I am on a boat, the smooth lulling waves become choppy and powerful, waking me from my sleep. It’s windy, cool, and yet the sun is blinding. I sit up and look around. There is land far off in the distance, to the north, east, west, and south of me. If I wanted to, I could row in any direction and find a place to rest my head but I don’t.

I didn’t end up here by accident, I rented the boat, I rowed and rowed and rowed. Once I got far enough, I dropped the anchor that’s attached to a thick rope. Only I can cut the line.

I don’t like change. Once I’m comfortable in a job, environment, or even in a friendship, it takes a lot to get me to leave it. It’s partly hard work, loyalty, and dedication, partly fear of the unknown.

At the age of thirty-five, even though I’m “settled”, I’m feeling just as lost as I did in my twenties. Maybe lost isn’t the word, I’m feeling unfulfilled. Some might say that what I’m missing is children and motherhood but I’ve written about not wanting children so many times that I don’t feel the need to harp on it again. I don’t resonate with the phrase childless by choice and I refuse to let it become my entire personality.

I often look to the other women in my life and wonder if they feel fulfilled, if they’re content with their life choices or if they have regrets. I look to my mother and wonder the same. Did she have dreams before she got married in her early twenties? Did anyone ever tell her to follow her heart? Did anyone ever say to her you can do anything you put your mind to? 

As an immigrant herself, the dream was to learn English, get married, buy a house, have children, and create a better life than her parents had. My mom might not have had big crazy dreams like mine but I see so much creativity, pride, and passion in her life. When I was a kid she painted floral designs on all of our clothes, made furniture for our Barbies, crocheted blankets, and painted every room in every house we lived in (multiple times). She bakes beautiful and delicious treats, has a garden and lawn that strangers compliment when they walk by, and decorates the house for Christmas as if it’ll be in a magazine. She created world of beauty for me and my siblings. She taught me how to be creative and how important it is to express yourself. 

I express myself with words, by creating worlds, and I feel the most inspired after a trip. I’m craving adventure, travel, the ability to see what the world has to offer. The writer in me craves new experiences but the worker in me finds peace in the every day; I like the assignments with their respective due dates, the monotony of the 9-5 day, and understanding my role in the cog of a large corporation.

The dreamer in me, the one on the boat, she doesn’t just crave new experiences, she sees them, feels them. She can picture herself writing stories in Europe, traveling to Thailand or Croatia, sitting in cafes, enjoying delicious meals with her husband, learning new languages, and meeting new people. The dreamer is always plotting, always thinking about the ways she can make this happen.

The realist, she doesn’t take risks. She would never risk a good job and its perks (especially in today’s economy) to live out some twenty-year-olds dream of a leap year across the world.

So where does that leave me?

Stuck on a boat, not sure which way to go.

xo Vanessa

*Previously posted on Substack AUG 24, 2024*