When I was younger, one day I decided I wanted to leave home - and move into the garage. I would guess I was around 10. I felt ready for the next phase of my life, craving more freedom to come and go as I pleased. I packed a bag and off I went, out the back porch and across the concrete driveway, a full eight steps to my new abode.
I have a tendency to romanticise and embellish the idealised future. My jaunt to the garage was exactly that. I got carried away with thoughts of my escape and the wonders it would bring living under a roof all by myself. The reality of the garage was something I’d neglected to consider, and neglected it was. The smell of damp wafted persistently up my nose, cobwebs hung ominously from the exposed rafters, and the chill from the lack of insulation due to the single skin brick eventually took its toll.
All in all, I think the big move lasted approximately two hours.
As well as moving out, another symbol epitomising adulthood for me at that time seemed to be drinking tea while eating custard creams. The ritualistic importance of it clung to me. I once tried to make my own tea using the water from the hot tap in the bathroom sink. The water that came from a large tank in the loft. It was disgusting. Why did I do it? Maybe it was the secrecy I found thrilling. Or maybe I was so young that I wasn’t allowed to use the kettle. I may have been ‘rebelling’ but I still followed the rules. Strictly loopholes only.
The two memories - moving into the garage and making tea from the bathroom sink - are entwined for me. I’m not sure if they happened on the same day or were part of the same plot. I have a memory of drinking tea and eating custard creams in the garage, but that could have been an actual tea (kettle made). It may also not be a memory at all, merely one of my visions for the blissful adult life I imagined leading in the garage. Regardless, my desire for independence was clear.
Last week, I went to Somerset House to see the Sony World Photography Awards Exhibition. My route took me to Temple, and when I left the station, I was immediately transported back to my commute for university. The first time I would have come to Temple, making the short walk up to the Strand for lectures would have been nearly ELEVEN years ago. I almost choked at the thought.
There once was an 18-year-old version of me, longing so hard for independence, that she moved from a small village to London and refused to entertain the idea of going to uni anywhere else. I remember wanting to feel overwhelmed; a campus uni felt suffocating to me by comparison. I needed anonymity and the freedom to lead a life somewhere beyond my studies, too. The idea of predictability at that time repelled me, flinging me straight into the arms of the freedom I’d been itching for.
Sometimes, from flashes of these memories and others, I find it hard to reconcile the bravery shown by younger versions of myself. Not necessarily the one who needed independence - she’s continued to persist, often too much for her own good. But one who dared to take action, be bold, and try something new. The one willing to take a risk. She’s still there inside me, somewhere. Though I’ve found it increasingly difficult to give her the airtime she deserves.
Who am I today? I am cautious and averse to making decisions where I feel out of my depth. I struggle to push myself even an inch outside of my comfort zone. I bask in the familiar and the things I can control. I’m doing a disservice to the young girl who wouldn’t let the fear of being wrong get in her way.
We can learn many things from listening to our younger selves, particularly when approaching the world through their hope and resilience. I look at myself now with a wish to find more confidence. It was already there, patiently waiting to be found.
