I’m young, but I’m old.
I’m old, but I’m young.
I fake my age all the time. Proving my maturity at times. Taking off the professionalism for a few nights out with friends. At the moment, it’s a bit exhausting trying to discover just where I fit.
Last night, my sister and I sat on the living room floor of our parents’ house as I looked up guitar chords. We sang and sang our hearts out with my attempt at playing cheesy Taylor Swift songs. I felt young.
A few weeks ago a student asked me if “people my age” still texted each other when they liked each other. I felt old.
I recently discovered geo-caching with a few friends of mine. Suddenly I became that little kid again. Looking for the missing treasure. Couldn’t give up or I’d be considered a “wuss.” Couldn’t handle being called a “wuss,” so I continued to search for a minuscule piece of rolled up paper for hours. I felt young.
The other day it hit me. I’m a 22-year-old on salary, expected to come in daily and teach English to middle and high school students. I felt old.
Yet part of me still longs to be that artist. To rearrange people’s thoughts and conceptions. To speak to people on a different level than my audible voice can deliver. There’s no age limit on that. Right?
There’s a loneliness that comes with being surrounded by people all day long and not really knowing what kind of me is appropriate for the moment at hand.
So much irony in that statement, but I promise it’s true.
I hold to my ever-consistent Savior in these times.
Trusting in his plan.
Relying on his voice.
*Finding my belonging not in my earthly endeavors or vain pursuits or people's perceptions of me.
*Working on that last one constantly.