My Mother

Few things in this world do any of us need more than our mother. Few people know us so well or can comfort us the same.

There was a long time during my youth when the person I wanted to see least was my mother. I said awful things about her and to her. I slammed the door to my bedroom at least a dozen times. I back talked her and she slapped my face only a fraction of what she should have.

A child so unruly grew into an adult with an appreciation so deep. My mother made sacrifices for all of us: my father, my sister, my brother, and me. She went without many things that she desired so we could have what we wanted instead. There were undoubtedly tough times when we did go without, and I will always remember them well. But I will never forget that she always did her best.

My mother's life has not always been easy, and as an extension, neither has mine. That's not to say she is a victim or that she is a helpless pawn in the game of life. It's to say, instead, that she has a fighting spirit; one which I know I inherited from her. I've seen her in moments of strength and weakness, laughing with joy and with tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. I have heard her make declarations in indignant anger and I have heard her say nothing as she is faced with disappointment. Many times I have witnessed these types of interactions without her even knowing I was watching.

I have learned things from her which I may not realize for another ten years. Just the same, I have taught her things that she never expected to learn. We have learned from each other, both from the ways we are different and the ways in which we are entirely too much alike. I often hear her words in my own voice. Everyday, I see her face in my own reflection. She is with me forever, wherever I go, whether I like it or not.

I doubt if there is a thing in this world of which my mother is more proud than her children. Besides her grandchildren, perhaps. Her pride is fierce and constant, and no matter how hard I try, I know I could never lose her love. She created me, after all, and then she set me free out into the world. As the days go by and I grow older, I realize that in a number of ways, I am her in miniature, and sometimes it's not always so bad. Ten years ago, I would've cringed at the thought, but adulthood brings with it a certain appreciation for all that your parents have done.

I have seen what it takes to be a mother and I have decided that it is likely not for me. It requires a patient kind of selflessness that I do not possess. It demands momentous sacrifice again and again. It means allowing your heart to beat outside of your chest, and consequently, it means worry in your heart and wrinkles on your forehead. It means being there for your child, even as they turn their back to you and spread their wings in the opposite direction. It means being available for every late night call that may ever come, about school, relationships, or careers. It means dropping your toddler off at daycare and praying you don't get another call about their misbehavior. It means, that for better or worse, you are at least a little bit responsible for who this tiny, malleable person becomes in the future, and that outcome hinges on every single moment, both big and small. It means being both the good cop and the bad cop, and having your teenager's attitude toward you change accordingly. It means refraining from smacking the mouthy little brat's mouth when they disrespect you in the mean-spirited way that only kids can. It means that you have to keep this extremely dependent human being alive to adulthood, and not get yourself killed in the process.

It means doing all of this, day in and day out, with no sick leave and no paid vacation time, for a minimum of eighteen years but usually much longer, in the hopes that someday, just maybe, they will realize all of this and be grateful to you for all you have done to make them possible -- both figuratively and literally.

My mother is many things to me. She is my support system, my champion, and my rock. She is my number one fan and my biggest critic. She asks too many questions and she too often tells me what to do. She is, on occasion, my best friend; but more often, she drives me crazy. She is three text messages and seven missed calls within an hour. She is a love note packed away inside my suitcase the night before I leave. She is the voice inside my head when I really don't want to make a decision. She is my backbone, my strong-willed stubbornness, and my determination. She is my pants and my bra both immediately taken off upon coming home after work. She is the sinkful of dirty dishes and the laundry hamper piled high. She is the salty sweet combination of every small motherly habit and every curse word I've ever heard. She is the reason I know what it means to love someone with all of my heart, but not to like them one little bit.

She may not be much to anyone else. But she is my mother, and without her I would not exist. She is the very reason I am breathing, and as such, she is the air within my lungs. She is my mother, and she is very much the reason I know love, and all of the beautiful things which derive from it.

College Friendships & International Exposure

I think back to August of 2012 when I made that first drive to Wichita all by myself, with my belongings all packed up and ready to move to college with me. I was only relocating an hour north, but at 18 years old, I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I can remember feeling excited to finally live on my own and be able to go anywhere and do anything, at any time of the day or night without having to answer to my mother. I remember thinking what a huge, vast place Wichita was and how I was probably never going to learn how to get around or remember where anything was located. I also remember feeling like my heart had been ripped straight out of my chest when I drove out of my mom's driveway after kissing my three-year-old baby brother good-bye. I remember feeling so guilty because I just knew he was going to forget all about me and things were never going to be the same again (he didn't, and they were).

I was so sad and scared for many reasons which I was leaving behind, but it quickly occurred to me that I was also scared for a few reasons looking forward. I didn't have a job secured yet and I was unsure of just how long the money I'd made at my summer job would sustain my new college lifestyle. I was moving to a place with a higher crime rate and I couldn't help but imagine being mugged in the bad neighborhoods of the city I would now call home. But perhaps most daunting of all, now that I look back at that moment in my life, is a fear which is far less tangible and  much more realistic: I did not know a single person in Wichita. I was the only one from my graduating class to be going to WSU as a freshman, and while I was very excited about getting away from the people I'd long ago outgrown, it also momentarily paralyzed me with panic.

