I was born worrying. I spent most of my young life hiding behind comfort blankets, biting my nails and picking at my face among a plethora of anxious mannerisms. I was a straight-up narc, an obsessive rule follower, always the one hanging behind the group saying, “You guys, wait. We’re going to get in trouble!” I was the oldest and only child, reactive and bossy, positive I could control the world if I obsessively thought about it enough.
I lived by a very particular set of rules. I was rigid and uncompromising and set myself to a very strict social script I must absolutely follow in my interactions with the world around me. If I strayed from said script, I was anxious people would find me awkward or unlikable—my script kept me safe.
I also had very irrational fears. In my phase of repetitive movie watching, I particularly enjoyed the cartoon movies on the story of David and Goliath. I probably would watch it four times a day, every day. In the universe I’d built in my mind, I thought that once we died and were buried, we’d actually be buried into an underworld where we could interact with other people who’d passed away. I was anxious about dying and being buried because I was so sure Goliath would find me and bully me throughout the rest of my “dead life.” I was four. My parents confusedly assured me that life doesn’t work that way, and that I would not be dying anytime soon. I eventually digressed.
Growing up, my irrational fears developed into just general anxieties. I’ve always been more sensitive than most people, always hyper aware and analytical about my surroundings. Most of my life has been an exertion of coping mechanisms to protect my mind from the many potentially hurtful things around me. I became socially reserved, fiercely protective and devoted to self preservation. If I didn’t let many people in, if I stayed out of most social situations, I’d be okay. My mind became a natural comfort zone for me. I almost saw no reason to leave it.
In high school, I was deep into my habits: persevering in private or, at times, letting people in too much. I was both unwilling to articulate my worst anxieties and hurts but perfectly willing to entertain all of them.
It took me way too long to realize this shouldn’t be the way to live my life.
In college, I eventually found that my deepest joys stem from what I’d always considered to be my weaknesses. I’d always deemed my empathy to be a dangerous vulnerability; now it is a valued attribute of my character. I can understand anyone, whether I agree with them or not, and be able to tell their stories from their point of view. I’ve found that revelling in the most genuine parts of myself and sharing them with other people can lead to beautiful experiences. I’ve found that opening up to people won’t always end awfully.
I still struggle with concealing myself too much—I think I’ll always be that way. But working this job, exposing my creative visions and pouring passionately every week into something that I can be proud of has been the most healing thing I’ve ever taken part of. It has forced me out of my comfort zone consistently and has forced me to understand that my voice can be valued and respected. Most importantly it’s taught me to trust and rely on other people, even when I don’t want to.
Fortunately, my Accent team this year has seen me in all states. They’ve seen me celebrate issues close to our hearts, they’ve seen me impatient, struggling to keep my composure, and they’ve seen me sob uncontrollably, stressed and sleep deprived. They are the smartest, funniest and overall most amazing people I’ve ever worked with, and I treasure them more than I can articulate. Thank you for helping carry out the vision.
And to all of you, our readers, who have let me celebrate your cultures, who have encouraged me and let me be vulnerable with you this year: Never stop telling your stories, never stop sharing your art and never stop celebrating and empowering the people around you. These are the heart of diversity.