Listen to Big Feels 6.7 here👇🏻
I was visiting a friend who I hadn’t seen in a long time. She talks in a way that is unintentionally direct, but very kind. Mid-conversation, as a bit of an aside, she said, “You’re an ambitious person.”
Like my head being plunged into cold water, I thought, “Am I?” not recognizing myself the same way I forgot the name of that girl I was partners with in my university drama class. We had shared homework and projects for six weeks in a row when I forgot her name. I’m still not sure what kind of stress response that was (her name was ultimately Sara).
But I was once ambitious, even as recently as six months ago.
Later, I saw my friend, my coworker, at work. I asked her how she was. She said, “Just anxious.”
Again, cold water, my head—I used to be just anxious. All day. No breath. I don’t feel like that anymore—it’s so weird not to feel like that. So strange to forget that feeling.
No ambition, no anxiety, I am worried that I will never finish a project ever again. That it will evade me. I’ve been telling my partner for months, the juice is gone. I don’t know if it will return. I’m trying to decide if I care.
I got another tattoo three weeks ago, swore that I wouldn’t be the stereotype to overshare with my artist, then promptly told her about how I had realized, just the day before, a random Monday afternoon, that I no longer cared whether my parents were proud of me.
Another ambition, another anxiety, living in my house for years, then suddenly, out the window.
This afternoon, I caught my reflection in a mirror and recognized my face again: I am still an ambitious person. I hate to say it, but these days my ambition is my peace. Just as farfetched as ever. From where I started to where I am now, it’s improbable that I made it this far, that I am capable of feeling this settled.
A slight aside: When I was eight years old, my mom bought 500 packets of strawberry kiwi kool-aid from Wholesale because it was on a really good sale. The rest of my childhood, we never bought kool-aid again. We were a strawberry-kiwi-exclusive household. Whenever we thought we had made it to the end of the stash, we would find another pink packet hiding in the cracks of the pantry shelves.
I hate strawberry kiwi.
Maybe it’s okay if the juice is gone.
I wonder what creating feels like when it’s not a survival tactic.
Talk soon,
Natahna
The Recommends: The new-to-me album, Waysides, by Bedouine.
Oooh I like this. Your ambition has transformed 🥰 (also that pic of Tom Hanks is everything 🧃)