I am the master of the narrative that is my life.
This is a common concept (“master of one’s destiny,” etc.), but it’s not a concept that I’ve fully embraced/lived by. For a long time now (maybe years, if I’m honest), I’ve been a passive participant in my life. I’ve even written about the topic and I’ve vowed to change the course my ship is sailing time and time again, to no avail.
Lack of consistency has brought me to this place: I’m 30 and I live with my folks again, still working in an entry-level sales position, and for the first time acknowledging my lack of hobbies and passions, things that make me, me.
It’s unsettling. A decade ago, I could identify myself with something outside of occupation. I don’t think that’s the case now. I don’t find myself interesting enough to take care of, if that makes sense. I’m not an investment, I guess.
Well, it’s time to change thing, then.
After reading an e-mail the Bestie sent me a short while ago (a personal essay from one of her favorite writers), I’m inspired. It’s a tingly feeling, rooted deeply in my solar plexus chakra, and it feels really good. It feels hopeful. I’m making a list of things I’m interested in, and one by one, I’ll explore these things. It’s a start. It’s a really good start.