I spent the better half of yesterday sorting through dusty plastic storage bins, the contents of which were relics of the many different “lives” I’ve experienced over the past thirty years. There were the piles of journals recording both the mundane and the life-changing, and I could see scattered across those pages my journey to today.
And yet words scratched in my messy prose spoke of different paths, different lives that, while mostly forgotten today, were so real and so raw in their time. Do you ever feel like you are at once the same person and yet not? Reading my aspirations and fears at ages seven, fifteen, and twenty made me feel slightly nostalgic, but also like an archaeologist, mining away at another person’s life.
Do we ever really know who we are until years later when we reflect through a dusty and romanticized lens?
And although some may think I destroyed something sacrosanct, I felt peace as I tore those pages out of journals, ripping them and letting go of the ghosts lingering in the background. Let go of the cornfields and Camaros of my youth, the exploits and the romance, and the pain and the heartbreak because, frankly, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Life is best lived in the present moment, relishing the now and letting go of the past.
In what ways have you released your past and how did it make you feel?