed to believe my life isn’t cool.

But your life is not measured by likes or retweets or picture quality; your life is measured by breadth and depth and joy and love. I can’t tell you how many times I have admired a friend’s life from afar (and by ‘afar’, I mean ‘frequent drive-by’s on Facebook’) and then later found out that her marriage is actually at a really low place right now, or he got fired from his job, or those two have completely lost touch with their identity. We can make our lives look phenomenal — that’s the best-kept secret of 2012. We can play the part of anyone — and yet be completely empty in and of ourselves.

So put down your smartphone, and let it be. Stop caring about her endless list of comments, or the fact that he always eats at trendy cafes; focus on the people in your life who make up for all the pictures you can’t take fast enough. They deserve your attention more than any timeline does. And if you’ve chosen well, they likely base their friendship with you off things far more important than pictures and tweets.

4. the timeline of your life. [twenty truths]

July 11, 2012 in 20-something troubles, comedic relief, lessons learned, my story, stories with 6 Comments

Twenty-Something Truths For Twenty-Somethings 

truth number [4] today from the blog series hosted by myself and my dear friend Kristin! please join the conversation as we continue to unpack our twenties, and the truths we have found thus far. what have you learned? <3 <3 <3

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The timeline of your life will be starkly different than that of your parents.

My mom was 21 when she got married, three weeks away from turning 22. Three weeks before I turned 22, I was sitting on my bed watching Netflix TV shows back to back, taking a break only to make another batch of Ramen noodles. I lived in a tiny house with 3 other girls, and my bed was a $50 mattress on the floor of my room. I was so far beyond not-ready-for-marriage, my only context of relationships was in the FRIENDS re-runs i used as background noise for my endless crafting projects.

I have already had more jobs in 5 years than my dad has had in thirty. I can’t exactly sit still, and I can’t stop living my life in semesters, though I graduated college more than 3 years ago. I’m still learning what I want to be when I grow up, and I don’t exactly see an answer to that one quite yet. I’m a doer, a mover, a shaker. My energy level is always ridiculous, and I usually have four different careers planned out before lunch.

I was born when my mom was my current age. The idea of shoving seven pounds through my ladylands makes me want to hurl, and the thought of being entrusted with a child is just plain silly. I can barely manage to feed myself, let alone train A PERSON on how to live in the world.

My parents owned their first home when I (their firstborn) was still an infant. I currently live in a college dorm, and I only know a fraction about home-owning. And yes, it’s all thanks to shows on HGTV.

Women were just barely scratching the surface by the time my parents graduated high school. Expectations were just barely beginning to change for women, and so many hundreds of females were fighting for my current-day freedoms and opportunities. I have options today that our foremothers did not. There’s still a lot of progress to be seen, but man alive — we have come a long way.

 

My point: times have changed, and that’s okay. There are different expectations, and that’s okay. Your life is different than your parent’s, and that’s okay. It’s crucial to stop comparing yourself to the generation before you. (They didn’t even have Netflix or cell phones or Facebook. Clearly we’re better off.) If your relationship with your parents involves them constantly pushing their expectations onto you, gently sit them down and tell them you are making choices that are the best for YOU, not for THEM. They’re adults; they can handle a good heart-to-heart. Or if they freely support whatever it is that you choose to do, write them a thank you note for being so stinkin’ awesome.

Live according to your passions and truths. Sure, your parents made you, raised you, etc. But that doesn’t always mean they truly know you. Best advice: let them get to know you. Show them your passions and truths. Chances are, they’ll be just as stoked as you are.

[learning] slowly.

August 13, 2011 in comedic relief, lessons learned, my story with 1 Comment

reading through my old papers from a creative writing class i took in college, i found this. enjoy!

 

I used to be a slow learner. It used to take me forever to figure out how to do things. I tried to hide behind it in little ways, never acknowledging the kids who asked me why I still wore Velcro shoes, or why I had to place a finger after every word I wrote to ensure I would leave the proper amount of space. Mom used to tell me I was just more dedicated to my education, so I took my time. It didn’t bother me; I never noticed it. I eventually learned how to tie my shoes and correctly space my words, it just took me a little longer than everybody else. I even eventually got faster at learning things in general. But, like I said, I used to be a slow learner.
I remember the day my parents bought me my first bike. I was turning eight and all I wanted was a bike. All the boys in my neighborhood rode bikes and I wasn’t about to go against the Day Street norm. So, a bike I received. It was army green and just my size – once Dad adjusted the seat. It was from the second-hand store because Mom said we were “on a budget” but it didn’t matter to me. The reflectors shone bright as beams of light and the handlebar even had a horn. I was ecstatic, to say the least. I felt like I was on cloud nine as I began to mount my very own bike for the first time. It fit me perfectly and it felt natural to be seated on it. My hands gripped the rubber handles and I saw the reflection of my glasses in the metal handlebars. I gripped so tight that the rubber ridges left ridges on my palms.

I gave it a little bounce. I liked the way the tires sprang me back up. I was lost in the moment, bouncing and gripping. It was sensational.

“Now Rach,” Dad began. “You haven’t quite learned how to ride a bike yet, so for now we’re going to have to attach…”
Don’t say it, I thought. I know you’re not going to make me use…
“…training wheels.”

My cloud quickly evaporated. As I left my position of excitement, I could already hear Michael Spencer and little Steven Ebelheir laughing.
“We also bought you a helmet and matching wrist guards. We don’t want you having any accidents!”

