Advice from an idealist
By MOLLY THOMPSON – mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu
I tend to think about romance a lot. I don’t know if it’s a product or a cause of my habits, but I’ve always had a not-insignificant portion of my maladaptive brainspace dedicated to fantasies of grandeur and melodrama. Maybe I can blame it on Taylor Swift’s “Fearless” album or Emily Henry’s “Beach Read,” or maybe it’s just the way that I am that causes my affinity for such hopelessly romantic media, but the fact is true regardless: I have big dreams and an overactive imagination.
I’ve always felt like my brain was much more powerful than my body — like I could dream up far more than I could manifest. And, while I haven’t lost my propensity for idealism, I’ve certainly learned to embrace a more realistic perspective than I was capable of exhibiting when I was younger. But, if I could go back in time — if I could give myself and my notorious flights of fancy a little advice — this is what I’d want to say.
I would tell 13-year-old me to take a deep breath. She was good at listening to her gut and avoiding people that weren’t good for her, but she was so scared that she took it too far. Like when the boy from choir asked her out (a few days after Valentine’s Day because he chickened out), it was fine for her to say no but it was probably overkill to avoid his eye contact for eight months afterwards. The deep, heavy feeling of dread in her stomach was important to acknowledge, but to her detriment, she let it consume her. She loved romance in theory — she played “How You Get The Girl” from 1989 on a loop every day and re-read “The Selection” series like it was a competitive sport — but the reality of it intimidated her. I wish I could tell her that the stakes aren’t as high as they feel, and that it’s not scary when it’s the right person. I also wish I could tell her to ditch the side bangs.
At 16, my romanticism began to grow intertwined with anxiety. The fantasies of my mid-high school self were as robust as ever, fueled by the “folklore” album and Rainbow Rowell’s vampire stories. She was so passionate about the classic euphoria of love that she perceived in songs, books and movies — and now between her friends — that it bordered on desperation. She lacked a lot of the quintessential experiences she witnessed her peers celebrating, and it gave her an insurmountable amount of angst. I don’t blame her for all the yearning, but I wish I could tell her to trust the process.
At that age, with so little on the horizon and no way to fathom what the future could hold, it’s hard not to let the fear of missing out (FOMO) drive you a little insane. Uncertainty is terrifying, but I think a little reassurance would have done her a lot of good. I’d promise her that everything works out for the best, and that while the waiting game feels like it takes forever, it’s worth it: She’ll get her moment when she’s ready. I’d also tell her to please, please ditch the pink eyeshadow.
Age 19 is an infamously paradigmatic time for acquiring excruciating dating stories that mature into laughable, character-building events a few years down the line (and a few more notches in your belt). Running on “The Tortured Poet’s Department” and Ali Hazelwood novels, my 19-year-old self had been through the frustration of being a late bloomer and the overwhelmingness of her first year of college, and was ready to take some risks.
She had a good time, but she didn’t know how to leave well enough alone. She clung (for far too long) to something that was, as she described it herself, “a love never destined to outlast a tryst” (I’m insufferable sometimes). More than anything else, I wish I could tell her that it’s going to hurt — like slowly tearing off a Band-Aid for the masochism of it when you know you should just spare yourself and rip it off all at once — but it’s going to be an incredible learning experience. I’d tell her that I’m proud of her for letting go and letting herself take a trust fall, and that I’m even more proud of her for picking herself up when she landed on the cold, hard ground. I’d tell her that the lessons it taught her are worth all the bereft and reeling, but I just might tell her to break it off in September instead of letting it linger and macerate until December.
At 21-years-old, I’m still learning and working to figure out myself and my flight-risk mind. But I like to think that I’ve learned something over the last few years. I’m not always the best at taking my own advice, but that’s not for a lack of trying. In a few years, I’ll look back with lessons that I wish I could impart on myself now. But, if my past patterns have taught me anything, it’s to relax, stop putting so much pressure on everything and, above all, to have faith in letting the chips fall as they may. It’s worked out so far: I’m more settled and happy than I’ve ever been before. So, why shouldn’t it continue to work out in the future?
I think if my younger self could see me now, she’d be thrilled. Some of her grand romantic dreams have come true, and while some of them never will, there will be more in store for her that she could have ever imagined.
Just as I have the lessons of my past experiences to thank for my ability to experience things as I do now, my future self will be even more well-equipped to handle whatever’s thrown her way — all because of the things I undergo now. Life is not predictable, but it’s often better this way. Sometimes it feels like a nightmare, but sometimes it feels like a fantasy. It’s all part of the game.
Written by: Molly Thompson — mmtthompson@ucdavis.edu
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