The Oldest You’ve Ever Been
Recently, I began organising some of my old mementoes and keepsakes that I have languished in boxes in my parent’s attic for years. This was no small undertaking, as I am surprisingly sentimental and have kept all sorts of eclectic items over the years. For example, I found a chewing gum wrapper I kept from the day of my cousin’s christening because I was just so delighted that she was born and wanted to remember that joy. When I was rummaging through my old photos, ticket stubs and friendship bracelets, I came across a tattered old photo of myself. It wasn’t the first time I saw this photo, but something about seeing it now struck me.
In the photo, I am fourteen years old. My Dad took it as a reminder of the first time I rode on the Luas in Dublin. I scanned the photo, eyeing my past self with indecent scrutiny. I have round cheeks and freckles, like now. My hair is light brown or blonde and kind of wispy, like now. My eyes are wide and unguarded, unlike now. This change jarred me, and I found myself unable to let go of the photo. I examined it forensically as if the reflection of my teenage self would eventually start speaking and tell me exactly when my eyes had lost this youthful naivety.
Last week, I was in Dublin for work. April is Autism Acceptance Month, and as I work with autistic adults, there were events to attend and important, necessary conversations to have. I rode the Luas each day, tugging behind me my bag of possessions, cycling through clothes I only wear for work. Uncomfortable, fitted coats and dainty, professional dresses. I cannot wait to tear these clothes from my skin each evening when I get home. I tapped my Leap card, put headphones in and went about my day like all the other commuters. Nothing about this trip felt especially important or special. Yet as I gazed at the photo of myself as a teenager, I couldn’t help but juxtapose who I am now with who I have been.
The truth is that this photo jarred me because it felt like a poignant, inescapable reminder of how little I had changed since I was fourteen and how much I do not like how I have changed. There is a hesitancy in my eyes in that photo that I still have – but now it is coupled with a weariness that I cannot shake. At fourteen, I wanted to be a writer. I still want to be a writer. At fourteen, I believed in the inherent goodness in the world. I still believe in the inherent goodness of the world, just not with quite so much faith in every person I meet. At fourteen, I sat at the kitchen table crying about quadratic equations with my father, and now, at twenty-eight, I sit at the kitchen table crying about how I will never be able to afford to buy a house and despairing that I don’t understand the basics of my own payslip.
I clambered down from the attic, bringing the photo with me, abandoning the rest of my sorting. I tossed the photo on the bed and thought, I know just as little as I did in that photo. Maybe even less because now I don’t even have the hubris of teenage self-belief shielding me from precisely how much I don’t know. Dramatically, I pitched myself onto my bed and thought, despairingly, what’s the point of life if all we’re ever going to do is keep trying to learn the same incessant lesson, which is that we must keep learning? There was a time when that thought would have excited me, but now I feel firmly tired at the thought.
Then my mother’s words floated into my mind, as they so often do when I am fit to wallow at the state of humanity and my own humanity.
This is the oldest you’ve ever been. So, of course, you feel like this is the wisest you should ever be.
She said it not long ago when we were watching Wednesday on Netflix. She’d paused the TV for a moment, then hit play again almost immediately, but I was still reeling, processing her statement. Her words reverberated around my head, clanging and rattling there, forcing me to take notice.
Was this true? Was I going to continue to age for my entire, hopefully long life and perpetually wait for some new level of wisdom to sink in, only to find that life is lived in the pursuit of wisdom that never comes? All because true wisdom simply means going through life as best we can.
Well, what a devastating truth.
To distract myself from this unpleasant thought, I did what I always do and never should: I started scrolling on Instagram. I flicked through the pictures and collages of friends from school and university, the influencers and inspirational quote accounts, seeking something I would not find. Seeking someone who had it all figured out.
One girl I follow has lived in Australia for the last four years. We went to secondary school together, and I always thought she was beautiful. I still think she is, but now it’s like the jealousy is even worse because now she’s beautiful in Australia, in the sun and on the beach.
Another girl I follow has bought a house in Dublin with her partner, and the part of me that fears I will never be financially secure shrinks in shame, wondering almost viciously, how did you do it? What’s your secret?
This is more complicated than the notion that everyone sharing their ‘highlight reels’ on social media is damaging to everyone. This isn’t just a pervasive inferiority complex I’ve developed online – it’s everywhere. I look at people in Dunnes Stores who move calmly through the shop and wanted to implore them to tell me how they can feel calm when the world around us is burning. I examine my peers in our WhatsApp group chats, who tell me of their summer plans, and I feel like breaking the illusion for a moment and asking them all; are you all as panicked as I am? Blink twice if you, too, feel overwhelmed all of the time.
The answer to this problem is appallingly simple. So simple, really, that I’ve always known it. There is no wisdom to seek outside of ourselves, no rule book, guide, or manual for life that becomes miraculously clear at any point in our lives. I am twenty-eight and confused; with any luck, someday I will be eighty-two and confused because that is this life's glorious and painful nature.
And I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we gave ourselves the grace to be confused or allowed ourselves to be so thoroughly unwise that we could make mistakes. How different might our lives be if we allowed ourselves to express our agony at living boldly, with our heads held high, rather than stitching smiles onto our faces and praying no one can see the cracks in our porcelain?
Like, really, will the world collapse if I treat myself to a little iced coffee every now and then? Does that mean I will be a destitute renter for the rest of my life, with no prospects and nothing positive to post on Instagram? Does treating myself with grace, kindness, and a soft hand mean I am to blame for my lack of knowledge about interpreting my payslip?
It seems that as I have grown up, I have come to relate age to wisdom, and therefore I feel increased pressure to have more answers with each passing year. Answers that I imagine those my age and older have acquired almost by osmosis over time. A process I seem to have missed out on.
My grandmother is eighty-five years old, and it is a frequent joke between us cousins that she has been preparing us for her death for many years. Every spring, Nan talks about being unsure if she will see another spring, despite being in perfect health. She says this at Christmastime, too and on her birthday. I’ve been wrong in the past to dismiss her words. I’ve thought her a little daft, or eccentric even, without realising the wisdom of her words.
My grandmother is eighty-five years old, and she holds true wisdom. She knows that the only certain fact in life is uncertainty. She has learned over the years that despite being the oldest she has always been, she is not necessarily any wiser – only even more uncertain about what is to come. It is her frank and honest acknowledgement of this that I have ignored and laughed off all these years.
So, when I look at that photo of myself at the age of fourteen, I might as well be looking at a photo of my future and my past. I will always be the oldest I have always been. I will always seek answers, wisdom, and a map to help me navigate this life.
Last week, at therapy, I said:
“I know this is something I have to work on.”
I had just admitted a rather unpleasant habit, which I feel ashamed about. My therapist leapt to her feet and immediately encouraged me to do so as well. Unsure, I got to my feet, watching as she set about waving her hands over her head in all directions, not entirely unlike a tall tree caught in a blustery breeze.
“What are we doing?” I asked, voice quiet.
“We’re shaking off the shoulds, the have-to’s and the expectations!” She exclaimed, almost gleefully. Soon, my hands were in the air, and I, too, started waving like a possessed tree. Surprisingly, it felt quite freeing.
It is my sincerest wish for us all that we can raise our hands in the air, releasing our constant, incessant search for answers, if only for a moment.
Then, and only then, might we feel entirely ageless.
Write soon,
Jens x