I had no one. The realization really hit me that first night when I went to bed in my dark new dorm room, all by myself, without my Mommy, my baby brother, my best friend, or my boyfriend. I only had myself. My roommate hadn't arrived yet and there was no guarantee I'd like her when she did (I didn't). I was just going to have to make friends in my classes and cross my fingers that I'd eventually find some people who would understand me.

It took some time at first, but eventually I did find my own little tribe of various misfits and weirdos.

Freshman year was rough, and I really only still speak to one person who I knew at that time. I like to think of that first year as the awkward freshman year that a lot of people experience, where you try your hand at a lot of different things just to find out what you like and see what sticks. My roommate and I didn't have much in common and we lived in an unhealthy silence for the entire year. This greatly shaped my outlook on making new friends. My suitemate and I, however, banded together for a while, but towards the end of the year that began to disintegrate as our paths went in separate directions. I'd made a few other friends through work (I actually ended up getting a job before August was even over, and I stayed there for a year) and various other activities. At the end of the year, though, I left Wichita to go home for the summer still feeling pretty alone.

The following year was really the turning point in my college career. You always hear stories where people say "we met in college" or they talk about how they went to college with their best friends/bridesmaids/groomsmen. This is the really profound part of my journey where I first encountered those kinds of characters in my life's story. I moved into a different residence hall, partially by choice, and partially because the university's administration kicked returning students out of where I'd previously lived. It doesn't really matter now how my path led me there, because I ended up exactly where I was meant to be. I was at Brennan.

I cannot count on both my hands all of the countries represented in Brennan. There are a lot. Within the first week of living there, I had made new friends from all over the world; from places I'd never known anyone from before; and certainly from places I could not identify on a map. Brennan was a hodge-podge of so many different ethnicities and nationalities, due in part to its close location to the International Education office, and also because it had the cheapest housing rates available. Throwing so many international students and domestic students together in two buildings certainly had its quirks.

Although we came from many different cultures individually, the combined culture of Brennan was one rich in brutal honesty, immense sexual innuendo, racist jokes, and mild sexism. We all spent entirely too much time together, frequently invaded one another's personal space, knew terrible truths about each other, and at some point everyone had been pissed off at someone else. Despite all of our various differences, what kept us together were the things we had in common. We were one giant, usually loving, always misbehaving, slightly dysfunctional, multi-colored family.

I have this big world map on my wall right above my bed this year, where I put little adhesive tags with the names of my loved ones on it. I am a visual learner and seeing my friends spread out geographically like that really puts it into context for me. There are some tabs on the map which represent people who I did not meet through Brennan, and I cherish those international friendships just as dearly. I know by my age, plenty of people have accomplished much more. But I'm quite proud of being twenty-one-and-a-half years old and having friends from six out of seven continents. (Does anyone really live in Antarctica anyway?)

The Brennan residence hall has since been shut down by the administration, and we dispersed in different directions. We all feel collectively pretty sad and even a little bitter about it, but I remember what a friend told me last year: "Brennan's not a building. It's a community." A group of us moved together into another residence hall after it closed, and we still hang out regularly. It's not quite the same as it was before, but just like anything else in life, it has evolved as time has gone on. A few of the members of my Brennan family have since returned back to their home countries, and while I always hate it when the international students leave, Facebook does help keep us close. And I doubt if they know this, but I assume that I have a place to stay in any of their home countries if ever I should need it.

I look at this map on my wall, and I think back to my freshman year in Wichita. I spent that first lonely night in my empty dorm room, just a few doors down in the very hall where I sleep now. I didn't know a single person when I moved to (what I thought was) a big city three years ago. Wichita seemed cold and lonely and truly terrifying to even the most headstrong of eighteen-year-old girls.

Apart from my time spent cultivating international relationships at Brennan, I did travel abroad for the first time in college, which inspired me to take a solo trip to check out an even bigger city later. When I look at my map of friends and see how far away the places I've been are located from the tag that says "Mom & Zane", I realize that the one hour drive from home to Wichita in 2012 was not so far, afterall.

I have grown an incredible amount in such a short span of time during my college years. I know I'm responsible for most of it myself, but I don't pretend that at least part of that growth has been due to them; those little adhesive tags littered all over my map, which represent living, breathing people, with whom I've lived, slept, ate, argued, and known on a very real level. Without even one of those people in my life, I would not be the very person I am today. Nobody can do everything in this world on their own, least of all grow.

Three years ago when I made that interminable drive to Wichita with all my belongings, the thought never once crossed my mind that I was driving toward such meaningful friendships and such varied cultural exposure. I felt so alone in a city of 380,000. I knew no one. Now, a short time later, I feel so at home all over the world; and it all changed within the same city limits.

Now I feel I'm outgrowing Wichita, just as I felt when I outgrew Ark City. I made a big girl leap into a bigger city 50 miles away, even though I was scared. It took some time and adjustment, but I now know I survived. Having that knowledge and experience under my belt, I am now much more fearless to do it again, on a larger scale.

