Listening to “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac as I drove down the highway on my birthday almost brought me to tears. There was something about the way the lyrics mirrored my state of mind: nostalgic, reflective, uncertain. It got me thinking.
The recent U.S. and Puerto Rican elections left me disillusioned, my food insecurity weighed on me, and the quiet dread of aging crept up on me, time slipping through my fingers before I could even grasp it. And then there was me, overanalyzing every step of my journey, wondering how much of my growth was intentional and how much of it had been shaped by the world around me, molding me in ways I never even noticed.
Growing up, I was incredibly shy. I still am in some ways, but back then, it was different. I didn’t just hesitate to speak up, I’d convinced myself that my needs weren’t worth voicing at all. I saw the people around me carrying burdens I couldn’t fully understand, and I decided, without ever really thinking about it, that I wouldn’t add to them. My discomfort, my concerns, my wants — they all felt like inconveniences, like things best swallowed down so that I wouldn’t take up too much space. It became a habit, one that has followed me well into adulthood.
But lately, I’ve been learning. Learning to step outside of that version of myself, the one that thought silence was easier, safer. I’ve been learning that voicing my needs doesn’t mean I’m taking something away from someone else; that advocating for myself isn’t selfish, it’s necessary; that I can hold space for others while also holding space for myself.
And then there’s aging. The part of growing up that I always viewed with apprehension, as if each year that passed was something to mourn. But I’m starting to see it differently now. To grow older with health and a sound mind is not a curse but a privilege that not everyone gets. My grandmother worked tirelessly her entire life until she finally reached an age where she could rest, only for Alzheimer’s to take her away, memory by memory. The cruel irony of it all doesn’t escape me. It makes me think about how often we push joy to the future, how often we tell ourselves we’ll enjoy life once we reach some milestone, only to find that time isn’t as generous as we assumed it would be.
So, as the highway stretched ahead of me and “Landslide” played on, I sat with all these thoughts. The past, the present, the unknown future. The fear and the gratitude, the uncertainty and the hope. And for once, I didn’t try to push any of it away. I just let myself feel it all.