On the day I found out my dad had a year to live, I was standing at work, typing away stupidly about something I can’t remember now. And in an instant, I was catapulted into a terrible grief I knew nothing about. Like a dark room I’d never entered, feeling my way around. Gemma called my boss, my colleagues, and my best friends. Ordering one to give me time off, to get coffee, and to buy moving boxes. In the apartment, I couldn’t even remember my own name. Gemma found my passport, called my sister and arranged a pick up, and booked my flight for the next morning. Early but not too early, because she said I needed sleep. How do I even begin to pack right now? Gemma told everyone what to do. She put on my favourite songs, Taylor Swift, whom she didn’t particularly care for, and made the executive decision to toss my near-empty shampoo bottles. We walked through a handful of outfits I’d need - certainly comfy ones - as Gemma proposed. And when I’d come back to collect my t...
The bad news, and the very very good news is that it won't be like this forever. It turns out I probably won’t live all the lives I thought I would. I might never be the girl who wears eyeliner wandering the streets of New York City in the rain. Or the girl who lives in a little house filled with plants by the beach. I might not ever get to go backstage with the band, or fly on a private jet. I might not have gardens to walk through or a sky rise office to look out from. I don’t know. I might. But I’m coming to terms with the fact that my life is just my own and there’s no amount of Pinterest pictures or Instagram stories that will make my pieces fit into something else. It’s weird to let go of that. That when I was 11 I had no idea who I would be at 15. And then I thought I knew. And then I thought I knew again after that. And now I think I know at 21. And the truth is I never will know, not until my very last day, when I look back and realize what it all ...