It's strange to think that so much has changed in such a short amount of time. But meeting so many people from so many places (along with my own traveling experience) has taught me that I can indeed go anywhere and do anything, because I now know I can make a home and find friends anywhere at all in this world, no matter how scared and alone I might feel when I first arrive. I've just got to look around to find my own little tribe of misfits and weirdos, wherever I may be. They look different and they come from different places, but no matter where I may go, they're there: friendships waiting to be made.

"Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." - Albus Dumbledore

You Will Actually Have To Work Hard To Get There

"I don't want to move all the way there, have no job, and have to live in my car!"

"I did."

"But it's so far away -- halfway across the country -- and it scares me sometimes."

"Excuse me? Do you know who you're talking to? And when I moved here, there was no Internet!"

Arguing with Kate has never proven itself to be a very successful, worthwhile activity to me. Especially not when I know that she's right (which accounts for about nine out of every ten of our arguments). Kate and I have both come to know that eventually, a few weeks after she suggests something to me, I will usually decide she was right and do whatever it was she told me to do.

I usually call Kate "my academic advisor" when people ask me who she is, but my rightful academic advisor is really some person who sits in an office in the basement of the business school and tells freshmen what classes they need to take. I honestly couldn't even tell you which advisor is assigned to my student ID number. That's because over the course of the last three years, every time I've had a question pertaining to the university, my major, or any future career options I may have, I've always just sent Kate a Facebook message immediately after the question occurs to me. (Usually there is an abundance of follow-up questions included, and the questions always seem to come to me frantically sometime after midnight.)

In reality, when I met Kate, she was the Assistant Dean of the business school. She has a long list of esteemed credentials and titles to her name, but most importantly to me, Kate is the woman who saw some flicker of potential in me as a sassy, seventeen-year-old high school senior when I entered a scholarship competition all the way back in 2011; and she is one of the people responsible for choosing me as the recipient of an extremely helpful sum of scholarship money to finance my college education. In essence, one could reasonably say Kate is the reason why I am at WSU.

As I mentioned, Kate has known me since I was seventeen. I am now closing in on twenty-two. I cannot emphasize enough how much a person changes over the span of those five years. I will also say, that for better or for worse, Kate is at least partially responsible for some of those changes. As I have grown and changed since the day we met in November 2011, so too, has our relationship.

The one constant that I secretly hope will never change, however, is that Kate doesn't put up with any of my shit. She has heard all of my excuses about how I am afraid of being a real adult, how I despise math and hated all of those required business calculus and statistics classes, how I love my on-campus job and don't want to push myself to find an internship which will pay better. And she has tolerated absolutely zero of all of it. There have been times when I have been highly irritated with her pushing me to do something I was simply too lazy or unwilling to do, just as I know there have been times when she has rolled her eyes at my lazy unwillingness and known, to herself, that at some point in the future when I finally decided to agree with her, I would do it. She is one of the only people I've ever met, besides perhaps my own mother, whose stubbornness contends with my own.

The particular conversation we were having on this day was one we have had many times, in many forms: what am I going to do after I graduate? I can tell you what I want to do after I graduate. And Kate has told me endless times that she knows I can do what I want to do after I graduate. The only remaining piece of the puzzle is connecting point A to point B, crossing my fingers, and hoping it all works out.

I want to move to Boston. I want to work for a publication -- no particular one, but one that fits my views, naturally, be it writing about feminism, travel, international peace and humanitarianism, or be it researching consumer behavior and target markets in the publication production industry. Beyond those two goals, I really just want to be able to afford an apartment (probably with a roommate), buy cute clothes at Target, and maybe visit my family in Kansas on Christmas. They are certainly not uncommon or grandiose goals, but from the perspective of a recent college graduate moving alone 1,625 miles away from her birthplace with relatively little money saved and impending student loan payments due in six months, every day these goals feel daunting. The goals are simple: Move to Boston. Work for a publication. Simple, although not easy.

You know how earlier I said Kate is sort of like my academic advisor? Well, she's also sort of like my free therapist. For the umpteenth time, I was whining and crying to her about how I was terrified of being poor and alone with no job prospects in my dream city, and she ruthlessly shut me down. You see, one thing I also forgot to mention earlier about Kate is that she was born in Taiwan. In addition to naturally possessing a high amount of tough love, she further feels no pity for me moving a few states away to Massachusetts because she moved halfway across the world to another country and learned another language, while working multiple jobs and putting herself through college to eventually become a professional businesswoman -- all by herself. So I guess it really comes as no surprise that she wants to smack me sometimes. I would have done it by now, if I were her.

So, this discussion we were having about me moving to Boston was going in about the same circles as usual:

"I want to move to Boston."

"Then move!"

"But I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Being poor."

"Then get a big girl job now and save your money."

"But I love my job."

"Then get another."

"But I don't have time for one!"

"Well, I don't know what to tell you."

"Ugghhh but Kate!"

*silently purses lips and gives me motherly side-eye*

And this is how it goes. See? I told you I would've smacked me by now.

