Yesterday I had a conversation with a good friend about finding one's passion. We talked about things we loved to do when we were younger but as adults those things kind of disappeared for various reasons. And this morning, as I swam laps in the pool, I thought about my 16 year old self.
At 16, I was a natural athlete. I loved sports. I played volleyball and lacrosse. I loved to run. And I was fast. I took advantage of this speed on the lacrosse field. I played center and won every draw I took. I could play offense and defense with ease and knew what play was going to happen before it did. I read the field very well.
At 16, I wrote. I wrote for hours in my journals. I collected the larger ones with colorful, hard covers. I wrote about everything; my day, dreams, the weather. I took every creative writing class I could.
At 16, I did art. A lot of it. I had an artist's table in my bedroom and would just create. I loved specialty pencils and pens. I could see things and make them come alive.
Then, life happened.
I started teaching. My mother died. I got married. Had kids. And that 16 year old self drifted farther and farther away.
It wasn't one thing. It was a combination. That caused those passions to be placed on the back burner.
I am 43. I run. I swim. I bike. I lift weights. To sweat. To clear my mind. For my children. For me.
I am 43. I started writing again. To express myself. For the challenge. For my students. For me.
I am 43. I can see the colors. The projects. The joy. I am going to start again. Something creative. A painting. With paints. I can see my 16 year old self, and I want to do this for me.