Just this week my friend Elle reminded of her impression of me, before we met me and the events that led to us becoming friends. I know the story, of course. I was there. But what I don’t have a clear grasp of, is her physical and mental impression of it. The best version I know is my version.
Back when I was a single mother in my first apartment with my 8-year-old daughter, a woman, Elle, contacted me out of the blue. She stumbled across my personal website that touted me as an artist, author and creator of the Hodaoa-Anibo language. I was proud of that site by the way.
She contacted me via email and through our back and forth exchange, we found we had a lot in common. Of course, then, we decided to get on the phone and chat. When we did finally talk, we spoke like we already knew each other. She asked if I’d be interested in participating in a project she was part of with other creative and business minded women to create a journal to help empower women. I agreed.
After the project was done, Elle continued to call me. To chat. Every time she called, I was like, why is she still calling me? She wanted nothing other than to see how I was doing. I was confused, because it seemed people didn’t do that anymore. She kept calling. And one day, I called her. Just to see how she was doing. I realized then, that I had made a friend.
While working on an empowerment book for woman, Elle, came across a website of this girl (she thought I was younger than I actually was), me, who was an artist who had the audacity to create another language. She thought I was brilliant and had to contact me to see if she’d be a part of the book she and another friend was publishing.
She loved what I did and admired my spirit, and though she was a little older, felt I was engaging – a force. What she also liked, was that though I recognized her abilities and was fascinated by her accomplishments, I didn’t fawn all over her as others have done when she attempted to be their friend. She liked the fact that I wanted nothing from her. So, she kept calling me.
When she recalled this version again, her impression of me before she knew me, I remembered who I was then. I remembered my impatience to make things happen. However, I also remembered the journey of a thousand defeats, and how my patience grew longer and longer to a point of suspension of expectation. Not a healthy place to be if you’re trying to make things happen.
She doesn’t know it, but I’m grateful for this recent conversation. It puts a little more fire under me to move a little faster. To do a little more. To expect more.
As I’m going through this “re-awakening,” maybe you might want to remember the vibrant parts of your younger self too. I’m sure you’re better than who you used to be, but part of who you used to be might have been really, really good too!
I wish you the best!