Once in a while I like to look through my old pictures. Of which, as an amateur photographer, I have a real abundance. It’s one of my main aids in the battle against darker times. Works wonders when crippling doubts are driving me mad. They put things in perspective.
I used to think I’ve done everything in my life either wrong or way too late. To be totally honest, some part of me is still wrestling with that thought.
For starters, I messed up my Matura exam (82% on advanced is nowhere near what I would call a failure nowadays, but it was then), which meant I didn’t get into my dream Uni and went to study English in my little hometown. Living with my parents, while all of my friends moved out to start their adventurous student lives all over Poland, I felt like a prize failure. Took me a few years to realise that I actually followed my heart and went studying what I wanted rather than where I wanted. It was the opposite of failure, really, it was the first sign of some integrity. However, the feeling of defeat back then was so strong that I retook the exam a year later and improved it by ridiculous 2%. Universe was clearly telling me it wasn’t meant to be.
Then I didn’t write my MA thesis on time and took an extra year at Uni. Terrified of what people may think of me (such a failure!), I got a job in a party hostel and joined a postgraduate course which I absolutely hated. Just to appear busy enough. Took me another few years to realise that I was just scared to death of ‘an adult life’ (i.e. responsibilities) and was subconsciously postponing the moment when I’d have to decide where and what to do next.
Then I moved to London (which was my dream for years) and felt like a complete failure yet again, because I met plenty of fearless people who did it earlier than me, without any language education background, and they thrived! London was at their feet. As much as I wanted to belong there with them, deep down I just knew I didn’t. I’ve got no clue of who I was and what I was doing. And so, after three months, I moved onto another adventure.
Out of planned 3, I spent 8 months in Edinburgh: first working at a terrible coffee shop in the bank, then at the reception in the hostel chain, which I liked but didn’t love. In the meantime my health deteriorated a bit and my mind went all wonky. So even though I loved Edinburgh dearly (way more than London), I gave up on it and came back home. Hello failure, my old friend!
After two turbulent months I decided to try my luck in London again. And failed. Or not tried hard enough. Either way, I came back home for another two months and that’s when something in me finally broke. I hit the rock bottom and started crawling back up.
When I moved to Edinburgh for the second time, my attitude was entirely different. Within the first year I’ve realised that my dream of nomadic life was not really mine. Yet another thing I failed to do right, no surprise. But it also dawned on me that it could feel right, that I may actually want to try here: stay for longer, build a life, make it my harbour, my place.
I stopped chasing the impossible, and instead of looking for my purpose somewhere far, I started paying attention to what was in front of me. I started working with what I got. It didn’t click straight away, but it was a turning point in my view, and therefore also in my life. Ever since then, I’m on pretty secure way up. Sure, occasionally I do take a few steps back, or trip over and spend a while lying there, miserably. But overall I feel like I’m moving forward. And what’s most important: in the right direction. Right for me, that is.
I’ve just turned 30. I was afraid I’d arrive here with this overwhelming feeling of failure that accompanied me for the most of my 20s. Failure of not achieving anything significant, not amounting to anything. And yeah, sure, for some dumb modern standards, I probably am a massive failure. But who cares? According to my own standards, I actually excelled. There’s never too late for a change and failures should really be celebrated. Loudly. Simply because without them we wouldn’t know shit about life. Or ourselves.
It took me a solid decade to arrive at a point when I feel good about my body, my life, my choices and my so-called failures. When I’m actually proud of myself and my journey so far.
I’m 30 and hopeful.
I have that longed-for peace of mind and some plans.
What life is going to make out of them is a different story.
Maybe later rather than sooner, but I know I’ll be fine, in the end.
Otherwise it’s not yet the end.