That conversation is actually what sparked me writing this very blog. When I told her I was afraid of having no money and having to live in my car, she told me that she had done that very thing before, as if it were just an expected part of the struggle I was knowingly signing myself up for by falling in love with a big city. Then, when I started complaining about being so far away from my family and friends, she was rightfully appalled, because she also did that very thing back in 1990 (pre-Internet, as she reminded me). Then she said, "Write about that! Talk about your struggle, because I promise you, there are a lot of other college students standing in your shoes right now. They will relate!"

We had this conversation two weeks ago. And here I am now, delayed long enough to make the decision on my own, typing away because Kate told me to. Just like clockwork. (Although, the blog intended to be about the college struggle has actually materialized as a blog about Kate, instead.)

When I think about the situation from Kate's perspective, I shake my head at myself because I realize just how privileged and lazy I am. Kate worked much harder to get where she is today than I am working to get to Boston by this time next year. I think that's just it though: I didn't realize that I am going to have to actually work hard for it. Of course it's going to be hard. If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much. If it were comfortable, it wouldn't make me grow.

Kate chose me as a finalist so many years ago because I demonstrated something to her that made her feel I was a good investment. I have never asked her what that was, and I don't plan on doing so. I prefer it remain a mystery for my own imagination. But I can tell you this: whatever it was that I had, I'm sure glad I had it. I am so grateful that Kate liked what she saw and that she extended her hand to me, on the behalf of some very generous scholarship donors, to pull me up and help me through college, thus making possible all the experiences that come with it.

Now I don't know this for sure, and I don't want to put words into anyone's mouth, but I'm betting that Kate didn't have a Kate when she was in college. Most people are not lucky enough to have a Kate in college, someone whose tough love and persistence supports and pushes them throughout the entire process. I would wager to guess that she was not the recipient of such a benevolent gesture as I was when I was awarded that scholarship package. I don't think she has ever had anything handed to her. That's not to imply that I have had things handed to me, or to say that I haven't known my own fair share of struggles, either. But it certainly puts things into perspective for me and makes me think hard about how badly I want to move to Boston and what I will have to do to get there.

There comes a point in time when a flower outgrows its limited environment, and it needs to be transplanted from its small pot into a bigger garden so its roots can continue to expand, stretching out like cramped legs to gather nutrients to provide the plant with life, otherwise it faces a slow and painful death. If I don't take advantage of my opportunity to grow and develop in a bigger environment, staying where I am will stifle my desire to leave and eventually it will permanently stunt my growth. My roots are smothered and crowded and itching to break free of the pot into which I have been crammed for so long. I need to find nutrients in a bigger garden in order to sustain my life.

I want to move to Boston. I have to move to Boston. I need to get out of Kansas. I know that I am capable of feeling more fulfilled than I do here. I know that people are capable of better understanding me than they do here. I want to reach the high of euphoria again that being in a place I love so much brings with it, and which is impossible for me to ascertain here. I have to go explore what is out there waiting for me, otherwise I will never know.

I have always been one to do what I want. The more I want it, the more likely I am to do it -- and more quickly. I will do anything I have to in order to get what I want. Both of my parents can attest that I have been this way since I was a child. It is intrinsic to who I am.

Even with my vast vocabulary, I cannot adequately explain how badly I want to move to Boston. So, if working hard is what it takes to get me what I want, then I am going to do it, quick and with a passion. Especially when I stop and think about how much harder Kate worked when she was in similar shoes.

I remember during one of the presentations at that scholarship competition in 2011, somebody told us, "Kate is here to help you. But she doesn't come to you. If you need help, you go to Kate." Well, I've gone to Kate for help more times than I can count. And she has endlessly given me her help when I've asked for it. She has shared her knowledge and experience with me for years, trying to guide a stubborn girl in the right direction.

And now, eight months from graduation, I guess it would be a pretty good time for me to think about doing what she tells me. After all, I wasn't selected as a finalist because she thought I wouldn't listen or work hard for what I want. She knows what she's talking about when it comes to all of this, because not too long ago, she worked hard to make it on her own very similar journey. Thankfully, I will still have a Facebook connection for when I run into late night identity crises and career catastrophes in Boston.

What Happened When I Followed My Heart

I have spent a lot of my life doing what other people want me to do. I have spent so much time adhering to the expectations placed before me, the loose guidelines of what any number of things is supposed to look like: success, happiness, inner peace, a good role model, a worthy scholarship recipient... Without even realizing it, my life has been plagued with these ideas of what I am supposed to be and the things I am supposed to attain.

Now, I realize my life is much easier than that of a lot of people. I do not discount that fact, nor take it for granted. However, I am able to clearly notice the small, yet meaningful, differences in my own consciousness when I am doing something for someone else as opposed to when I am doing it for myself.

Some people -- okay, a lot of people -- would say I have a bad attitude. They would say I am negative, pessimistic, and always complaining about something. It's true. Other people -- fewer people -- would say that I have a positive attitude, compassion, wonderful insight, and plenty of big ideas to offer this world. For the longest time, I was conflicted by those two opposing opinions of who I am. How on earth can one person be perceived in such polarizing ways by others?

