All dem stories we tell ourselves
“The demon that you can swallow gives you its power and the greater life’s pain, the greater life’s reply.”
- Nietzsche
When I first read this quote in The Rise, my eyes watered a little. The words hit home.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the stories we tell ourselves about our lives, and more specifically, the stories I’ve told myself about my life.
In the last week of August, I decided to do a #solocation (solo vacation for those not well-versed in Millennial talk, or more broadly, in words I invent) in the hopes of clearing my head and working on some inner work.
One of the questions I would attempt to explore, I decided on my train from Paris to Bretagne, was this idea of the stories I’ve been telling myself about all the experiences I’ve had, living on two continents and changing homes every 2 years, on average.
I imagined me sitting on the beach, writing in my blue journal and having revelations of all sorts.
Instead, I’ve just been #straightupchillin, too scared to actually attempt to write anything.
But Nietzche’s quote hit home…and so I had to sit down and write something, or otherwise, I would have signed myself off as an eternal lazy loser who won’t accomplish anything since I can’t even gather some willpower to write a few paragraphs about a topic I decided I wanted to write about.
So here it goes my dear ones…(or ‘my dear one’, depending on how many people actually read this) — writing from my apartment overlooking a beautiful dock, jambon-beurre-emmental sandwich in my hand, on my second cup of milky English breakfast tea, ’Douces Vibes’ playing on my Spotify.
. . .
When I think about my past, one specific image is entrenched in my memory. After my very first year abroad — as a high school exchange student in Schenectady, NY (yeah, don’t attempt to pronounce it) — I’m sitting at the airport on my way back to Macedonia, sobbing uncontrollably at how profoundly sad I felt leaving the friends I made and my very first ‘boyfriend’ I met during the year abroad (special shoutout to Vane from Colombia).
I truly felt heartbroken and as if my soul was crying out loud, broken by the separation from these people I considered so very close.
Now I do realize that this may sound wayyyy too dramatic, but for little Boni’s heart (that’s what they called me in the U.S.), it was too much to take.
In a way, this image imprinted in my memory reveals how I would later see the 10 years since I left home at age of 17. I’ve had incredible experiences, but somehow, I look back at them with nostalgia, a ball forming in my throat as I think about all the people I’ve left behind in the name of progress and success. Maybe I’m too sensitive and melancholic, but in all truthfulness, this is how I see the past 10 years.
All the goodbyes I had to say and the ‘see you soon’s’ without actually knowing when and if I’ll see these people again. All the little tears I’ve shed looking through a plane’s window on my way to start a new adventure (though admittedly, in much less dramatic fashion as that time I was sobbing alone in the airport in Schenectady).
But Nietzche’s quote begs for a new kind of perspective. A perspective of strength and abundance. And in the name of attempting to re-write my story — or in any case how I see my story — I owe it to myself to attempt to imprint — or simply add — another image of the last 10 years of my life.
. . .
Indeed, I’ve swallowed a few beasts myself, but boy have I grown so much from them.
Here are a few other images that come to mind when I think of the past 10 years:
- The pride I felt walking my parents and brother across my campus at Goshen College, people congratulating me and my parents on the person I’ve grown into in those 4 years in Indiana
- Thanksgiving at the Gustlers with Duane making me his famous cocktails and the hours we spent just talking about everything and nothing
- Raising enough money to buy a flight ticket to go home for Christmas
- Being awarded a journalism award in my very first year in the U.S. and then again in college
- Moving into my very first apartment in Dallas with my roommate Shristika, and hosting our very first housewarming party (as the real adults we were, we served cheese and grapes on crackers and wine)
- Going out to Seattle with my roommate, driving our landlord’s car for the first time after I got my driving license
- Having my interns at my second job give me a poster with “world’s best boss”
- Laughing our butts off and goofing around at this summer camp I attended with Khadija in Slovenia
- Laughing our butts off and trying not to get dengue fever with Natalie and Joyce in Bali
- The nightly brushing teeth sessions with Aisha and Nigel in Japan
- The soul-soothing coffee dates with Nona and Sofia
- The metro ride with Sila when we couldn’t stop laughing at our failed attempts to speak French
- My morning coffees in Toulouse overlooking brick houses in one of the coziest apartments I ever lived in
- Sunsets in Cape Town
- Dancing to Hindi tunes in a speakeasy bar with Sila and Saakshi in Paris
- Feeling the fresh air and sense of freedom on that weekend in St. Malo
. . .
Yes, the last 10 years may have involved a lot of heartbreaks, tears, and nostalgia.
But the last 10 years have also brought me strength that I wouldn’t have had, had I not left Macedonia when I was 17.
The woman that I’m trying to become — a bada$$, fearle$$ human being — requires certain types of sacrifices and pain. A life of meaning (and adventure) requires pain and that’s something I have to accept.
Because, if I had to choose between living a meaningful life (and the required pain that comes with it) and a life with no pain but not much meaning either, I’ll choose the former every.single.day.
As a society, increasingly obsessed with the idea of happiness, we tend to view pain as something bad and to be avoided. But as my friend Nietzsche so eloquently put it, our lives expand when we face and overcome pain.
It is perhaps time to let go of the idea that a good life is a pain-free life and start appreciating the pain that comes along with growth, adventure, and meaning.
One way to do this, I believe, is to try to change the way we look at our story.
