the fearless.

I haven’t blogged in quite a bit. I could waste time updating you on life and why there’s been a lack of words – but I choose to move on.

I have an article to write but all I want to do is jump on my bed while listening to music loudly, mark the days off my calendar as I countdown to the weekend I visit Nashville and read my book about aliens.

Today, today I feel eight. And it feels great.

But I have to write straight lines of words detailing what I’ve learned in the past month or so. Ah, but how can you write about a subject when it feels impossible to learn it all? I feel like I’ve only skimmed the informational top.

The street I take to Cicero has taught me to be aggressive. I used to be a cautious driver, afraid of being sideswiped or rear-ended. I’d suspiciously eye those around me with a hand poised to honk when needed.

But this street, you have to drive like a mad man on this street because everyone around you lost their minds years ago. Homeless men stand in the middle of lanes begging for spare change, pedestrians dodge in and out of traffic like strays and cars wander into the other lane in an attempt to bypass a stopped bus.

I don’t have time to be afraid on this street. Fear would cause me more harm than good, instead I join willingly in the weaving, suddenly stopping without my heart catching in my throat.

If only I could overcome fear this easily in my day-to-day life. What am I scared of? What am I not scared of would be a better question. But I’ve lately realized I’m not alone in this constant state of fear. We’re all afraid of rejection, loneliness, abandonment or failure. Fear makes us hesitate. Fear stops me in my tracks. I doubt myself. It makes my life much more difficult than it should be.

I am so tired of being afraid.

Which is why tonight I am eight.

Because only an eight year old can write a thousand words about a subject that she cannot even begin to understand. Only an eight year old has the audacity to imagine changing the world through her words. This 22 year old is contemplating giving up the idea of a future doing what she loves and settling for something safe. The eight year old shakes her head in confusion with disappointment in her eyes. She believes that the best feeling comes from riding a swing so high your feet touch the sky. She knows that dreams are meant to be dreamt and believes your heart can’t be permanently broken.

I’m an eight year old. A man shook my hand and thanked me for writing a story I’ve yet to begin. A teenager told me she feels she doesn’t belong. A woman fed me and introduced me to her family. Only an eight year old can provide a voice to such beautiful people who are usually ignored.

I think we all need to channel our eight-year-old selves more often. Fear often holds us back. Sure, eight year olds don’t have to worry about bills, employment or debt to the government. But remember what you were worried about when you were eight? Boys. I was mainly concerned about boys. Unfortunately, I’m still slightly concerned about boys. But I don’t worry so much anymore about math, winning at freeze tag or impressing the older kids. Our fears look so much smaller when we realize the world won’t end.

This article won’t write itself. Sure, I may not be the best person to compose it, but I sure am not going to be too scared to at least try.

(Photo credit)