When I was heading into my junior year in college, fresh off a two-month-long vacation study abroad trip to Spain, I found out I’d lost my 4.0 GPA. Worst of all, it felt more like a technicality because, in Spain, the grades I received would have been counted as A’s—but that’s not how the grading system worked at WMU.
That all might make me sound pretentious. Or, like I’m the biggest nerd on the planet. But it’s only because I was good at school (something that doesn’t get you very far in life I’ve found).
Anyway, the point is, I identified with my 4.0. I hung my entire sense of selfhood on the fact that I was smart. In other words, my ego was absolutely crushed to have to face the fact that I wasn’t quite perfect. That I couldn’t call myself the model student. That I was flawed and capable of making mistakes.
Who are you if not who you think you are?
It’s not easy facing the fact that there’s something underneath the shell you’ve built to keep yourself safe. In fact, it’s downright terrifying, uncomfortable, and painful. It makes you question everything.
Is life worth living if you suddenly lose the thing you think makes you you?
Who am I if I can’t be the smartest person in the room (which I honestly wouldn’t want at this point)? If I can’t be a writer? Or an avid reader? A traveler? Or a pen hoarder?
(And don’t even get me started on all the things I might not be able to have.)
What if something happens to me physically? Or I lose my ability to think cognitively? What if nothing changes and I end up stuck where I am now forever? What if I lose my favorite person in life?
Would I still be the same person? Would I still be worthy of existence? Would I be able to go on with life?
I can’t speak for you. Actually, at this point, I can’t really speak for myself. Because I haven’t had to face some of the worst things life has to offer. But it gives me hope that there are people out there who have, and who are still around to talk about it.
People who aren’t just surviving, but thriving.
It makes me feel like there’s more to life than putting yourself in a box and staying there until you die. And it helps reduce the fear I’ve built up around writing (and life). Because whether or not I’m a writer (super smart, a pen-hoarder, or anything else) doesn’t really matter. What matters is being true to who I am.
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 327)