Dearest friend,
"What was I made for?" That’s the million dollar question isn’t it? Even before the Barbie movie. It’s one that’s been plaguing my days as I struggle with my identity post accident.
How are you meant to know? When they ask you when you're little what you want to be when you grow up, it is surely the truly blessed of us that actually recognise the life long lover across the crowded room, the soulmate we will spend our eternity with.
I always knew mine was creativity. Over the years that's taken a few different forms. If I think of it as Barbies on a shelf in those boxes they are tied into (barbaric and a violation, I know), with the numerous accessories necessary for that life, my life’s dreams begin a delightful parade, or fashion show - these are Barbies we’re talking about after all.
There has been Artist Barbie. Crayons, paints, a palette and cute apron (I finally got the cute apron from that era you'll be pleased to know). Costume designer Barbie - she took art & textiles GCSEs and bought a sewing machine (or likely told her mum it was an artefact necessary to the making of her dreams - sorry Mum) only to get scared about going to film school and specialising in that particular area. If I'm honest, I curse my 17 year old self for this. This Barbie will likely always be ‘The One That Got Away’ and I wish I could tell that 17 year old self that it doesn’t matter if she tries and fails, because what if she makes it? Maybe that thought actually scared me more all along.
Then came “The Graphic Designer One”. Blue see-through backed Apple Mac a must. Slightly quirky dress sense - check. University by the sea where you spend your days at the gym / beach / fretting about boys instead of acing classes - also check. Ah, now I can begin to see why none of these have lead to worldwide acclaim and fame.
Whilst the graphic one stuck, quite happily and only cut short by head injury, I can see now that the only accessory I ever really needed is the one that doesn’t come pre-boxed as part of the package to your life’s dreams, the one that you can’t buy.
Confidence.
That one, you see, has been more like pieces picked up throughout a game (to continue the popular game / toy analogy). I just had a whole sack load before the accident, and if I action replay that moment in my head I can see the ‘coins’ (because that game, in my head, is Sonic for some unfathomable reason) leave my body as soon as my head hit the wall. Blood dripping down my face, dazed and confused, I was in no fit state to scrabble around for them as they bounced away.
Here I am, 18 months post accident, pretty sure that the love of my life has moved on. It’s taken a long time to admit that one. I know that as much as I’ve sometimes grieved the death of those Barbies who came before, this one feels like a funeral every day. Every day I get up I don’t get to be that dream version of myself - “the old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now. Why? Oh. Cos she’s DEAD”.
Yup, yes. I absolutely did see the Eras Tour Movie on opening night and it showed me - we all have eras, it’s ok to not be one thing always.
Just the same way that people get divorced after thirty years together. Or change genre of music or film. Or begin painting abstract after a life of fine art.
It’s not only ok to move on to a new era, sometimes - it’s necessary.
So, here I sit at 41, staring at the line of neatly positioned Barbies on the shelf in the shop of life, wondering what I was made for, what I want to be when I grow up. I wonder if I’ll ever “grow up” come to that matter. I oscillate from “Freaking The Fu*k Out” to feeling like at this point in my life, a whole world of opportunity is at my feet, just waiting for me to decide. The weight of that choice feels like a whole ocean on my body. It is both crushing and a thing of infinite possibility and wonder.
As I look out of the window in front of my desk, it’s not a New York City scene à la SaTC era Carrie Bradshaw (Barbie - The Writers Version) as I once dreamed of, but a village with leaves turning golden and hills similarly putting on their autumn.
I was thinking I might go full Carrie with a “and I couldn’t help but wonder…” but then the sun caught the leaves in a pretty way. A bird landed on the tree outside and stared right at me. Another bird landed next to him and the startling of it prompted him to quickly remove himself from the scene. The trees look a heady mix of mournful and magnificent with their fading leaves, and the roof opposite still has loose tiles waiting to be fixed. That all right there is wonder. All of those micro moments of life that I’m lucky to still be around to see.
I don’t have the answers. I mean, I’m not even sure what the question is if I’m brutally honest. My mind was terrible at holding steady onto thoughts before the accident and since, well, ‘tis like herding cats. I can’t help but think though, more a feeling really, in the midsts of all the wondering and wonder itself, that maybe that’s the point? To borrow another Swift-ism - to live for the hope of it all.
To not define ourselves by what we do. To not become the profession that we choose (or chooses us). Instead to live every single sweet moment one note, one brush stroke, one frame, one letter or word at a time. Marvelling at all of it as we go and the beautiful symphony of life that is all around if we can see past the mundane and sometimes menacing parts (I’m looking at you leaky kitchen / roof / broken car and everything falling apart around our ears at the moment), right into the golden good stuff that swirls around just waiting to be discovered as if it were a new galaxy.
Time to finish up for now and go huddle down in front of a fire with a blanket for the evening. I hope that life is treating you kindly? There seems to be a lot of not so marvellous things going on in the world right now. I hope that you are safe, warm and loved (even if only by yourself, actually, especially by yourself - so many good things come from that).
Stay kind and curious.
With love,
V.V
Still with me? I love writing letters, but even more I love getting them back.
What would the Barbie / Ken of your life look like? Drop me a comment below.
Archaeologist Barbie. Dropped (a) because it’s hard to spell, (b) it meant I would be out in the sun all day, (c) my family couldn’t afford for me to go away to university and (d) family also wanted a practical career (as the eldest daughter and grandchild and the first to go to university). Honestly I was scared to do all that. Which brings us to Computer Science Barbie, which didn’t last too long before I was taking admin jobs instead. The Romance Author Barbie, that one is not new in box and looks a bit worse for wear, because I burnt out, but I’m back again, dammit. And Artist Barbie, who looks like Frankie out of “Grace and Frankie” (goals).
I think creativity isn’t a what, it’s a who, part of who we are and how we express ourselves, but I am not clever enough this morning to tie it into Barbies or Eras.
you will rise from this - another new version - a new Barbie who doesn’t care that her hair is deshevelled and her bag last season - or the previous story cut short. Life is too short and you’ ve been through more than the walk through nail bar downtown. I wrapped ribbons to dress my Sindy (not Barbie) and still wrap ribbons now weavng them into bespoke handbags. I have clung on to my passions, wrappng them round my heart - sometimes it has seemed futile and vain - but there is something in the process of perseverance, experience, knockbacks and age that brings a richness and depth to whatever you do next. Your confidence will come back fighting. You will rise 🙏
Luv Alex xx