Becoming Deliciously Strange
Growing older is an art of turning back to yourself.
At a certain age, people tend to teach you how to belong, how to sit, and how to speak cautiously.
They teach us how to laugh and how to dream. They tell us that it is important to cover our sore spots with smiles and spotless clothing. The world only rewards those who know how to make themselves recognizable.
Then time shifts, and change is bound to happen.
We start losing people. We start surviving humiliations and insults. Our plans collapse as if they were made of damp paper houses. And suddenly, one fine day, we begin to realize that we are exhausted from trying to please others and performing according to their expectations. Slowly, we realize that we have become a version of ourselves that is entirely different from who we wanted to be.
That realization is horrifying.
As we grow older, we become weird. We begin doing things that once made us feel embarrassed. We start wearing colors we were once not comfortable with. We dance while doing our daily chores.
We develop firm opinions about everything and anything. We start conversing about tea, rain, handwriting, and the smell of old books. We stop apologizing for our weirdness. We stop shrinking our excitement when something beautiful happens, even if we didn’t expect it.
The odd thing is that the transformation really hits differently. It feels dramatic and overwhelming. It happens slowly and gradually, like climbing the side of an abandoned wall.
We come to the realization that we do not need an invitation anymore and that it feels better to be alone than to be forced into conversation. We eventually understand that the life that we were afraid others would judge is the only one that feels bearable.
There is a quiet strength in becoming peculiar.
Age loosens the control
Experience breaks the mold
Heartache shifts the values
Failure shreds vanity
The result is frequently a much more honest person than the previous one.
A little stranger and a little freer.
Maybe this is the hidden reward of growing old.
We stop asking the question, “Will they accept me?”
This changes everything.
We slowly start finding ourselves. We realize that there is nothing more rewarding than impressing ourselves, not the crowd. We become more focused on protecting our fragile and magnificent oddness than waiting for someone else’s validation.
The original self waits patiently, humming songs that no one can hear.