Then I paused for a moment to examine what it was these people saw in me. I stepped out of my shoes and into theirs and I tried to imagine myself through their eyes. If I were to ask these people what it is I am always so unhappy about, what would they say? I can create a list of my most common complaints from my own memory: being stared at by strangers, inconsiderate co-workers, lazy classmates, being talked down to, and having too much homework. All in all, not unreasonable irritations.

All right, but what about the other people who would say I am a hopeful beacon of light for the future? If they were asked what it is that makes me so great, what would they say? The compliments I receive most often include: being mature and professional for my age, being intelligent, giving solid advice, being inclusive, and being able to see things from another perspective.

Now, perhaps the most important question: who are these people? Who are the people in my life that seem to think I am nothing more than a Negative Nancy? Conversely, who are the people who see the raw material I'm working with and encourage me to mold it into something more? What positions do all of these people hold in my life and why do I even listen to them, anyway?

This is when I understood the reason why I was so disappointed by trying to live up to the expectations of others. Each individual person expects something entirely different from me. By worrying so much about having good relationships with so many different people in my life, I neglected to have a good relationship with myself.

The people who have made me feel badly for being "too negative" are greater in quantity, but noticeably less in quality. They are acquaintances, co-workers, classmates, and even strangers I encounter in passing, who know only the surface of my life. They comment on what little behavior they witness from me, and they honest-to-goodness believe they have me all figured out: I complain too much and I'm so unhappy and I am always angry or in a bad mood. (Do you know what actually makes me unhappy? Feeling the need to defend my happiness against people who barely took any time at all to know me before judging me.)

On the other hand, when I think of the times I have had awe-inspiring, hopeful, optimistic conversations about the future, I think of an entirely different caliber of human being. I think of teachers, mentors, parental figures, and even a few very close friends. These are the people with whom I have discussed my worries about today and my plans for tomorrow. They are the ones who have taken the time and interest to more closely observe some of the things that make me tick; they're people who have read what I wrote or heard what I said and understood with a single look into my heart and mind that I had it (whatever it is), and then pushed me to be more.

Because of all the ambivalence I felt from such opposing forces, I was unsure for a while even who I was. Was I this mean, hateful person that so many people painted a picture of? Was I an insightful, wise-beyond-her-years, eclectic individual with something deep within her soul that stirred the interest of kindred spirits? Or did I fall somewhere in the middle and fluctuate slightly between good and bad days? I didn't really know for sure, and it resulted in a miniature identity crisis for me, at the age of 21. (Which, granted, is a better age for a crisis than 45, when I'd probably have many more long-term commitments.) So many people wanted me to be so many different things. But what did I want myself to be? Through all this struggling, I was able to find some answers by myself.

You see, I was so preoccupied with worrying about these two very different perceptions of my personality, that I forgot to take into account one very important opinion on the matter: my own. I became so worried about why I might seem bitter and cold to a mere acquaintance, or if I were falling short of the exemplary mark set for me by a mentor, that I failed to leave enough time and energy for me to examine how my personality was measuring up to qualities that I valued.

I can't pinpoint an exact moment when it happened, and I can't even tell you the exact sequence of events that led up to it, but there was a moment in time when I just quit. I didn't quit listening, I didn't quit trying, and I didn't quit caring about the people in my life. What I did quit, was concerning myself so much with the validity of others' opinions. I quit caring more about how they perceived me than about how I perceived myself.

In that moment, I stood up for myself. I realized that what was in my heart was the only thing with any true consistency -- the only thing that really mattered -- and I decided I would give following that a chance, instead. It occurred to me that I was always going to let someone down if I kept trying to please so many different audiences, so I might as well try to please the one audience I knew best: me.

I didn't know where else to start, so I just asked myself, "what do you want, Alyssa?" My heart answered, and I made sure to listen closely. It spoke softly to me about all of the glorious, adventurous, beautiful things it wanted to see and feel. After it was finished whispering many splendored things to me, I started with the smallest, easiest item on the list: writing.

I had procrastinated accomplishing anything at all with my writing for months, and I had made excuses for myself about how busy I was with my life. I let other things (albeit credible things like class, work, and family) dictate my actions. I did not make time for what my heart really needed. I had not been listening to my own desires, and I had suffered because of it. But that was about to change.

I sat down one afternoon, and I wrote. I applied to publication after publication, and I sent several different samples of my work into numerous websites which I had previously scouted. And when I was finished, I felt so good about myself. I felt accomplished, like I had just crossed something very heavy off of my heart's to-do list... finally.

A few short days later, when I began to receive email responses with positive answers from those publications, I was absolutely elated. My heart was so happy and I felt so pleased with myself, because I knew that I had made this happen. I was the one who had done the hard work which earned me this reward. Because I chose to finally listen to myself and value my own opinion above others, I took action toward my dreams and I had now reaped the fruit of my labor. I did it all by myself and I was beyond proud.

