Making Her Proud

5-year-old me in ballet class:) My mama took this picture

Yesterday I was sitting on the corner of 29th and 7th in NYC with my dad. I was drinking a smoothie and he was enjoying his first ever REAL New York bagel. We sat in relative silence, watching the passer-byers, and pointing out the strangers we found most interesting. It was a beautiful moment, but also one of deep reflection and mourning. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to live in New York, be a fashionista, and look like I have lived there my whole life. And while I may not look like I lived there my whole life, I began to realize that I am in fact very well on my way to being the woman that I always wanted to be as a little girl. This, I think, is the most beautiful thing. Especially for girls and women in this country, considering how hard we have had to work (and unfortunately have to continue to work) in-order to prove to ourselves and to society that we belong where we have struggled to get. Within this moment I had, I began to wonder if the 10-year-old me, looking at dresses on the Oscar’s red carpet and playing dress up with her Barbie, was proud of me. I am not sure if what I am about to say makes any sense but, I often feel like more than one version of myself exists in reality. I may have touched on this in earlier posts so bear with me. Within New York/at college exists the Olyvia I have been constructing over the last 18 years. She is the woman that I love and cherish and would protect with everything in me. But back at home, there are 3 different Olyvias who are stuck in this strange limbo inside of my own consciousness.

The first Olyvia is the one my parents welcomed into the world and cherished alone until my sister was born. She is the Olyvia I worry the least about. I know that she was happy, I know she was healthy, I know she was essentially the Olyvia that laid down the foundation for the Olyvia I am now. I don’t think of her often enough I will admit, but I think that is because I know she is okay, she is the most of who I am. She is the one I am the most grateful for. Youngest Olyvia is waiting for me to finally be secure in myself, and not the other way around.

Fishing with daddio when I was 2! Pic is by my mama <3

Next is my favorite, adolescent Olyvia. Though this is the Olyvia I carry the most of still, she is not what I would call the foundation. She is more so a girl who fell into a roll and tried to preform the duties placed upon her to the best of her abilities. I think this Olyvia struggled the most with herself without really knowing it. She wanted people to like her, she loved music and science and history. She wanted to study the oceans and become a mermaid. And most importantly, she just wanted to grow up. I think I mourn this Olyvia the most. I wish she had known it is okay to take time to grow up and out of our childhood loves and desires. I wish she knew the bad things happening in her family weren’t her fault. I wish she knew the pain of everyone else, was not hers to carry. Hell, I wish I knew that now. This Olyvia is the most diverse in her interests. She made the leap of wanting to be a marine biologist, to a fashion designer, to an editor, and then to some famous woman in the fashion industry. She learned to sing and got good at it, she liked to go swimming, went SCUBA diving, and wore her hair long and messy. She was the coolest one of us. But like I said, she just wanted to grow up. And so, she did. Adolescent Olyvia, she faded away.

Me, age 10, at sleep-away camp. My mom took this pic:)

Enter my greatest sadness, highschooler Olyvia. This girl is one of many sorrows, struggles, and conflictions. I think I try my best now to avoid her and to forget about her. She carried a weight so large I am surprised her knees did not buckle from the pressure. This Olyvia is the one I feel the most guilt towards. If me now could go and tell her that eating a sandwich won’t kill her or loving that one boy as much as she does is only going to crush her, I would. Because she deserved everything, I could never give her. She was so tired, she was hungry, she was sad, she was lonely, and she just wanted to disappear. It is hard for me to write about now because I remember being her. I remember being afraid to tell my parents that I went days without eating out of fear that they would be upset with me. I remember suppressing my own sexuality because I was embarrassed of who I really was out of fear that others would not accept the raw versions of myself. I remember using my body and my looks as a way of gaining attention in order to feel, what I thought was, real human connection out of fear I couldn’t have one any other way. I think this is also around the time that I began to realize I didn’t want to grow up anymore, I just wanted to remain stagnant. My God-sister was born during this time, and I remember going to her mom and telling her that I felt June-Bug (her nick-name) was a sign from the Universe, Mother-Nature, my sub-conscience, or maybe even God, that I needed to slow down. I needed to live, to stay, and to continue to let myself grow. So, I did. Or I tried. I cut out toxic friendships, I got a job in the industry that is my true calling, I spent more time with my mom. I started writing, and I realized I was so much more than what others wanted me to be.  But then high school was over, and it felt like the world just started to fall down around me, like my biggest fear had come true. I had grown up after-all.

Me at 15, shortly before I chopped all of my hair off. My best friend took this. 

At this point however I am only left with myself. I have grown up, and while we never truly stop growing, I have grown out of the childhood I once wore. Just like the clothes I have grown out of, it has been cast aside, and never worn again. And isn’t that heartbreaking? All of the childhood dreams I had, and the need to be a grown up has been fulfilled. All my dreams now and all of the things I hope to, and will accomplish, are things this Olyvia is waiting for. I think in a way I hate coming to terms with that. I hate the idea of being 19 in roughly a month. The last of my teenage years. I hate thinking about how I will be completely independent from my parents in about five years, and how in ten years I will have a solid career within the industry. It’s funny to me that all of these thoughts came to me while drinking a mediocre smoothie at a sidewalk table in New York, but I think that’s just the way it is now. I will forever be the current version of myself over and over again because we are always changing, and I will always mourn the past versions of myself. But I think the Olyvias who formed me are the ones I will always carry with me, care for, and hope they are proud of me. But maybe that’s just me.   

I guess all I have left to say is regardless of my feelings about growing, I am grateful, I am determined, and I am me. In every form. I am the little one, I am the growing one with responsibilities, I am the ocean lover and the singer, I am the fashionista and the writer, and I am the sad yet ever joyful one. I am Olyvia. Who are you?

-Miss O