The Mission
Over 6 months ago, I decided I wanted to share my art and writing again. I put together a new website, started creating a new brand, and finalized almost every little detail to be ready to publish. The only thing left, was to write the opening blog post, with the intention to announce my revival as a creator who uses art as a way to heal and overcome. I had just left inpatient treatment, and like usual, I left with tremendous hope and positive energy, thinking this time will be truly be different, and I'm never going to have to be admitted again. The thing is, it's more complicated than just deciding to overcome what's been taunting me for the majority of my adult life. No matter how much logic, awareness, and determination is put forth to infiltrate the decision making process, I am left defeated when I make choices that I consciously know don't align with my values and my mission. After a while, I started left feeling like a fraud, and it felt like creating had lost its magic. Life had lost its magic. What was the point of publishing the website, if I lost the connection to what the mission was. The mission might look different as time goes by and continues to go by, but ultimately I create to survive.
If you asked me before college what I wanted for myself, I probably couldn't have answered. If anything, it was a typical timeline, graduating with my degree in biomedical engineering, getting a good job and starting a family. Mostly, everything I worked towards was to play college soccer. Life beyond that was rarely thought about, and for a while I was on top of the world, everything coming together with ease. Little did I know, that image would be shattered.
For a while, I still believed that I would sit out from playing just until the concussions were gone, I would step back out on the field and finish my college soccer career with a lasting impact. I would wear number 11 with pride and create memories to cherish. Looking back, I wish someone would have pulled me aside earlier and told me to stop trying. I clung onto a reality that was far out of reach for too long. Even today, I still grieve the outcome of years of hard work and sweat. However, I know now that losing that part of me opened the doors for something greater: meaning and purpose.
It's taken a long time to reflect with grace, knowing that there was great lessons and how it lead me to somewhere I couldn't even imagine. Even with everything I've been through, I routinely acknowledge that by losing soccer I gained an opportunity to explore something new. I realized there was so much more to to me than being an athlete, and somewhere along the line I began creating someone new, as if my soul was the ultimate piece of art. The beauty of the struggle has allowed me to expand what's important, killing off old ways of sabotage through daily efforts of choosing different. My identity no longer depends on performance or status, but rather how it feels to engage with the present moment.
Although I would do anything to have another chance, I recognize at this point I can choose to linger among what could've been, or I can take my fighting spirit forward through acceptance and hope. Originally beginning out of desperation to communicate the tremendous suffering I held inside, now to bring beauty out of daily struggles. Being forced to leave soccer was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. It broke down my identity, leaving me to scramble and collect a new way of life. I changed majors at college, and from there I knew that art is what I wanted to pursue. A teammate I grew close with introduced me to a new way of life, one filled with expression and curiosity. Little did I know that the first journal I was gifted would lead to over 20 filled over the past 10 years. Now, I venture forward amongst those pages, looking to integrate the past into the present, so maybe I can finally live free. I've made a promise to myself, and that's to share my story while breath is still in my body.
Going forward, I will be unraveling the various sketches and writing that resides in the years of notebooks. Each page, each pen stroke, hold within both the triumphs and the confusion. I always thought my life would end before I got a chance to tell my story, but I remind myself that if I stay in this world, the magic will always return. It might not stay forever, but enough to hold onto, knowing that I am not the only one fighting for their life. To get through, I must feel, and to feel, is to be alive. Here's to the ultimate game, the game of life, one I am grateful to still have another chance to fight for.