This is what happens when you follow your heart. It applies to every area of your life: personal, professional, academic, and even athletic. When you act based on your own heart's wishes, you will be happy with the results. As soon as I stopped allowing the perceptions of others to set boundaries and expectations for me, I opened myself up to endless possibilities for joy with a horizon limited only by my own imagination. I reminded myself that I don't have to impress anyone else, fans or critics alike. I always took for granted that I knew this before, but society has a nasty way of creeping up on you and ingraining things into your mind before you are even aware it's taking place.

I think that's what happened to me. I spent so much time listening to so many mixed messages from everyone else, that I lost myself among the noise. The only thing louder than all that racket was the consistent, steady beating of my own heart. I chose to focus on it, and soon its reverberation rose above all the external static, until eventually it was the only sound I could hear.

Friend or foe, the opinions of others are irrelevant to your existence. You are the only one living your life; and ultimately, you are the only one affected by the decisions you make. So save yourself some stress and follow the instructions written on your heart. They are the words that will lead you exactly to the place where you are most happy. They have always been there, and that's where they will remain, for you to fall back on when the commotion of everyone else becomes too loud.

Why I'm Absolutely Unafraid To Travel Alone

I like to do things alone. I like to be alone. I always have to some extent, and I probably always will. Don't get me wrong, I do not dislike people and I have no fear of interacting with others -- quite the opposite, really. I love fiercely and I am not known to shy away from extensive conversation. I just enjoy the quiet and space to be myself -- to be with myself -- that being alone brings with it. I have learned that it is easiest for me to listen to myself when I have few outside distractions. And boy, is listening to myself ever important.

Like being alone, I am also contented to travel. Anywhere, anytime, by any means. I relish discovering new things, and I revel in the sphere of possibility that comes with moving about unexplored places in this world. To me, the allure of travel is simple: I can explore anywhere my heart desires and I can have any adventure I decide. Traveling is simultaneously a way to exercise control over your life, as well as a way to lose total control.

Travel allows you to control your life because of the small bit of planning it necessitates. Booking a plane ticket, saving up money, and packing your bags are all things that require long-term awareness and self-discipline. On the other hand, delayed flights, lost wallets, language barriers, and unfamiliar public transportation systems all demand patience and composure as things that are totally out of your control directly affect you. I have experienced both some of the most peaceful and most stressful moments of my life while traveling. That's the beauty of it. You really never know ahead of time what is going to happen and what lessons you are going to learn. The only guarantee is that something will happen and you will learn a lesson. The latitude to decide exactly what that may be is between yourself and the universe.

So I guess it shouldn't really come as a surprise that someone who enjoys her alone time, and who has learned the importance of listening to her heart and tuning into her own consciousness, finds traveling alone to be one of the greatest joys life has to offer.

When I'm alone, I can decide where I want to go, what I want to eat, and what I am going to do next. Perhaps this is a selfish aspiration, but I am entitled to take care of my own well-being, and for me, solitude offers a nurturing quality that allows me to do just that. In my experience, you become most yourself when you are traveling, because your comfort zone is transient and you don't exactly have time to create the superfluous projections of yourself that the cushion of everyday life affords you. So, being most myself when I travel, I like to be alone.

Please don't misunderstand; I enjoy being around others and I know that socializing with locals is one of the best ways to really get to know a new place for the short while you're there. I love making friends when I go someplace new. In fact, traveling has taught me to appreciate friendships more quickly, because the bonds you build while traveling often have an expiration date. At home, a person does not have the opportunity to make friends out of strangers in the same capacity as while traveling. Often, our lives are very different from those of strangers, and sharing our experiences teaches everyone lessons. There is beauty, not only in learning how you are different, but also in uncovering what you have in common.

But there is a qualitative difference between temporarily befriending someone you encounter on your path, and being surrounded by others for the entire journey of your path. So I guess my preference for traveling alone really comes down to this:

1. I make my own schedule.
This is the part that sounds a little harsh and selfish. But I will not apologize for it. Life is short, and the time you are allotted in any given place while traveling is even shorter. I am a selectively patient person and I don't like to feel like I'm wasting my time. I can sit and enjoy the silence all day long, completely at ease, as long as it was my idea. But drag me through a crowded tourist attraction when my feet hurt and I have no desire to be there, and I just might resent you forever.

Traveling together creates a certain bond of intimacy between people. You are likely to share beds, food, money, and quite a bit of personal space. When it works, it's marvelous. But when it doesn't work, I can guarantee you will never want to see that person again after you return home.

Let's just say I am being noble in caring too much about my friendships to sacrifice any of them by traveling together.

2. I learn so much more about myself.
I spend a lot of time in my head. I have learned to (usually) think before I speak, and as a result, some thoughts never make it out of the space between my ears. Other times, I am simply observing and retaining information for myself. Just sitting and watching your surroundings can teach a traveler so much; there's no need -- and certainly no possible way -- to comment on it all. Watching the behavior of the locals is sometimes the best way to teach yourself what to do.

Going far away from others who know you allows you the freedom to be anyone you want to be. You miraculously no longer feel the pressure to conform before the opinions of your peers, and being surrounded by perfect strangers gives you the opportunity to behave completely differently, if you so wish.

