I am always asked why I don’t pursue my passion. Why I don’t take the risks to go after what I want to. Told I am young, it is the time to leap without the certainty of landing on my feet, “that’s what your twenties are for”. But they don’t get it.
They don’t understand the burdens, the traumas, the fears instilled from instability. The concern of higher education, of food, or unforeseen expenses. They see me as beyond it, taking care of myself with an income and home, but it’s found a way to strike again.
Years later, with a perceived sense of freedom, getting a call that something has happened, gone wrong, and no longer just being a care taker, but jumping to a role of extreme self-awareness. When I cannot complain for the stressors building on my shoulders, for at least I have sources of income.
Thoughts racing with balancing, minimizing, saving, permeating through every aspect. The alarm has sounded and the trauma has struck again, but this time blind-sidedly.
I wish to travel, to photograph, to write, to take the risks to get me there. Yet as soon as I assume the courage, a tsunami strikes, engulfing my stability, sweeping me off my feet, placing a burden on me I struggle to carry yet do so, while hiding the strain on my face and the pain in my heart, for at least now I know the horrid side effects to expect.