When you're wishing you were big


I didn’t want to be the best. That wasn’t the goal, not really. I wanted to be important, appreciated, valued, liked, loved, and chosen, but not the best. Add “big” to that list. I wanted to be big, too.

Me and my self-righteousness are sitting in my room in my small town called Dundas, twenty years old, and I’ll admit I haven’t done a lot of living. But I’ve been hoping for a long time — a decade at least, hoping for things that are probably too earthly. Dreaming for awhile too, of Paris and New York and Italian gelato and skipping down ancient Greek streets.

I wanted to be important, and appreciated, and valued, and liked, and loved, and chosen, and big.

When all those things came to being, when people would hear my name and instinctively know who I am, I would finally be fulfilled. This has always been something I’ve struggled with — if we want to use the word struggle so lightly. I wanted to be known in a way I almost ached for.

I wanted to go places, meet people, create art, create stories, and most days I feel like I’m wasting myself away, sitting here in this room, sitting here at this desk.

I'm over at (in)courage today. I would love for you to head on over and join me there...