This was getting worse and worse by the minute. What’s next? I wondered. A leash-harness so that I don’t wander too far on my four wheeled bike?
Though my disappointment sank heavy at first, I bounced back with resilience and regained my original enthusiasm for my new hobby. I began riding my bike every second I had. My street had an excellent hill and once you reached the tip top there was a huge flat part – perfect for a beginner like myself. All my free time went to riding my bike. I even remember getting my hair cut and all I could talk about was my bike.

“What kinds of dolls do you like to play with these days, Rachel?” Coleen asked me.
“I don’t play with dolls, I ride my bike!”
“She doesn’t play with dolls? Not even Barbies?” She seemed shocked.
“No, she loves riding her bike. If you had asked me what I thought my little girl would love, I would have said Barbies, too. Turns out you just need to give her two wheels and she’s a happy camper!” Mom replied.

My younger brother almost never spoke. He was either too busy sucking his bottom lip or sleeping. But every once in awhile, he decided to contribute to the verbal dialogue that surrounded him. Usually when he piped up, it was like ice cream on a hot day, and you wanted to be sure to listen.
“Four wheels,” he corrected. This was not one of those ice cream times.

I trained on my bike like a runner for a marathon. It was all I could think about, and every day I rode just a little bit longer. I would race home after school and practice riding before my friends came home from their after-school activities. I didn’t want anyone to see me in my training wheels. Unfortunately, my friends would catch me every once in awhile and as they raced past me on their perfectly-balanced two-wheeled bikes, I would grimace and pretend that maybe they didn’t see my secret little helpers. Months passed of this charade. Slow learner or not, this was getting ridiculous. I was going to have to get rid of these soon or say goodbye to my social status in the neighborhood.
The day I rode without my training wheels was monumental. I felt like I had crossed a bridge that I would never even get to; a memory that will be filed right next to my wedding day and the day I hear the first cry of my newborn baby. With the wind in my hair and the sun on my back, I rode like a pro. No longer was there the annoying sound of the extra wheels on the ground. No longer was all my dependence on those little wheels; I was all on my own balancing like a pro. As I heard Papa in the distance screaming “Way to go, Rach!” I knew that I had accomplished a major feat, and I could not wait to show off to my friends.

The next event I remember quite vividly. In fact, it is probably one of the most traumatizing experiences I have ever had. A new boy had moved onto Day Street. He was eight years old and had no siblings; a perfect addition to our cohort. I journeyed down my driveway and into the street where Michael, Steven, and a few others were gathered in a semi-circle.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We need to meet this new kid, doy!” bellowed Steven.
The new kid – Jonathan – slowly left his driveway. His overwhelming precaution made his feet move so slowly, I thought he forgot how to make his legs push the pedals. He slowly rode over and I heard a sound that triggered my gag-reflex. What is that? I wondered. I couldn’t place the familiar noise. Then I saw what made me both incredibly happy and unequivocally scared all at the same time.
Training wheels. His bike had training wheels. I wasn’t the last eight year old to use training wheels! It relieved a part of me that still thought I was the slowest learner of all. It was both refreshing and nerve-wracking, all at the same time.
We began to interrogate Jonathan. We shot several questions at him and found out he watched the same cartoons as us, but had never cut a worm in half. Tim told him about the vitamins in ants and Steven began to tell a joke. It was the only joke he ever told because it had a bad word in it. Steven’s mom told him he couldn’t use that word, but he did anyway. I never told on him though because Steven was bigger than me and one time he sat on me when I wouldn’t give him my Dilly Bar.

Jonathan did his best to only give one-word answers and I was about to write him off as the “shy-and-quiet type” that Mom always said my brother was. But then he took in a deep breath and looked around at all of our bikes. He checked them out like he was taking inventory and everyone fell silent. He then seemed amazed as he realized the one similarity between all of us.
“Wow, you guys ride your bikes without training wheels?” he asked.

My face got hot. What I wanted to say was it’s okay, Jonathan! I wanted to say that not everyone knows how to and it’s hard, it’s so hard. It took me like months and months longer than any of these boys and that has nothing to do with me being a slow learner – it’s hard stuff to ride a bike without training wheels. I wanted to scream reassurance at him so that he knew he wasn’t the only one in the world who hadn’t learned by now. I wanted to say all of that. Instead, I said something entirely different.

“Yeah, we’ve been riding without training wheels for like a year!”

You know those moments in movies where someone says something really stupid and everyone who is watching the movie is screaming at that person to “take it back!” and “tell the truth!” but the person in the movie can’t hear them because they aren’t paying attention to the most obvious things in the world? That’s kind of how I felt.

For a good 35 seconds, everyone was eerily quiet. Then Michael Spencer looked at me. I have failed to mention thus far that Michael Spencer was two things to me; my neighborhood friend, and the boy of my dreams. I secretly believed we were going to be in love and I doodled his name on my Lisa Frank binder in places no one could see.

He stared at me long and hard and before I knew what to do, he spoke.

“Whatever, Rachel! You just got your training wheels off last week!”

It took approximately .3 seconds for everyone to erupt in laughter, and even less time for my face to turn bright red. My heart dropped into my stomach and felt like it was going to fall out. I probably shouldn’t have said that, I thought.

As they all rode off, New Kid included, I sank slowly into my army green bike seat. Mortified and completely demoralized, I headed home. The scene could only have been more pathetic if it had started raining.
I hung my head low as I took off my wrist guards. I didn’t know why I had lied and I didn’t know when I would regain respect from my peers. In later years, I would learn that it didn’t really matter what they thought. I learned that it’s okay if I take a little bit longer to learn things. But, like I said. I used to be a slow learner.