I recently made a major discovery about myself that shook me to the core. In some ways, I've always known it, but I never truly grasped its impact. People see me as someone who is organized, methodical and effortless in control. But if they would have known me as a child, they would have witnessed a very different reality. Yes, I've always craved order around me, but younger me was a logistical disaster. Born with my head in the clouds and an intensely introspective nature, I struggled with basic navigational and organizational skills. I could never find my way. Once, I set out to show my aunt the toy store in my tiny hometown - only to wander in circles, hopelessly lost. Another time, I got disoriented in my friend's house, although in my defense it was at night and I was had just woken up. My absentmindedness meant I was constantly losing or forgetting items, too wrapped up in daydreams to register my surroundings. Each time, I was reprimanded. And with every scolding, shame burned deeper. I became determined to "pull myself together" - to never give anyone the reason to blame me. I wanted to be someone other people could trust. So, I trained myself to be more vigilant, to hold on to my belongings with an iron grip. It worked - I lost fewer things. But the cost was an ever-present anxiety, a quiet relentless fear of slipping up, of being found lacking.
In spite of these challenges, there’s a silver lining: it has made me unexpectedly productive. I still get lost—both on winding streets and in my own thoughts—a gentle reminder that the daydreamer in me remains alive. After all, no one is born with an innate mastery of life’s practicalities; we learn them slowly along the way. As a child, one isn’t expected to shoulder such responsibilities, and we eventually refine our skills through trial and error. Which is true to a certain extent. Because for me, even the simplest tasks—navigating a car ride in a new environment, planning a dinner party, cleaning a room and assembling furniture —still feel like intricate puzzles and often leave me exhausted. When I think of it, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’ve traveled so much without completely losing my way.
Still, there’s a persistent whisper inside that warns me not to strive for perfection, for fear of betraying the absentminded charm I cherish. The more flawlessly I manage my daily tasks, the more I yearn to break free and embrace a touch of whimsical spontaneity—a reminder that imperfection, too, can be a work of art.
Just yesterday, I talked this over with my sister—only to walk out of her house promptly forgetting my keys. Proof that my whimsical, absentminded child is still very much alive. And I promise I will do my best to let it slide and remember that I’m keeping it together pretty well, after all.
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