It's true that we are most ourselves when we are alone. We learn to form opinions for ourselves, because the judgment of strangers matters far less than the judgment of friends. We are honest with ourselves and we face what's inside of us because we have no distractions in which to hide. We learn how self-sufficient we are capable of being, and realize that we've been this way all along.

In all my traveling experience, I hold one frustratingly glorious truth above the rest: getting lost helps. I have never intended to get lost; I don't think anybody really does. But inevitably, at least once, I somehow end up far away from my desired destination, without any idea where I took the wrong turn. There have been times when I was a little panicked and thought surely this was where I was going to die. There have been times when I have asked directions, pretended I knew what they were talking about, and walked away just as lost as before. There have been times when I was so lost that I straight up abandoned my original plan and just found something else to do instead.

But every time I have gotten lost in some giant, unfamiliar place, I have ultimately relied entirely upon my own resourceful skillset and listened to my own primal instincts. I have always adapted to my surroundings and, somehow or another, I have always found my way back into the familiar again, and I've survived far enough to be here typing this now. My point is, things going wrong can teach you so much more than if everything goes according to plan. Your reaction is more important when your cell phone dies, you lose your map, and it's getting dark, than when conditions are normal. You learn quickly what you're made of when that's all you've got to rely on.

3. We are all alone already anyway.
My first real experience of travel came into my life at a time of great personal transformation. From the beginning of that first journey, I saw it as an opportunity to prove to myself that I could do big, wonderful things all by myself. More importantly, I could do these big, wonderful things all for myself. I guess that tone of sovereignty hasn't really left.

In the past, when I have told people I am planning a trip alone, their reactions have been varied. However, the reaction that sticks out the most to me is, "You're going alone? But aren't you scared? I could never do that!"

The truth is, we can all do just about anything if we are motivated enough. At face value, the question "aren't you scared?" would appear to be concerned for my safety as a lone wolf traveling in a dangerous world. At least, that's what I thought at first. But then I asked myself, what if the thing I am supposed to be scared of is being alone? What if these people who say they "could never do that" are more afraid of sitting alone with themselves than they are of being mugged?

That's when I realized it: I am so capable of being alone, of facing myself and my feelings, of looking myself in the eyes and loving myself, that I am not afraid. Traveling alone does not scare me because I know so well who I am and what I am capable of, that my internal confidence is greater than anything I could possibly encounter in the external world.

Maybe I'm a narcissist, or maybe I am just fiercely independent to a fault, but I like being alone. It is my time to sit with myself and reflect on my own life, thoughts, and feelings. I can dream all my big dreams and think deeply about the world around me. I enjoy it. It brings me peace and healing. I'm certainly not afraid of it.

Being alone means being with nobody but yourself. Being afraid means something scares you. Therefore, being afraid of being alone means being with nobody but yourself scares you. I'm not afraid of being by myself. There is nothing inside of me that I am afraid to face, because it is only a manifestation of myself, after all. I am the only one who controls it. I do not occupy myself with others in order to avoid facing who I am. To the contrary, I want to know who I am.

The fact of the matter is, we're all alone in this life anyway. Some of us just like to maintain the illusion that we aren't because it makes the world seem like a little less scary of a place to live. But others of us know that this is just a pleasant façade generated by our minds to act as a buffer against fear and isolation. My mind has always operated in a very blunt, matter-of-fact manner, so I consider myself lucky that I don't struggle with this. It simply is what it is.

So, I suppose I could be afraid of being mugged or assaulted in an unfamiliar place. But I have a taser and a pretty strong right hook for a situation like that. That doesn't make me afraid to travel alone. I could be mugged right here at home. Money and belongings can be replaced. Memories and opportunities cannot.

I am absolutely unafraid to travel alone because the good things that come from it are far more valuable to me and my journey than any of the potential bad things that could happen. It's all experience in the end, really.  If I can face myself and like what I see, then I can surely go out and face the rest of this big, old world and like what I see there, too.

"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we are not alone." - Orson Welles

My Body

My body is my home.
It houses my soul and every part of who I am.
Like a house, it is my decision to decorate it and make it comfortable as I like.
It is up to me to take care of it with regular maintenance.
I must keep it safe, and protect it from anyone who may desire to harm or invade it.

My body is strong.
It presses on through the pain when I push it one more mile.
It does not fail me when subjected to late nights with research papers and caffeine.
It holds me up when I work on my feet eight continuous hours a day.

My body is fidgety.
It grows restless after several mundane hours spent in lecture halls.
My fingers start to tap in rhythm when my attention span has dwindled.
My leg shakes when my body wants to move about, but I will not let it.

My body is alert.
The little hairs on my neck tell me when there may be danger.
My heart speaks only to me when something is not right.
My stomach tells me who I should avoid.

My body is tired.
It collapses into my bed at the end of a long day.
My eyelids droop shut when my body requires sleep more than Netflix.
My arm drowsily finds its way again to my alarm clock every morning.

