Wanting to take more responsibility for things I can change. Giving up feelings of responsibility for things I can’t change. Not exactly giving fewer fucks, but redistributing where fucks are given.
Mum had cancer last year. They caught it in time and it was all out and over quickly, but it was still quite the reminder of mortality. Which hasn’t made me want to rush out and do a million things all at once, but I’m more determined to be satisfied with life — at least under normal circumstances when nothing terrible is happening — than I was before. I’m still plagued by shyness but I’ve been fighting it a bit more, and so far the sky hasn’t fallen in.
Realising that teenage fears still somehow linger. What will they think? Oh, they think I’m ugly and such a dork. I won’t try to do that thing — I’d better just hide back here, away from judging eyes. Shit sticks. But time takes a toilet brush, puts it in your hand…
A sense of less to lose. It isn’t just that time is shorter. Once upon a long time ago I thought I had to be perfect. I’m still a perfectionist in some things, and I would hesitate to say that perfectionism is always bad. But I’ve had the experiences of failure and of being a mess — not poked away in a cupboard, but a mess right out on the floor where everyone can see it. So there’s less of a sense of a facade to be maintained or any kind of record of high achievement to preserve.