On Living Unapologetically

A group of friends and I were hanging out a few nights ago, like we routinely find ourselves doing after the activities of the day have fizzled out. It was rainy, and the last few hours of daylight were barely holding on as the sun gently sank beneath the clouds, casting the sky in cool, greyish-blue hues. Naturally, this weather confined us indoors. We sprawled out in our designated corners, simply enjoying each other’s company while each doing our own thing.  

I had just bought new roller blades, which I decided to test on the carpet as I weaved between the group. Another friend of mine fetched his own pair, and we skated out into the hall, humoring hallmates who walked past. My friend was a conditioned skater, effortlessly gliding down the hall as he did jumps and spins through corridors. I, on the other hand, looked a bit more like a frazzled giraffe, clinging onto whatever surface was friendly enough to support my lack of balance. But we had fun, and my previous muscle memory from ice-skating kicked in to the point where I no longer needed to grasp at the door frames like a toddler. 

Rolling down the hallways, despite my clumsiness, I noticed how both how thrillingly freeing skating was, and also considered how unnerving it would be to do on my own. Even if I practiced enough to be fluid, the idea of going out alone in public and rolling around campus sent enough jitters through my veins to prompt some sort of nerve-induced anaphylactic shock. Even though I was getting the swing of things, I was still that clumsy giraffe—one of the many animals that travel in groups for safety purposes. It’s a lot easier to glide around campus with a friend in tow to catch your fall.  

Eventually, we wore ourselves out, retreating once again to the room. Our other friends took our exhaustion as a reminder that it was getting late, and they gathered their things and left. But the two of us stayed. It was my room—my call to kick my rollerblading companion out for the night, especially since my roommate was gone for the evening. I had class early the next morning, so I knew I’d better start prepping for bed. But I didn’t. Maybe it was my extreme avoidance of confrontation, or maybe it was instinct, but something told me to wait.  

I’ve noticed there’s something about the innate quietness of night that allows us to really open up. Darkness, in some ironic way, gives us the courage to have the raw conversations that the day’s transparency deems too real to speak into existence. My friend and I’s conversation emerged subtly, like abstract strokes on canvas finally taking form—but then we were painting, discussing our pasts—the things we’d given up to weasel our way up the social food chain. I realized how similar my friend and I were.   

During this talk, I realized we were both serving jail time at the expense of our agency—two prisoners briefly making contact through steel bars of isolation. Sometimes, in order to understand something about ourselves, life needs to feel a little too real; conversations a little too intimate. Otherwise, the world will clutch us in its claws, and we might fly by before allowing ourselves the opportunity to examine what really matters down below. You’ve got to recognize the cell before you can plan your escape.  

Caring what other people think is a paradoxical mousetrap, a spiraling of both self-indulgence and self-patronization. We put that spotlight onto ourselves, forgetting to flip the light on, yet we expect the world to criticize the studies on our computer screen, or the way our top clashes with our choice of pants. The most relieving, and probably the most humbling advice regarding this, stems from the realization that most people are fundamentally similar—we’re constantly in a room full of disabled spotlights. Judgements on others can’t be made in the dark any more than you can see yourself in the mirror with the lights off. We’ve got to let go of outside judgements, even if the process of doing so is a long one.  

Living authentically—sharing opinions, being vulnerable and true to yourself—takes both a fresh batch of courage and a willingness to self-forgive. It’s something I certainly need to work on, while acknowledging that it is the first step to letting those concrete walls fall. Sometimes, it really is those unexpected, late-night, spur-of-the-moment interactions that teach us more than any organized lecture will. Having friends who accept you for who you are—that goofy, unconventional, holistic version of yourself—is the push needed to accept yourself. Even if it sounds cliché, it really is the people you surround yourself with.  

Given this, I think I will learn to rollerblade on my own around campus. Sometimes you’ve just got to fall and have an audience on yourself while doing it. Otherwise, you’ll have to walk everywhere—and that won’t be as fun in the long run.