My body is resilient.
My shins scream at me in agony after a long run.
My back joins in unison after standing for too long.
But my body quiets the aching parts like crying children, and carries on.

My body is beautiful.
From my eyebrows to my toenails and every other part in between.
Even the parts others would prefer to change.
It is beautiful because it simply is -- and I let it be.

My body is dynamic.
It changes day to day, every time a new hair grows on my legs.
It looks different today than how it did yesterday, and how it will tomorrow.
It may lose or gain weight, and my skin may become freckled or tan.

My body is powerful.
It can command the attention of a room simply by being present.
It could create and nurture new life if I allowed it.
It is able to do many astonishing things.

My body is free.
It answers to nobody, not even to me.
It does as it pleases and its only regard is for safety and pleasure.
It mirrors the soul it harbors.

My body is opinionated.
It lets me know when I put something in it which it does or does not like.
It informs me with no delay that something was a bad idea.
It reports back just as quickly when I have done something to please it.

Above all the things it may be, it is certain only one constant:
My body is my own.
Only those whom I allow may touch it.
Only that which I believe may motivate me to alter it.

Its appearance is a direct consequence of what is done to it.
What is done to it is an effect of how the soul inside of it feels about it.

My body is worthy of love and respect and security and pride.
Certainly from everyone else, but most importantly, from myself.
This much will always true.

Welcome To New York (Boston).

I was driving to work last week, weaving through busy rush hour traffic on Rock Road. Taylor Swift's 1989 CD was absentmindedly playing as background noise in my stereo, as it has been since the album dropped last October. I was preparing to spend the next several hours begrudgingly earning $7.50 an hour around co-workers whom I didn't like, and customers whom I liked even less. I wasn't exactly in the brightest of moods. Then, through the haze of my own bad attitude, I heard good ol' T-Swift crooning to me the words I needed to hear, like she's done hundreds of times before.

You see, I have a dream. Many dreams, in fact. But the dream currently responsible for the high in my life is one about travel, one about adventure and freedom and finding myself. Like many young people before me, I yearn to leave my safe, familiar comfort zone and get wonderfully lost in a new, giant, mesmerizing place, eventually making it my own.

And since the day I bought it three months ago, I have been all too aware of that plane ticket to Boston with my name on it.

I'll be heading east on a grand, new exploit of my own, in as little as twenty-seven days from now. That's the dream that's been fueling my passion through the mundane activities of two summer jobs and three summer classes since the middle of May. What has filled my sails with wind as the days dwindle away is anticipating the joy I will experience during my short four-day caper in the city that will hopefully soon be my home.

So last week when I heard Taylor Swift's lyrics in the song she wrote about her love for New York City, even after hearing them and mindlessly humming along to them time and time again for months on end, I paused. I thought about the gravity of her words.

"Like any great love, it keeps you guessing

Like any real love, it's ever-changing

Like any true love, it drives you crazy

But you know you wouldn't change anything, anything, anything"

I have been a dedicated T-Swift fan since "Teardrops on My Guitar". I was there for Taylor when she was just a sixteen-year-old girl who lived in Nashville and wore cowboy boots and sundresses to the Academy of Country Music Awards. I remember when she said that Nashville was her home, furthermore, that country music was her home; and that she'd never dream of cutting her hair or moving to a big city like NYC or LA. Well, well... how things change.

"Welcome To New York" is Taylor's declaration about how she fearlessly fell in love with a city, with its people, and with the experience itself. And, like any Taylor Swift song, she is vividly painting a picture of it as one huge, beautiful love affair. Taylor Swift is in love with a city. And why not? A city is just as full of human emotion as the people who inhabit it.

These lyrics are the ones that spoke out to me last week on my drive to work. They were casual and commonplace, yet they were gently reminding me to keep pushing myself toward whatever it is that draws me in, to whatever feels right to me.

You see, love comes in many forms in this lifetime. And heaven knows I'm a sucker for falling in love with new places. It's been barely over a year since the Travel Bug bit me, and the virus has only been incubating and growing stronger within me this long; it has not been dormant or forgotten.

Travel will surely keep you guessing, much like life itself. How am I to know what lies around the corner for me? How am I supposed to find out, if I'm never brave enough to take the steps necessary to arrive at the corner in the first place?

Travel is certainly ever-changing, most obviously by the number of possible destinations one could choose to explore and make their own.

And travel is definitely enough to drive a person crazy, especially those of us who so quickly get emotionally attached to people and places, with little foresight for the consequences we will inevitably face when the time comes to leave.

But I wouldn't change anything. Not one single part of the delightful, possessive, magical beauty that is creating my own home in a place faraway from anywhere I've been before.

In the few seconds it took for my copy of 1989 to play those lines, my brain and my heart merged into the same wavelength. For one fleeting moment, my mind and soul were alive with the wondrously dangerous combination of adrenaline and oxytocin that only comes from love. To people who have ever traveled before to some other place and who have instantly fallen in love with the new scenery and the new perspective of life, no explanation of Taylor Swift's love affair with New York is needed. We already understand, because the feeling is pumping through our veins with every beat of our lustful, wandering hearts.