The Transition Artist

Sometimes I try to remember what it felt like the first time I made a friend. 

The furthest back I can remember using the term “best friend” I think was when I told my parents and anybody who asked that a little girl I spent all my time running around and holding hands with in my first pre-school was my best friend. I don’t remember what it was that made me decide that she was my favorite friend, but I also don’t remember it being a matter of consideration. I didn’t analyze how much we had in common, nor did I think about whether or not we “really got each other.” I just knew that there was somebody I could count on to giggle with me as we jerked each other back and forth around the playground, playing this game and then that one, sprinting breathlessly and without cause, forever tethered by tiny cupped fingers.

I didn’t question the strong bond implied in the term best friends because there was no need to. I wasn’t afraid that one day I would come to school and Amber Lee wouldn’t be there anymore. The blissful play of my childhood was privileged with naivety; worry for the future was completely irrelevant. It never crossed my mind that I could one day be standing on the playground alone, with no one’s hand to hold.

But a decade and a few years later, I’ve found myself in the midst of the process of shedding that blissful ignorance to worry and realized I’ve landed right in the middle of what everyone seems to fondly refer to as “growing up.” In this phase there is no playground, and finding hands to hold has become a very intentional process. There are a myriad of terms, like “adult” and “independent,” that come along with this stage, implying some sort of overnight miracle of transforming from a carefree, hand-holding child one day to a high functioning, contributing member of society the next. As lovely as the image of this quick transformation is, it doesn’t come without growing pains.

In the past two weeks, I’ve gone from “developing young adult,” visiting family and friends back in Houston, to what I’m affectionately calling “slightly functioning, mostly independent young adult,” living in a little apartment in the Montmartre area of Paris, completely on my own for the first time in my entire life. Though simple things like waking up on my own, locking the door behind me, or preparing myself a meal are not new phenomenon, other pieces of my day-to-day routine are. I come home to a quiet, empty space. The dishes in the sink are mine, and don’t care, frankly, how my day was. No one offers to pick something up at the grocery store for me, and, when I have an idea to share, the nearest pair of available ears are my own, save the exchanges of text messages and FaceTime calls.

As a highly emotive and externally processing human being, living not only alone, but far away from even my nearest friend sort of felt like showing up to the playground alone every now and then for the first couple of days. Though I quite enjoy my own company, by about the third time I decided to go read my book on the terrace of a nearby cafe for a change of scenery and heard myself saying, “A table for one, please,” as I glanced at clusters of friends and couples chatting at their own tables, all of a sudden I felt the emptiness of my hands despite the book clasped between them. All of a sudden “adult” and “independent” felt like two words on a list of responsibilities I had acquired, that contained the subheadings of “reaching out” and “nurturing relationships.” But I was not saddened by this realization. Sobered, perhaps, but not sad. I simply felt this familiar push into a time and space I felt a little bit uncomfortable in, but would grow into.

Being on my own in a big city, though I haven’t been doing it for long, has already proved to be one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever had the privilege of experiencing. There is a lot of self love that has to happen when you are the only person to come home to and pick apart your day with, and there is a great amount of grace and patience that I’ve allotted to allowing myself do things non-conventionally. Sometimes I have to remind myself that there is no right way to go about figuring out how to do life on my own. Every day I wake up and make the active decision to either stay put or venture out. There is no one here to sway me one way or another. So, I spend about 50 percent of my time just hanging out with my new roommate (…ha ha), and the other 50 making time to make the trek across town to spend time with friends that make me feel loved and valuable and a little more sane. I know I’m not the first girl to ever move to a new area and a new apartment by herself, and I certainly won’t be the last, but I like to believe that I will be the one who talks about it as though she’s finally getting to know herself. I will be the one who is not worried that, even as she stands alone at the center of a busy playground, there may not be a hand to hold.