“How much proof do you need?” This was a question I was asked in 2016. It all began to unravel during a debate with a friend over whether or not I could call myself a writer without anything published. And by “published,” I mean with a publisher, therefore, discrediting the blog I held for eight years on the early-millennium platform Blogger.com, the 15+ journals that lined my bookshelf, and the monthly newsletter I wrote going to 200+ subscribers.
To me, that “proof” was child's play. It wasn’t a platform to call myself a writer.
This question about proof sparked a wider quest into what we as humans needed to accomplish in order to call ourselves professionals in our industries. Some professions have clear requirements. Like if you practise medicine, you can’t without the necessary qualifications. But beyond those formal credentials, what determines when we’re allowed to call ourselves something?
A writer. A storyteller. An expert.
This isn’t about determining the parameters of professionalism. This is about something deeper within ourselves that puts parameters up against calling ourselves that “something.” Is it societal? Is it our own internal battle? Is it how we grew up, pushing us to start the age-old debate about nature versus nurture?
“What leads us to discredit ourselves not just professionally but around our own human and soul-driven interests? ”
Like many millennials, I will soon be leaving my 30s and entering a new decade that I’ve heard is one for the taking. And with that, I’ve been reflecting on my life. My dream since childhood has been to be a writer. My dream since I was a teenager was to get married. In my 20s, I dreamed of making a difference. My dream entering my 30s was to grow in my Communications career.
As I started reflecting, I saw so much loss. Not just loved ones I had lost along the way, but dreams that hadn’t unfolded as I’d imagined.
I don’t have the writing career I once pictured. I tried getting my second book published, but struggled to find takers in an oversaturated genre at that time. I’m not married, and my life doesn’t look the way I’d imagined it would when it comes to love and family. As I get older and navigate health challenges, I’ve also had to reckon with the uncertainty surrounding motherhood.
“I feel as though I’ve failed myself. I’m years away from where I thought I would be.
The proof is missing.”
But what is proof? What examples am I trying to show that I’m accomplished going into my 40s. What are these parameters that society has put in place? It’s not like there’s a bouncer at the door to The 40s Club checking my ID to ensure I’ve met certain criteria.
Age does not discriminate. Another year comes and another year goes, whether you check all the boxes or not.
So, what proof are we looking for to show the world that we have “made it” in this world?
After listing out all my losses and supposed mishaps along the way of my life, there is growth that flies under the radar, blooming in ways we rarely acknowledge. Like how I may never be called “mom” but I receive endless smiles and snuggles and joyful shouts from little ones calling me “Aunty!”
I show up for loved ones. Like when my mom lost the last member of her immediate family, I flew 14 hours over the ocean, writing the eulogy in the darkness of the economy cabin, to stand in front of family, friends, and strangers to share through the tears and tightness in my throat about the life of my grandma.
“I have lots to be grateful for and I guess the point of this is that we set standards and unspoken expectations as a society of who we should be at a particular time in life. But what isn’t spoken is that it’s okay if we don’t meet these implicit norms. We may be on a different path, reaching for a different goal, and maybe, simply, seeing the world in a different way. ”
Imagine if Vincent van Gogh saw the world the same as every one of his peers. Or if Jane Austen had followed societal expectations during her era. Imagine if Tarana Burke and Malala had chosen silence over speaking up.
Our world would look different.
There’s something to be said for choosing your own path, even when it doesn’t resemble the one you expected to take. I always thought of myself as a follower. I was painfully shy as a child and afraid of the unknown.
But my soul craved adventure. Something in me pushed me to veer off the path stretched before me and choose something different. I’ve learned that following a different path doesn’t mean I’ve fallen behind. It’s just different.
So, when it comes to the proof of aging and “making it” in this world, perhaps I’ve been looking at the wrong evidence. Some of my dreams haven’t unfolded as I expected, but dreams are timeless. They aren’t always bound by the timelines we give them.
Who says they aren’t still to come?
What matters is staying true, whatever path you may take. Or as Coco Chanel said, “The most courageous act is still to think for yourself. Aloud.”
